Monthly Archives: January 2019

Written in Pink — A Dream

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“Written in Pink” — C.Birde, 1/19

 

A slight volume, not much larger than a deck of cards. Bound in soft, cotton-candy pink leather. Each page is of hand-made paper – thick and sturdy and flecked with pulp and petals. Binding stitched with waxed ivory thread. Corners cut into soft curves.

Gently. Open it. Cradle it within spread palms.

It lacks frontispiece, introduction,  dedication. The book simply begins. Words — hand-written in pink ink — slant neatly across creamy pages, list the castle’s physical attributes in height, width, material. Page one reads:

“Lexington Arch”

“Center Gate”

“Lincoln Arch”

Thumb through the book. Glance at hand-inked illustrations, architectural drawings. So unique, so specific, so intimate. Precious. A singularly beautiful creation.

How could it have survived the unimaginative publishing process? Who was its champion?

 

— C.Birde, 1/19

 

Wisdom & Whiskers — A Poem

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“Wisdom & Whiskers” — C.Birde, 1/19

 

“When the student

is ready,

the teacher will

appear”…

I am not yet seated

to accept

this instant,

this moment,

this now —

and the sage

arrives.

Paws correct

posture;

rough tongue

adjusts hands’

placement;

trace of whiskers

prickles,

challenges

focus.

Lap

full.

Heart

open.

Progress gauged

by tail’s tip;

critique delivered

in rumble and

purr.

 

 

— C.Birde, 1/19

 

 

Hamster Transport — A Dream

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“Street View” — C.Birde, 1/19

 

With the wind in her hair, she stands barefooted on the clipped, green lawn. Forlorn, despite her youth and utter beauty. “How will I get him home?” she asks. Curled asleep within her smooth, open palms, is a hamster.

Her question assumes a great deal. How to answer, when so much is obscure, unknown?

Fading sunlight gilds the park’s grassy knolls, burnishes its swells and swards. Beyond the lawn’s edges, over the sidewalk on the street’s far side, a clutch of little shops huddles, wall to wall. Their shadows lengthen, creep across the street. She chokes back a soft sob.

In the distance, a throaty rumble sounds, grows louder with approach. Hopeless and hopeful, she glances in the sound’s direction —  toward the answer she seeks. Toward the improbable.

Gliding along the pavement, a pair of sleek motorcycles appears – all smoky chrome and gleaming steel. Snugged beneath the seat of each, suspended just in front of each machine’s purring engine, is a hollow sphere of translucent yellow plastic. And, scurrying about contentedly within each sphere…is a white and russet hamster…

 

— C.Birde, 1/19

 

Crows — A Poem

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“Norway Spruce” — C.Birde, 1/19

 

Remember

when we stood beneath

the great spruce,

faces tilted upward,

hands lifted to catch

their rough laughter

as it fell –

heavy as pinecones,

bright as crescents of

moonlight –

from those vast,

outstretched limbs?

Six years gone,

the tree cradles silence;

the absence echoes

forward.

We wait below;

patient;

hands

empty.

 

— C.Birde, 1/19

 

 

Ledge & Lion — A Dream

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“Ledge & Lion” — C.Birde, 1/19

 

The full moon shines over a shattered landscape, illuminates the chunks and rubble of former structures – houses, shops, garages. A perilous terrain of tumbled stone and cement foundations; of splintered beams and twists of toothy, rusted metal; of vertical portions of walls. The moon’s light is kind, pitying; paints all in soft, silver monochrome.

Crouched. A solitary human cast amidst a forgotten collection of debris; on a ledge of broken flooring, near a remarkably intact window. The ledge juts from a roofless, two-story wall that has forgotten to fall. Keep as far from the splintered edge as possible, to avoid slipping, toppling over, out and downward – to avoid the lion that lies in wait below. It moves back and forth through random waste, like an alligator. Occasionally, the lion bunches up its hind legs and leaps, launches itself up through the dark, spreads its talons and scrabbles for purchase along the floor’s crumbling ledge. It need not gain a solid foothold; with each leap and gouge, the lion removes a piece of flooring before it falls back to earth. Soon enough, the ledge will be narrowed, eroded.

Discourage the lion’s efforts. Fling random objects through the dark — a length of pipe; a split two-by-four; a chunk of plaster; a beautifully made antique wood plane. Track each object’s trajectory, hear each clatter amongst the debris below. Hear the lion’s low huff and growl, the heavy pad of its footfalls as it paces, paces, paces. Hear the lazy switch and sweep of its tail as it prepares to leap again.

 

— C.Birde, 1/19