Breach — A Poem

Heart, Breach.png

“Breached Heart” — C.Birde, 6/19

 

Breached.

Those walls

built once-upon-a-time

and long ago

no longer serve.

The heart contained

within, regardless,

broke and breaks

anew each

day.

Let them fall –

bulwarks overcome,

outgrown,

torn down stone

by stone.

The tides of heartache

ebb and flow;

their patterns,

unpredictable.

Collect

the heart’s remains;

that prize,

once-hoarded.

Pluck

each broken piece

up from tumbled shadow;

jewel-like fragments –

brightly polished –

extravagantly

exposed.

 

— C.Birde, 6/19

 

 

Compact — A Poem

Compact.jpg

“Maple, Anointed” — C.Birde, 6/19

 

Each

falling drop

of rain contains

the memory

of oceans,

of forests,

stars, and

bedrock.

Messages

of past and

future delivered

to this present,

to tongue and

skin and

hair.

Despair and

hope comingled

in potential.

Each

earthly soul –

one and all –

anointed in

the breath,

the blood,

the life

of another’s —

of all others’ —

presence.

No except-

ions.

 

— C.Birde, 6/19

 

 

Seen — A Dream

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“Poor Thing” — C.Birde, 6/19

 

Poor thing –

clinging

to the building’s

exterior,

slowly swinging

its heavy, blind head

back and forth,

back and forth;

small, pearl mouth,

an ‘o’ of eternal

surprise.

Large ears –

softly furred –

flopping,

dangling,

tangling

over first one

tight-shut eye,

then the

other.

So much like a snail’s —

so much larger —

the spirals of

its whorled shell are

iridescent,

agleam,

chased

with moonlight.

Pale, fleshy tentacles

sweeping,

waving,

it finds its slow,

methodical way

along the building’s

polished,

featureless,

stone

face.

Unperturbed by blindness,

immune to dark,

it knows not that

its progress is

surveilled.

For,

from within,

from the curve of

each wide step’s descent

to the landing

below –

they watch.

The observers.

Dressed in finery and

gathered —

shoulder-to-shoulder —

they press themselves

to the wall of windows,

to laugh and

point and

stare –

aghast,

perplexed,

astonished.

They pity

the creature its

grotesquery,

equate slow movement

with equally slow

thought.

Poor thing.

Poor, dear thing.

To be so scorned,

so ridiculed,

so misunderstood.

Better –

perhaps –

to have remained

undiscovered,

unseen,

hidden

away

in the

d

a

r

k.

 

— C.Birde, 6/19

 

 

Dogging — A Poem

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“Dogging” — C.Birde, 6/19

 

She dogs

(literally)

my heels.

Small paws click

across the floor

in hopes of telltale sign

(she reads between

the lines)

of her aim.

We could walk forever

(figuratively)

and not satisfy

her need

to explore those clumps

of grass and slants of

broken curb we’ve visited

before.

I understand —

habituated to routine and

self-made grooves,

I am grateful of her insistent,

pleading

(anthropomorphized…?)

stare.

At leash’s end,

she leads me

(freely)

out,

around,

and everywhere.

 

— C.Birde, 6/19