River — A Dream

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“Pink River” — C.Birde, 7/19

 

To be a river,

must one be far-reaching in

length and breadth, depth and

strength?

and leap –

clear and cool and bright –

from glacial, mountainous

source to ocean’s salted

mouth?

or slowly cleave  –

with swing and sway of hip,

in muddied brown gyration –

through lush, green riotous

jungle?

interrupt, perhaps,

yawning sands, borders, self –

blue, yellow, and white –

to quench a sighing desert’s

throat?

Or can a river unfold,

twisting and unbroken,

from distant blue horizon,

over curling sea of unshorn

grass;

a ribbon of pink and winking

tourmaline that ripples about

one’s toes and spills

down,

down,

down

past white-framed glare of hatch

deep-set into the hill’s upturned

cheek,

to fill the house enshrined below –

secret, tomblike –

its kitchens, corridors, occupants,

all…

A river of submerging,

of inevitable

drowning?

 

— C.Birde, 7/19

 

 

Cicadasong — A Poem

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“Cicada” — C.Birde, 7/19

 

Tymbol roar in treetops’

tossing crowns…

Soloists joined in chorus,

cycles converging

– annual, periodic –

indifferent to expectation;

pausing only to sip

hot nectar of oak and ash,

willow and maple,

between careless verse of

antique songs

– skyward, tossed –

to the panting, radiant

dog star.

 

— C.Birde, 7/19

 

Norma — A Dream

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“Norma” — C.Birde, 7/19

 

 

Take them,

these static representations

of antique women,

clothed in robes

of polished marble,

their faces benign &

caught forever

between expressions.

Take them

from this darkened,

cloistered room

with its museum air,

sterile and scentless;

from these venerated

pedestals arranged

in self-reflective semi-circle,

carved over with thorned and

vining roses.

Take them

out into the beating

heart of the deeply

wooded night

where they might stir

anew with memory of the life

that once swept through them –

body

blood &

bone –

a tidal force of soul

that inspired

poets

artists

naturalists

philosophers

to capture, trap & tame them –

honorably,

in respectful aspect –

for all perpetuity.

Take them

out into the holy wash

of ferns and moonlight

intending fully to return them —

unmissed and

undisturbed —

to their safe sanctum;

but one plinth,

one single solitary

gilded cage –

edges dusted well

with age –

will remain forever

empty of its prize,

at long last freed

to breathe &

laugh &

run. Un-

leashed.

Re-

leased.

Re-

born.

 

— C.Birde, 7/19

 

 

Gift — A Dream

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“Gift” — C.Birde, 7/19

 

Long-limbed

& lean,

she sits cross-legged

on gleaming

oak floor,

a vision of health

& strength

& youth,

smile measurable

in inches,

lumens,

decibels.

Between us,

a gift —

a large box,

lid & bottom

wrapped separately

in raw blue silk

& tied up

in pink satin

ribbon;

a mere tug

of angle-cut ends

required to release

& lift the lid,

to free

what lies

within.

She waits —

patient,

certain —

her smile

like sun-light

shining…

 

 

— C.Birde, 7/19