“Hedged” — C.Birde, 1/20
“Is it meant,”
he frowned,
“to protect or confine?”
She met his eye,
expressionless;
did not immediately
respond.
“That depends…”
she observed,
“entirely
on expectation,
perspective,
on which side
one finds
one’s
s
e
l
f.“
— C.Birde, 1/20
“InSight” — C.Birde, 1/20
Drawing eyes,
inviting the gaze
of others
to look,
to judge,
to measure;
to see through
(without fear)
to the essence
of Truth
tucked deep
within
the eyes’ “I”.
To be seen,
and so,
set
free.
— C.Birde, 1/20
“EyeEyeEye” — C.Birde, 1/20
Sketching
across the paper’s
width and length
in rows
of two, four, three;
sketching them stacked
like great scoops
of ice cream.
Eyes.
One atop another
piled.
Eyes
of melting,
cartoonish
grotesquerie.
Eyes,
staring –
wide and sightless –
from beneath lashes
curling,
spidery.
Eyes
of enlightenment;
of innocence and
judgment.
Eyes
of inner wisdom.
Eyes
of the ego’s “I”.
Those windows
of the soul.
Indeed,
indeed.
Sketching,
sketching
row upon row,
until she takes
the sheet of paper,
nods admiringly,
and,
wielding scissors –
silver,
shining –
slices through
the topmost row,
slices
right through
that row of eyes –
wide and sightless –
straight through
their unblinking
pupils and
irises.
— C.Birde, 1/20
“Souldier” — C.Birde, 1/20
“I feel the grief
in my body,”
she said,
“a weight of tears
unshed,
to be shed.”
So Dawn draped her;
Moon crowned her;
& Foxfire
crept into her heart,
so she might
souldier on
— in light —
through the dark.
— C.Birde, 1/20
“Answer (in Oak)” — C.Birde, 1/20
Questions root,
flower,
remain
unanswered —
leaves whispering
in the forest
of pending moments.
The whole
confounds.
Loss
bewilders.
All,
seeded with
uncertainty.
Yet the answer is
ever and
always
love.
— C.Birde, 1/20
“Empty” — C.Birde, 1/20
Last night,
beneath the hard,
fluorescent light,
unexpectedly,
you stopped by.
As I searched
the cabinets’ files,
I described
how,
with infant cradled
in my lap,
I had howled
upon learning
of your death,
and how the guilt
of missing
your service
had clung,
unanswered,
un-absolved.
How
recently I’d found,
the post cards
you’d sent;
of my search
for a photo
of you,
unsatisfied.
You listened.
In combed gray suit,
white-collared shirt,
wine-red tie.
Gray of hair,
gray of eye.
In sympathy,
you listened,
you nodded
and sighed.
And I realized
it was you
to whom I spoke,
you…
The very you who –
twenty-four years ago,
not twenty-five –
had died.
Suddenly,
calmly,
I realized –
that I spoke to you
of you,
that I must be
dreaming…
And you,
you
smiled and
sighed.
— C.Birde, 1/19/20
“Slow Unfolding” — C.Birde, 1/20
“I adore you,”
the sky praised;
“We are one,”
the earth purred.
Between them,
he drifted —
untethered,
unclaimed —
a chronicle yet
to
u n f o l d.
— C.Birde, 1/20
“Fog” — C.Birde, 1/20
In
the aftermath,
when
lodestones
fail
and needles
spin
like dust and
pollen and
starlit turmoil –
adrift.
Forward,
onward,
back
obscured.
Turning,
turning –
’till fog and
uncertainty
surrender
to dawn’s
sigh
of clarity.
— C.Birde, 1/20
“Margins” — C.Birde, 1/10
“Draw your lines
as you will —
between
here & there,
then & now.”
She spoke in
soothing,
timeless voice.
“I shall revolve,
evolve
— l o v e —
regardless.”
— C.Birde, 1/20
“Drama” — C.Birde, 1/20
Goosedown
lazy fall and
flutter
twirling
spiraling
earth-
ward
heedless of
phones’ sudden
synchronous
jarring
alarms.
Placid
flurry
passing
sooner
than ratcheted
pulses,
adrenaline
pumped.
Passing
sooner
than
over-
stated
“squall”.
— C.Birde, 1/20
Nightjars & Damselflies 