EyeEyeEye — A Dream

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“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 — An Image

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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

 

Harold — A Dream

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“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