Row Round — A Dream

20200203_180714~2.jpg

“Sea” — C.Birde, 3/20

 

Quick.

Get in.

No time to spare.

We’ll row

row row the boat,

rosy, fleet, & lean

through the churning

choppy sea

to save the pink dol-

phins.

Row

row row the boat,

rosy, fleet, & lean,

grip the handles

dip the oars

& save the pink dol-

phins.

Repeat,

in rounds.

Repeat.

 

— C.Birde, 3/20

 

Yellow Stairs — A Dream

Screenshot_2020-03-16-14-27-36~2.png

“Yellow Stairs” — C,Birde, 3/20

 

Wait…

He pauses,

hesitates…

Were they always

there?

That set of stairs –

flaking yellow paint

& crumbling;

so unlike the house

from which

they quietly climb

away …

Those stairs

that burn pale

with jaundiced light,

& curve dustily

clockwise,

upward,

out of sight…

Uncertain,

he climbs,

each step releasing

a sifting,

chalky powder,

each step releasing

memory…

Until

On the landing,

peering beyond

the doorway’s open arch,

he views the room —

stark,

bare of ornament but

for one small, deep-set

window;

two twin beds thrust

hard against

the wall…

With grief,

a clutch of heart,

he remembers

all.

No place

for children,

for a child.

With flood & rush,

it returns &

he remembers.

O, he remembers

a l l.

 

 

— C.Birde, 3/20

 

 

 

 

 

The Second Story — A Dream

The Second Story.png

“The Second Story” — C.Birde, 3/20

 

Was it you?

Really you I saw

that day,

that night,

while I stood with the wind

in the rail lines’ slope

of scree and

scrubby weeds?

So many miles folded

between us,

yet so clearly

I saw you through

the window’s smooth panes

of glass two stories up

in that time-peeled,

wood-frame farmhouse…

You bent

to lift the kettle,

your back curved

like a scythe,

like the sickle moon,

and I said

(my promise traversed

the separating space

though I never raised

my voice)

I said that I would help

at a word,

a gesture –

drop the kettle;

thump the floorboards

with the broom’s handle,

with your heel…

I would help.

The words left my lips,

and I wondered how,

in this mortal world,

a ghost might manipulate

matter to be heard?

Our lines diverged.

Slow-strobing signal’s

flash.

Cinders’ sigh of

warning…

 

We were

to meet

for tea…

 

— C.Birde, 3/20

 

Beak-on — A Dream

Beak-on.jpg

“Beak-on” — C.Birde, 3/20

 

 

There…

Overhead…

A hiccup

of movement

within the vine’s

complex embroidery…

A small bird’s

flick and flitter;

the start and stop

of song,

rising,

falling

in swift,

mercurial tones…

Shape and sound.

Darkness caught

within darkness.

Until –

alighting

on pendent,

leaf-pricked coil –

with open beak,

it sings and —

in rippling song —

emits a

shining beacon

of light

that would challenge

day,

that illuminates

night.

 

 

— C.Birde, 2/20

 

Constriction — A Dream

Screenshot_2020-02-24-11-56-41~2.png

“Path” — C.Birde, 2/20

 

Follow

the path,

through wood &

moonlit dark,

along

smooth-set stones

well worn

with age.

Climb

the steps –

long & shallow,

silver-limned –

to the well,

squarely centered

amidst the pour

of flat stones

beneath

the arbor with

its twist of aged,

dark-rust

vines.

But –

there

curled around

the well

& draped

down the steps

in undulating

folds –

the snake

prevents

approach.

Mammoth

in proportions –

a hundred feet

in length;

three feet

in diameter –

it lies

like shadow;

near static,

but for

the stirring

of those caught

within it.

Three shapes

clearly identified –

FoX,

PumA,

Hound doG —

each living

& struggling

against confinement.

      “Cut them free!

      They’re still

      alive!” –

frantic exhortation

flung against

the night’s

deaf ears.

The dog —

most recently

consumed —

wags its long

brush of tail,

parts its jaws

&

audibly,

barks.

Yes.

Oh, please.

While they

yet live,

cut them

      f r e e.

 

 

C.Birde, 2/20

EyeEyeEye — A Dream

IMG_20200127_124036_263~3.jpg

“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

 

Unearthed — A Dream

IMG_20191221_103509_102.jpg

“Unearthed” — C.Birde, 1/20

 

Grasp

the stem

(fibrous, silken, strong)

and pull

(gently, gently).

Liberate

those pale,

luminescent orbs

clustered

like an oyster’s

hoard of pearls,

like static will-o-wisps

and opaque full moons

in miniature

cast.

Prize them clear

(loose, out, up)

of the dark earth’s

grasp.

Shake them

(tinkling, ringing, chiming)

free of clinging soil

and lay them

(gently, gently)

within the cradle

of your palm

where they glow,

radiating as-yet

unhatched

light.

 

– C.Birde, 1/20