Empty — A Poem

Close up of a Hitchcock chair in a dining room.
“Empty” — C.Birde, 10/20

It’s not the same without you here.

I’m less inclined to sit and stare out

the open window

at the sweet-winged visitors amongst

bowed seedheads,

waiting for the words to find their way

through that oculus, transformed and

translated

upon the white page spread before my

fingertips.

I get up, instead, wander – shapeless,

aimless – into the kitchen and load

the dishwasher,

that dark and hungry box, like so many,

that must continually

be fed and filled with the mundane.

When I return, the empty chair remains.

Empty of –

    you.

— C.Birde, 10/20

Fragments — A Poem

“Fragments” — C.Birde, 7/20

Fragmented

space

time

breath

Fragmented

world

life

self

Collected

slips

scraps

snatches

Collected

lines

threads

words

All,

palm-cupped

heart-fastened

clasped

like

dust

sea-glass

pebbles

cicadas’ spent

shells

Reworked

refashioned in

imperfect

whole.

This tenacity,

this persistence,

this work of

being.

— C.Birde, 7/20

The Lost — A Poem

“Northern Flicker” — C.Birde, 7/20

Things I have lost,

in no particular order:

books & keys & histories;

my halo,

my high horse,

the chip on my shoulder;

pets & friends;

a father, a sister;

my heart,

my head,

my way,

my youth;

sense of self;

an unobstructed view;

faith & trust & confidence;

my grip,

my patience,

my tolerance;

all my defenses &

sense of direction;

I’ve lost count,

lost track,

lost face;

my perspective,

my chances,

my edge.

But of all the things here —

accounted for & overlooked,

irreplaceable or inherent —

I have never lost

your Love,

nor my love

for you.

— C.Birde, 7/20

Sweet… — A Truth

Bleeding Heart.jpg

“Bleeding Heart” — C.Birde, 4/20

 

 

 

I follow his example –

as explained to me –

and, palm placed

against the cage

of that muscled

organ,

speak:

There, there,

sweet heart,

there, there…”

Does he weep

as he repeats

these words

also?

I cannot,

do not

know.

 

— C.Birde, 4/20

 

Confession — A Truth

Screenshot_2019-03-11-14-28-51~2.png

“Empty” — C.Birde, 3/19

 

Inward turning…my personal weather, a stillness, a vacuum…the “doldrums” (nautical term, describing an equatorial region of the Atlantic Ocean, marked by still air, sudden storms,  unpredictable winds). I prefer the earth beneath my feet, certainty… Adrift, all the same… The sensation manifests — in a shortness of breath, a faint lack of oxygen; as a heaviness in my gut. I am not unhappy, no. Unfocused, yes; “at sea”, so it seems. A pattern. Free of resistance, denial, struggle, I sit in its company, as if with someone I’ve known. Too long. A lifetime. We occupy shared space, absent of dialogue. Lonely, but comfortable. And then — interruption. Gwynnie leaps into my lap (open invitation to any cat). Her purr, a revelation. Her hard little head (thrust against my chin) confirmation of here, now. Physical reminder, in all her warm, fuzzy critterness — slack sails will fill and stir; the compass, reorient… Spring, too, will leap unexpectedly. (As a cat.) Woodland trails will call…chipmunks, uncurl from  nests…birdsong, inscribe the pulsing air… Reminder that I will feel — again, soon — the quick green tremble of everything. And this immersion — so imminent — this reconnection, and close observation will feed, refuel: body, mind, spirit. Creative well. Whole.

A lot to lay on a season, but Spring can take it.

 

— C.Birde, 3/19