The Robin

The robin bop
bop, bops along
the stone path,
her beak digging
into the cracks
she passes,
looking for supper-

looking to fill
hungry bellies,
the little ones
in their nest
crying, crying
“Mother, please;
we’re dying.”

The robin bops
along, hurried,
harried,
and at wit’s end-
I reckon she regrets
ever lying with a man.

I kid, of course.
I know as well as she:
there’s nothing like
the love of a child-
it’s simply
humbling.

***

I’m not participating in NaPoWriMo but I’d like to use the prompts as a kickstart for my Muse. Who knows? Maybe it’ll help get me out of this rut I’ve been in. This is a poem based on the prompt from week one: write a Kay Ryan-esque poem.

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Little Bird

I see you, little bird,
as you flutter in the brush
on unsteady wings. And your voice,
a tiny peal of a bell’s song,
pulls with it the first light of dawn.

But oh, little bird, don’t you know?
It’s a scary world outside your door–
here, there be monsters.

And I watch from my porch
the cat creeping close, with
the scent of prey heady in his nose,
attracted by the same song
I was enjoying just a moment ago.

And from the trees, your mother calls
in her angry lecturing voice; or
she is yelling at the cat,
scolding, warning, threatening;
but what can you do, little mother,
when he’s so much bigger than you?

It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there;
or a cat-eat-bird world;
even a bird-eat-bird world, sometimes–
because everything beautiful can be ugly, too.

Oh, little bird,
you should have stayed home.

Over the Music

soft violin chords
dance upon the air
a lullaby in c-minor

but over the music
i hear the pitter patter
of raindrops
falling
against the windowpane

in the distance,
the clouds are having a conversation
mumbling among themselves
like old housewives gossiping

i strain to listen to their mutterings
for clouds must know so many things
but clouds are fickle,
and don’t divulge their secrets lightly

the quiet voices fade
i’m left with soft violin chords
and the soft pitter patter
of raindrops
falling
against the windowpane

and suddenly those are the loneliest sounds in the world

Of Many Voices

at times
it speaks with the voice of a young child
gentle and quiet and
soft like rose petals and just as beautiful

and sometimes it shouts
its voice loud and furious
and hard like the wall it tries to knock me into

but it can sound sad too
its voice brittle with the breaths of ghosts
and i hear it and think
of times when i felt that way too
when i felt like i was a ghost

tonight it is not gentle
it is furious
and there are ghosts outside my window
reaching through the window casing
to touch me with their cold fingers

but they cannot
and as i watch this invisible spectre
dance through the winter night
i think instead of the morning
and how beautiful the world will look
in its white dress

Gussied Up

ere the dawn rises
the sun a boutonnière pinned to pale silk
a lining of silver
draped in folds like a skirt
trailing lightly over a glittering floor

and to greet the dawn
the trees put on white dresses
matrons stately in their sunday best
and the littles ones
though overweighed by their finery
stand proud nonetheless

the trees dance,
beckon to the dawn,
branches like dark hair
tossed by the wind
and ice crystals like sequins
throw prisms of color
tiny rainbows that kiss my skin

i watch this meeting
this dance between sky and earth
ere the dawn rises