The Sinai Rose finch, oblivious to the commotion in the nearby city, busily gathered dry grass and floral fodder to repair her nest, disturbed by a human behemoth, snatching the thorny brambles which hid the outer funnel of her secluded cul-de-sac. The needle sharp thorns administeres safety from prying predators, bent on their quest for the tiny eggs that will soon become her precious fledglings.
On a cloudless day, the sun transforms from an, almost white crystal, into tangerine as it graced the morningtide sky, the little Rose finch makes her way into the city to feed from the discarded grains and stale flat breads, tossed from the Roman garrison’s busy bake house. Curiosity caused the little bird to perch atop the stronghold as she spied her thorny brambles, crudely woven into a crown and forced factitiously upon a man’s bloodied and battered head.
An uneasy pall filled the bird as she returned to her nest, realising she hadn’t fed after viewing the strange spectacle within the city, a galling crept within her being, a foreboding of some unexplained and imminent upheaval of nature’s stable laws. Her heightened senses could feel the portentous currents transmitted through the aerosphere. She hid herself within the thicket, hiding and mourning catastrophes baleful premonitions. As the day wore on, feelings of hopelessness caused the restless bird, unable to contain herself within the doom, to take flight.
Avoiding the city, she soars across the landscape, her sharp eyes take in a multitude of rage, filled humanity, gathered on a hillside gleefully indulging in the misery of 3 crucified men suspended from rudely fashioned wooden beams, unceremoniously settled in the clay. Dolefully she settles on a sycamore, as she gazes at the man in the middle, still donning the thorny, mocking crown. Dark, dread filled clouds appear carrying with them a blackness, with the keys to unlock the gates of hades, setting free lucifer and his ghastly horde of evil renown, that have visited guile and festering plagues of filth upon the earth since the beginning of time. The finch, too frightened to move, nestles closer to the trees foliage as she witnesses evil raging at the man in the middle.
With the cacophony of evil spirits and hate fuelled men, even the sun must shun its burning furnace from the dire spectacle, driving the earth into blackened pitch, matching the evil darth swirling around the man on the cross. The earth itself, appalled at being the venue for such despicable exploits, groans and rumbles, splitting fissures, adding further chaos to the cataclysmic event unfolding. For three hours the flagrant torment hovered over the crucified soul. The little bird fell from her perch, unable to move until she heard the final climatic cry from the man as he gave into his mortality. As the sun re-appeared she took flight to her nest in unnerving spirit and awaiting the days end.
Unbeknownst to the Sinai Rose finch on the Sunday morn her Easter eggs will hatch and her chicks will emerge to breathe life giving air as they are transported from the darkness of the shell in to the light of life. On her daily jaunt to the city will she spy the newly adorned man in his risen form? Will understanding be benighted unto such a small, seemingly insignificant creature? As man himself must ask the question which plagued Pontius Pilate, “What would I do with this man, called the Messiah.”
Copyright © old man emu | Year Posted 2017
I started hooping like a bunny,
Carrying my big chocolate egg,
But thought it could be funny
To hop while using just one leg,
I saw thru the window’s frame
A cuckoo bird on the ground.
She and I were doing the same,
So I imitated the cuckoo’s sound.
She was curious and I was too:
Did the bird understand my coo?
Or she only wanted to protest:
“Put back this egg on the nest!”
So I undid the egg’s blue lace:
“Would you do too in my place?”
Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo
Copyright © João Camilo | Year Posted 2014
Afternoon, late March, delivering promise
of downtime from errands, long lines at the post,
queues of cars at stoplights, what, if anything, is in
the pantry for supper. A glass of wine is nice, will suffice
against the mind's continuous monolog, news of unrest
in distant lands, world hunger, and men on South
Africa's wild coast who believe raping small girls
will cure them of their AIDS. For respite, I turn
to the wood storks and two world-class pines, sending
a blessing of straw and symmetrical cones into protective
lake growth, sealing its borders with a scrim
of airy viridian; birthright of sea birds seeking evening
asylum. So, what to do about an invasion of enormous
jaws that take no prisoners on a battlefield of buzz saws?
Machetes, felling pines, wild shrubs, and indigenous
palmettos with which landscapers decorate yards
of costly homes. Development, Progress, New
Construction? Words to glamorize rape of wetlands.
The storks are flying away, now, from across the lake,
where once in heart-stopping numbers they bivouacked
against the advent of night. This day, this hour,
they take wing, bird by bird in a ghostly exodus,
taking their "Reflection of nearly all light
from all visible wave links," purer than masses
of lilies on an Easter grave.
Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2012