Hanging almost angelically.
Praying for a breeze at the perfect pace.
Too soft, and it risks being exposed for being too fragile.
Too hard, and it risks being labelled too harsh and too cold.
The wind chime is singing so softly today.
It has mastered the art of veiling grief.
A bird on the blue bush tilting a beak is listening closely.
A brief reprieve from its nest of ever-hungry beaks.
Here comes that hurricane again, tangling the wood and strings.
Whisking sanity away. Strays gather in clusters of desperation,
Where children are told not to play, they rarely listen.
Then comes that prolonged lull.
Jagged thoughts gather themselves in spectacular futility.
The stillness is framed in a rugged mud,
An endless procession of pallbearers' deep gray.
Cherubs are trained to wade into hopelessness,
At the risk of getting graffitied. They always listen.
Then bumble home with wings sprayed in blood and a harsh lesson.
Yesterday everybody quietly slipped away.
Searching for a fresh melody of optimism.
Nobody fancies being swallowed up by the gray.
Nothing is salvaged from a wind chime after a hurricane
As feathered flocks soar across sinking sun,
and dusk descends on a silent sanctuary,
animals arrive at serene springs.
Fluttering feathers disturb solemn shadows;
rich reflections shine as birds brush,
beaks creating concentric rippling rings.
Silence settles on the haunted hollows.
Curved white, feathered neck, poised just right;
Half bird, half body, unfolds into bright light.
The face stays frozen, choosing not to show;
For the feathers alone, decide where eyes must go.
She glides and struts, poised with such fanfare,
Her garments become feathers to float on the air.
Her fine body vanquished, to shun any stare,
For she is merely the elegance, her garments wear.
She pauses, pivots, swings round, so debonair.
Her shoulder tilts, her wrist juts with flair.
Each measured turn commands its own grand grace.
As feathers swirl outward, to claim more space.
The white swans depart the catwalk in style,
Their black beaks can't even fashion a smile.
For that's the game— be serene, silent and proud—
Leaving only feathers to flit in the crowd.
Helel: "In accordance with awe, shall we not wet the beaks of the impounded and open the golden maw?"
Kate: "Come and find the firestone broke the cradle and the heath is afeather, I shall but sprung like a promise to weather."
Lucifer: "Is the gloomy stake left with feet adjoined for a door, the promise is ancient, the antique is so pourn."
Aurora: "Timidity like timely strikes the ground flashed across the weathered hetherseconds like amber on the fritz. "
Uraeal: "I copiously decline the stooping ingate of a plan, like vespers cross dark circles and racoon city is old and planned."
RK: "So fearsome but tired the wolf, hell is rolled up and death has rolled over."
DR Dragon: "angsty pray for the weary let Zeus now dowse next and inspect the coral city."
Zeus: "In videographic cards there are other games, let wicked things while I ask them to say."
PW 1: *Has returned, tires of the usual stroll and begins towards the old stones.*
arophc varuag: "Tip back the gamed throngs like milling wet eaves that parlay for soon songs."
The Forbidden one: *Has returned, ushers forth to find the fray this here and now*
---End of act II---
The morning sighs
with hoarse, guttural caws.
Crows twirl and cartwheel backwards,
like charred scraps of newspaper
caught in wild feral, wind eddies
above a raging bush fire.
Goosestepping gulls
enforce their feeding-ground territories
with threats and violent gestures
their beaks snapping shut
like rust-corroded, iron gates.
Looping caterpillars
form a Congo line
across the blistered bark of trees
while ants drag dismembered wings
along cracks in the pavement.
A magpie bludgeons
a snail against the stones
until the shell gives way
its pale body spilling outwards;
a molluscan sacrifice
that satisfies the hunger pangs
of a black-and-white starving bird.
Worms writhe blindly,
torn asunder
on the hot sunbaked soil
attacked by hordes of bull-ants
lake tiny matadors in torero corrida,
sparing with capes and lances
as they torment the helpless,
doomed, and dumb, succumbed prey.
The morning sun rises,
guilty as charged!
without pity or cause,
without mercy or motive,
to silent, stark applause,
as nature pleads for survival.
(•v•) (•v•)
Nestled in soft nests,
Tiny beaks greet dawn’s promise,
Spring’s gentle whisper.
The grub is a fraud, let’s be honest and clear,
A beetle in diapers that gardeners fear.
He’s C-shaped and creamy, a squishy delight,
With a big orange head and a monster-sized bite.
He lives in the dirt, just a subterranean guest,
Turning your lawn into one giant mess.
He wakes in the summer, a tiny white speck,
By autumn he’s thick with a bull-sized neck.
When winter arrives with its icy-cold breath,
He tunnels down deep to avoid certain death,
Then returns in the spring for a root-heavy lunch,
Giving your fescue a satisfying crunch.
He treats your backyard like a five-star buffet,
Till the grass turns to brown and the green fades away.
But his life isn't always a feast in the shade,
The skunk digs a hole for a protein-packed snack,
And the robin descends for a mid-morning thwack.
If he avoids the beaks and the sharp, furry claw,
The Milky Spore bacteria might lock up his jaw.
Or nematodes find him—a microscopic crew—
To turn his insides into biological stew.
But if he survives every chemical spray,
He grows a hard shell and just flies far away.
A large mass of pelicans
grace the waters
of fort loramie lake
in mid-march
a sign of springs coming
large orange beaks hang
off small white
stubby necks
as they parade across
calm waters
gliding graciously
in unison
butterfly screaming
bird taking it to the nest
babies open beaks
starlings
chirping with glee
silence evades their souls
happiness flies from their small beaks
singing
Save the earth. Obliterate your world.
Begin by ending.
Let the sky-ceiling buckle and split.
You are the first to go.
Scrape the crusted-hard scabs from your skin.
Shred the nerves where the winter enters.
For the earth—which needs no saving—
your worldly heart must stop.
Your flesh feeds the gulls.
White wings. Red beaks.
Stripped clean.
(A child on the pier lowers her hand,
the splintered stick held mid-air.)
The gulls do not look up.
They finish what they started
and leave the bones to the tide.
Layla is a barnyard floosy said Farmer Ted
She riles up the roosters until their beaks turn red
her feathers have been dyed orange, blue, purple and pink
my wife changes her up in the kitchen sink
the rest of the hens are angry all of the time
they want their feathers dyed green, lemonade and lime
it’s too expensive, he said, I wish she would stop
But she is practicing before she opens her new beauty shop
to a beatless heart
machine, an iron lung,
and the privilege to stay living.
To one– gash too
puss, and peaceful.
A podium; is this thing still on?
America is a hearth
of cotton and twine
and it’s summer migrants’
fallen feathers
snapped beaks and
declawed ghetto poets.
Its speech is stolen
from sounds of snakes,
a soft SS, of gags
and jeers of a ballroom.
But my America listens
to love. Mirrors
zoochosis: itself.
It is a bondage,
my America.
To your body and voice
your weaponry,
your snare trap medication
and your home.
Feel the cheek of today,
my America,
bite it and bleed
and taste how bitter, my America.
The cusp of bloom, my America,
is poor harbor bay: an explosion of red
but you have been the light of god, a white
ship, only crawling in the great blue.
If I kiss you,
my America,
will I know you slipped
a “F*gg*t”
between my teeth,
or will I save it till tomorrow,
wish it down the fountain drain?
You just can’t give up
this sanctuary– this America.
Because my mother tells me
I am safe.
In photographs and in the palms
of her hands.
And I do not think of
death. To America.
O web of guesses woven:
Divine: dichotomy?
Set aside, O witch coven?
Fire, O fancy-free!
Sulfur fumes, metallic grey.
Gold to separate.
Stir it well, heat, wait: a day.
Dole, O disparate.
O crystals, are you flexible?
Relative to some.
Rule of thumb, O parda gull?
Lightly beat thy drum.
Spritely fly, O peregrine!
The raptor closes in!
Talons clash and beaks tear skin!
Battles to begin!
Wind, slip through space. Melee, machine.
Thunderbolt, thy storm.
Turtle, snap. Core? Carapace.
Living room, keep warm...
Tympani, roll. Gaol? Golden bowl.
Broken arrow, fly.
Pining, princess? Sign and soul!
Horn, blow back and fry!
Black bell and book? Crook. Lore a-look.
Ritual, outward point.
Bishop, are you worth that rook?
Pain of loss, anoint...
Seeker, reveal. Heat lightning, peal.
Dark fire, in me sing.
Flame aquatic, burn bright teal.
Oxidize thy sting...
searching for the seeker who seeks
inquiry being, ‘who am I’
we meld with the eye of the eye
silence plugs all energy leaks
negating all that comes and goes
in stillness we watch how life flows
flush of bliss suffuses our cheeks
it’s divine magnetism of course
invoked without the use of force
we dip in love our eager beaks
bliss beat’s rise and our ego dies
each breath intake feels like sunrise
voice of God then through our heart speaks
He anoints us with living light
soul presence dances with delight
searching for the seeker who seeks
silence plugs all energy leaks
flush of bliss suffuses our cheeks
we dip in love our eager beaks
voice of God then through our heart speaks
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