A blackbird flies before the moon,
A life shall pass away;
A death, a bird,
Together stirred,
Fused in a lunar ray;
The wings of a fate falling soon.
I felt like it was coming,
not through buds breaking open,
but through a softness in the air,
like a soft napkin
forgotten on the chest
of an old icon.
No one announced it
not the wind,
not the birds,
not the old woman at the corner window,
threading her days together
with a broken needle.
This spring has no footsteps,
no voice,
only the faint scent of resin
and something holy
that’s already turned to ash.
I asked my mother
if God still has seasons.
She looked at me,
then at a flower in the window
that hasn’t bloomed in years.
“I think He lost them,” she said,
“or keeps them locked inside,
like letters
He can’t bring Himself to open.”
And I understood:
not all springs bring life.
Some arrive
only to teach us
how to stay alive
without shining,
how to die
without vanishing.
A blackbird watched me
with the eyes of a child
who once saw too much light
and now
fears the sun.
And I said nothing,
like a prophet without a mountain,
carrying a single line
pressed against my ribs:
It won’t be long
before the grass
learns how to sing
about us.
What is that, 'midst gray silhouette
A night-winged creature slips, beset?
Fluttering through pampas and ground
Mellow the dulcet trails of sound
O blackbird, my breaths awaken
By soft chimes...this angst forsaken
Glimmering 'neath still of moonlight ,
I find peace in warlber's hymned flight !
the last blackbird
even now, i’m not sure
why i walked to the end of the avenue
before sitting on the curb.
one city bus marquee after another boasted
that channel two news is best…
until channel seven at six arrived with the next bus.
at the end of the avenue
blackbirds waited, watching near-empty sidewalks
from a drooping wire.
it was then i decided i would not
leave the end of the avenue
until the last blackbird had flown away.
only one remained as darkness approached
until finally it shuddered
and fell to the ground, dead.
i had never seen a bird die
but i believe that’s why i walked to the end of the avenue
before sitting on the curb…
unsure about what to do with a dead blackbird,
i waited for the channel two news team to arrive
on the side of a city bus.
turns out that when it comes to the little things
—things that matter—
none of the news teams cared much about blackbirds…
or about an old man contemplating death
while sitting on the curb
at the end of the avenue with the last blackbird.
tolbert
a sure sign of spring
red stripes like glowing ensigns
the male marks his tree
Pure Gold rings
Around pearly black eyes ~
The iridescent Blackbird stands still.
Nesting material locked in beak ~
The colour matching her
Pure Gold rings.
Reflections stare back
Of myself and the scene
Around pearly black eyes.
Amazed, I observe
This beautiful creature ~
The iridescent Blackbird stands still.
Yesterday, my brain-space was so null,
It couldn’t have been nuller.
To think, today, I learned so much
From a bird devoid of color!
The blackbird wants to sing a song.
What song?
A song of freedom
But its fragile beak is tied.
The blackbird lives on the Island.
Where the Aubrey's tongue
Is tonged with coal.
And black veil worn upon her head.
When she chirps, it's unheard.
When she spittle, it's waveless.
She's chained to the bottomless pit.
With flashes of lashes on her feet.
She sounds the horn to be free.
From the yolk of her black veil.
The lyre to be who and what she's
And not what the sky paints her hues.
The blackbirds ask.
Is the black veil not worse?
To barrage of bullets
Or hail and brimstone.
Is it not a totem of submission?
Under the guise of religion
Stamp of chauvinism and bigotry.
Or forged as a tool for Eros?
Iran, the blackbird's drum is gyring.
But the eagle's ear is deaf.
The mountain smoke is searing.
But the hyena cannot perceive.
Birds do ballet out there on the grass.
Gulls have come in from the sea.
Blackbirds are always here, and so are crows,
with jackdaws, too, and magpies.
A silent ballet, nothing to hear
within this small apartment,
but you can hear a ballet through your eyes
as these birds poke and peck -
a hop here and a walk there.
(22 Aug 2023)
In the backyard seen
A black squirrel running
The blackbird chasing
A small black squirrel
The blackbird hungry
It is trying to steal
Some of the eggs laid
Blackbird is on guard
Protecting the eggs
The nest on the fur trees
The squirrel no longer
Are fed the peanuts
Now that it is Spring
They must fend for themselves
Blackbird singing in a redbud tree,
Why such a sad and mournful ditty?
I like your song, but, oh, tell me
Is it meant to please or pity?
Little brook babbling to a willow tree
Of where he's been and where he's bound for.
He tells his tales so joyfully,
But willow's he can't stick around for.
When romance dies what's left of love?
A heart that's filled with pain and sorrow.
And all that lingering ache will prove,
Love's here today and gone tomorrow.
Bird moves on to another tree,
Willow bids the brook good-by now.
Does misery crave company,
Or shall I sit alone and cry now?
The road of runes
The blackbird shrieks
Night befalls like my brother
The sequence is stet
from a lonely toad stall
Winding seawards
over mossy fields
Unbuttoned time
Old men craving
in ancient fields
emotions staked in mud
neon hopes fuse the last of day
all ears early morn'
notes clear from yonder coppice ~
blackbird plays it's flute
A Hiku Premier Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date written: 12/26/2022
Black magic woman. Wetback seal out on a limb. Custody battle worse than the raven itself. Bye Bye blackbird to Beethoven's symphony. Send a raven blackbird. In the night after dark in the evening at midnight after hours. Right for the midnight blackbird. All company ain't good company blackbird. Study your root and dance for me blackbird. Nefertiti head goddess now tell the truth blackbird. Star of Bethlehem once again written in the stars. Black don't crack beautiful voluptuous blackbird corset quartet.
(Elizabeth II 1926-2022)
Are we - crow, blackbird, sparrow -
aware of what's occurring?
We cannot tell, they assume,
but gape and gaze from up here.
This is a land with a departed monarch.
We - sparrow, blackbird, crow -
flit or sit above the richness
of that marching red regalia.
Thousands of arms stretch, sinews strain,
cameras are held aloft
to catch the start of this queen's obsequies,
such elegance, such grace.
We - blackbird, crow, sparrow -
observe orb and sceptre on the magnificent pall,
witness the splendour, the spectacle,
delight in the sound of vocal souls.
Millions have viewed that coffin.
We - crow, blackbird, sparrow - see them gaping, gazing,
with its eight pallbearers, in their blood-red flame,
as this Abbey welcomes what they carry.
(Sep 2022)
(You may wish to see also "Trooping the Colour" of June 2022 and "Coronation for a King" of May 2023)
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