the universe was not built in straight lines ~ only humans cut corners
By
David Kavanagh
As the crow flies
the pig sighs
as the doughs rise
the twig cries
as the grass grows
the freckle knows
as the moss shows
the heckle throws
as the pig tries
the child lies
as the wig glows
The tale grows
moist cinnamon bark
infused fragrance levitates -
monsoon descends time
rice fields lie flooded
draft windswept change into roots -
rise to the challenge
tea leaves take shelter
swell burgeoning impatience -
cusp spring’s prophesies
seasons scent chances
tease taste bud’s fluid advance -
crow scares wet footing
22th May 2020
6/6/16
Seeing things from both sides
And copious amounts of smoke rise
With my own eyes
At times, I do not always know why
As the time continues to go by
And according to how the crow flies
Matter and molecules bended
And unexpected things occurred beyond being comprehended
Some of which were unprecedented
Not always was a helping hand lended
Nor was it splendid everytime it ended
Despite what was originally intended
Have some respect and manners
What good is delusions of grandeur?
Some can't even hunt or gather
See for yourself take a gander
And then you'll have your answer
Climbing ladders
My pockets getting fatter
Eyeing what it is I'm after
Before going faster
Amid the molecules and matter
Combining and starting to scatter
The bodies of water drying up or continuing to meander
The droplets splatter
Leaving areas damper
Conflict and slander
And reputations being hampered
Unhealthy obsessions leading to disaster
Out in the pasture
Near rocks of jasper
And flowers of aster
In the field of rye there is a catcher
There is an almost endless chatter
Until its drowned out by the sound of a tractor
As the crow flies
I died. No child under nipple. No child under bib.
I died. Without ever having loved or been in love.
I died as the crow flies. Straight and placid.
I died. unmanned, in holster, uninhabited.
I died coralled up in moments, to tangeled to give an inch.
I died as the white birch tree lives.
I died in the desert. A sponge for the sun.
I died in a boat capsized in the ocean.
To small for the August Grunion run.
I died as the pen dries,
leaving letters undone.
I died up in fetters.
Rusted tension.
I died never forgiving my father, or mother, or anyone.
I died never apologizing to my sister,
the one they didnt want.
I died wrapped up in blankets
frozen to the ground.
I died not crying for help, no telegram, no telephone.
I died never sending a single postcard home.
I died never knowing my name or names of my friends.
Oh, i died, and i died
as if never have lived.
As The Crow Flies
Staring past the curtain,
At the vigilant crow upon the mast,
The creature unaware of a presence,
In a moment forever lost.
Unflappable in its endeavour,
A breather from its hunt,
A distorted view of the world,
Its cackle alerting its murder..... of its next tenacious stunt!
Unperturbed by darkness,
Its itinerary meticulous, movement, stealth like,
As day gives way to darkness,
A sky drifting magenta decline
Copyright
S Rose
Off the perch with shame beneath,
A Twitted crow flies aloft.
Hoping spectrum, blues and reds,
Dreadful notions, ugly skin!
Bracken wings, rotten look,
Rocking black, freakish beak,
Squawking hard, aiming high,
Cracking sound, beating trees!
Nasty fight that broke his heart,
Thrown afar from family,
Roots unknown yet fallen prey,
Lost he was to mystery.
Spreading wings, beating firm,
Gazing sharp, locking claws,
Diving down, mighty strong,
Fighting back, lengthy dusk.
©Anees Rahman
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