The mood ring was rung.
I held it like purple-blue.
Red-orange.
And maybe green-gray.
In between, bothness.
Like hot bone broth, like tendons.
Sliced just wrong.
The mood ring on my finger.
I peck at it all day.
I’m peeled open.
The mood ring was rung like a soundless pine needle hitting the ground.
I’m a cycle like this mood ring.
Bipolar sounds like-
Eating a mood ring sandwich.
Conversation—like a Sparrow’s crumb—
Upon the windowsill of Night—
We peck at Silence—timidly—
And call the morsel Light—
The Table sets its modest Feast—
A Plate of simple Bread—
Yet Hunger asks a braver Grace
Than Butter’s golden spread—
Affection—moves with mittened hand—
And dares not name its aim—
It warms the air between two breaths
And blushes into Flame—
I never sleep—I ask the Why—
The Clock denies reply—
Only You keep the vigil here—
A Question passing by—
If Dawn should lift her timid veil
And find us still awake—
She’d think us stars that missed their turn
Yet could not Choose it's Light—
Five Flashes of Crimson
In Agricola, where the late sun lies,
And October's gold is fading from the skies,
A fence post holds a simple, wooden line,
And hosts a sight both crimson and divine.
Not one, not two, but five bright feathered vests,
Have paused their chatter and settled on the crests.
The Northern Cardinals, with coats of fire,
Are drawn by hunger to a sweet desire.
They dip and peck at berries dark and round,
A quiet feasting, without any sound.
The male's sharp scarlet, a defiant gleam,
The female's blush, like an ember in a dream.
They come in kinship, a brief, familiar flock,
To gather fuel before the sudden clock
Of dusk arrives and chills the Mississippi air,
A vivid portrait, painted right there.
A messenger of hope, that flash of red,
A loving soul, the stories have been said.
But in that moment, nothing quite so grand,
Just five bright lives, eating from the land.
When the sun clicks into place
and miraculous sparrows peck at icicles
and the children let the dew erase their slates
then the clocks will drain themselves of infection
and we will utter stones in the black light
and you will shelter my nakedness under the wings of your mouth
and the wind will be our water
and the sky will be our bread
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Please note that I never have used and never will use AI to compose or revise any of my writings.
A random comment on poetry in general: If all art is political, then there is no point in trying to create political art.
The birds sing the notes,
that linger in the air.
Their wings soar with grace
to the sky over there.
The birds copy the leader
as he wonders to and fro,
they peck at the ground
for reasons I don’t know.
Black Birds Flying at Wal-Mart
I see them gather, flock on flock,
At 7:30am sharp, they start to squawk and talk.
The sun peeks up, the horizon glows,
The air alive with cackles and crows.
Their feathers bristle, sharp and black,
They soar and dip, they dart fourth and back.
Their eyes, a yellow shining disc,
Reflect the light, a golden whisk.
The parking lot, their chosen stage,
They flutter, and fly in trees they engage.
Heads turn left and then to right,
When they fly the sky turns a speckled night.
They peck at crumbs, on scraps they dine,
Their steps in rhythm, a sequenced line.
Among the cars, they dance and sway,
When humans enter their territory they fly away.
From tree to light poles they take their flight,
Under the Walmart’s neon light.
Upward they rise to poles they glide,
On top of Walmart’s walls they nest and subside.
On the back of the wind, they wheel, and turn,
For insects, food, their hunger burns.
The Black Birds gather on shopping carts.
Masses of Black Birds flying at Wal-Mart.
You flounce
as if you were an ostrich fan
all fluffed up on the page
waving at posterity.
I nibble at your chicken livers,
occasionally
swing from your bell-ringing images
that dare to delight me,
but you peck at words too much
and those long pauses
when you take a bow
are tedious.
Sorry to see that you are dead,
when you were alive
reviewing your work
was a lot easier,
now I have to praise you
just to show I care.
Conmen squawk,
‘Fear our Bird Flu,
And that we know
What’s best for you.’
So bird flew.
For bird knew
That what men do
Is nothing new.
Open minds are few,
Thinking’s voodoo;
And what’s true
Goes up the flue.
So bird flew.
Yes, bird flew.
Because bird knew
It’s not the first time,
History rhymes,
Since man can’t learn
And always gets burned.
All this bird knew;
So, bird flew.
Bird flu.
They’ll say it’s a thing,
Say they’re not joking,
And people will do
What they’re told to do.
They’ll peck at false seeds
Planted in their mind,
Twenty four seven,
It happens each time.
This phony Bird Flu,
Bird knew;
So, bird flew.
Spring is still kicking its heels,
in winters waiting room,
expectations unravel.
The squirrels are too awake,
there is no sign of sleep,
in their glittering eyes.
Magpies peck at a low cast sky,
hunt, for gaps of sunlight.
Charlie, the old man
who chop's his own firewood
died yesterday,
mice have already moved
into his woodpile.
I wish they made tiny earmuffs.
They never stop
Dawn to dusk
Chirping, cheeping, cawing,
Chattering in the hedges.
I root for the cat.
Not often
But on occasion
Y’know….just
Get that one.
Hey I chirp now and then
Get a bit over eager
At the feeder
Peck at an over eager squirrel.
It is called a “BIRD” feeder bozo.
It’s getting’ colder
They’re all keyed up
Going south.
I may just stay here
Nest near the dryer vent
Hope they toss out a slice of bread
Whole wheat is ok
Maybe a fistful of seed.
I hope they leave soon
I may read a book
Quietly
A mucky puddle
still holds the reflected night.
Two maundering starlings
peck at the dark pool
as if fishing.
One worm wriggles up,
the birds don't seem inclined
to eat it
one bubble in the puddle
surfaces -
I sense a kraken.
A former life.
I am there, a sort of poet in 1920.
My typewriter
speaks a thousand words of English,
if you peck at it with a thousand fingers.
I need help.
I have hired a woman,
a lady from a typing pool
one with coffee serving skills.
Today the typewriter and the lady
are in place.
I pace the room seeking inspiration,
mumble and grumble.
“Sir do you want me to type that mumbled incantation?"
“Just type anything," I say exasperated.
but be sure to make it plausible.”
I mean really!
Do they dream of vast oceans,
of soaring sea-raised mountains
of wave upon wave of rolling
seascapes?
The little brown and white ducks
show no such inclination.
They dabble, dibble and paddle,
gently pecking at moments
meandering from here to there
on the silky grass banks
of a shallow pond.
Sometimes they squabble
over a pettiness
creating ripples of distraction.
None ponder
the infinity of space and time,
they peck at such thoughts
dismiss them before they can surface
and in a quick spray of water,
then shake them from a ruffled
feathered tail.
They nibble, they paddle,
and dabble,
while slowly circling
the reflection of a gigantic sun.
He was a fancy farm rooster always
prunin’ and preenin' his feathers for show
But man could that rooster wake up the dead
when he puffed his chest and let out a crow
He was the king of the barnyard for sure
struttin’ around just like he owned the place
Any time a critter would get too close
Barney would go after them in a chase
He'd peck at the legs of the big critters
poke the small ones right on top of the head
If' a young rooster try to challenge him
them long spurs of his just might leave them dead
All them hens would go scratchin’ and cacklin’
as they went sashaying about the farm
Each hen knew as did the animals too
with Barney there they won’t come to no harm
One morning my wife was gathering eggs
I heard a ruckus I couldn't believe
Barney was chasing my wife cross the yard
was the funniest thing I'd ever see'd
Old Barney was a mighty good rooster
none better for taking care of the coup
But I do have to tell you all something
Barney made a mighty fine chicken soup
Let that be a lesson to you cowboys
you might think that you're a running the land
But step out of line and you're gonna find
who's really holding the reigns in their hand
They perch quietly
in the coaches looking at us through shattered windows,
bituminous eyes starkly stare from window seats.
It is strange thing to see, but the crows know something.
Some passengers hang in the stillness shocked by the
lack of time,
some arrange mangled bodies like cut-flowers
upon an oozing canvas.
The crows peck at the cracked windows,
the sky wants to come inside,
and it does
painting dazed faces onto trammeled forms.
The brief blessings of last moments come and go,
then the dead wave cheerily as the train moves on
across a still falling sky.
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