Posts Tagged ‘Bird’

I’m looking at myself
in the mirror and wondering
who the fuck I am –
wire-rim glasses, two day old growth of beard;
cigarette dangling from my lower lip.
FUCKING POETRY – I’ve been gone so long,
writing to myself, watching
my pen bleed from word to word
across the page,
tasting every letter,
thinking every penstroke: the speed of poetry.
And fuck it if it’s not – it’s mine:
my thoughts, my wisdom, my reminders, and my beliefs.
Soon, the anger manifests in obscenity
and thinking of destruction and Godzilla,
not caring, not feeling anything but
pinpricks in my feet from stepping on rooftop antennae.
Flying like a bird, a beast, a leap
from a cliff, to die, to live, to believe
in myself and my vomit, my eyes,
my power to change myself, thus the world.
My wildfire magick of angels and cataclysm,
comedy, tragedy, hope, lightning flying
from fingertips and pen nibs.
It’s all the beauty of the plumbing behind the sink.

on my driveway in Point Loma,
smoking 3 cigarettes,
I thought it was my cat Ferguson
cracking bird-bones at four in the morning,
but the white and grey patchy creature
was a shiny eyed opossum,
who moved off as fast as it could
back down the sidewalk
after discovering its way back to its lair
in the college leaf-lined drainpipes
was guarded by a flannel-skinned human.
insomnia can be a great thing
when the TV isn’t running any Godzilla movies
or Kung-Fu Theater;
then the silence outside, the cool air
can be heard straining to beckon
with no mouth, no gestures,
just an often overlooked phenomenon.
some will travel huge distances
to find beauty in waterfalls and vistas
that are easy to pretend that no one else has seen,
yet the early morning hours of solitude
and a token nightlighting of vapor lamps on telephone poles
is the hush of the spectacular
that not many appreciate,
right outside their heavy-lidded windows.

A Poem for Someone Gone Away

Posted: May 4, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: ,

I still write you
little poems of little consequence,
yet long for a messenger
– be it bird or boy –
to send them to you, fresh from my hand
a thousand times a day.

Latin Imitation Poem

Posted: April 7, 1991 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

recently was Winter, now is Spring.
what clouds covered, now is blue.
quiet bird once were, now singing birds are,
for what is dead by December is green by May.

Untitled Poem #10

Posted: June 24, 1987 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Little bird sitting on the windowsill
Why is it that you look so ill?
What is the matter? What is wrong?
You no longer brighten the day with song.
Your eyes are sad, your feathers ruffled
With what unwholesome beast have you scuffled?
Your spirit is broken, like your bent wing
The clear notes of your cry now have a dull ring
Dirt is matted, dust is caked
Blood on your shoulder where you’ve been raked.
With agonized heart, I search the sands
As this little bird’s life bleeds out through my hands.