brilliant bird with
fire in your hair.
Shelter me beneath your wings
Where gravity has pressed me.
The wind has blown away all reasoning And we’ve
become the muted tongues
Of feathered birds
The fragile bones of faithless lovers.
Silence burns never to be spoken it sails away
on the wings of migrating birds.
Birds soar high above the ice chiseled cliffs, roil over ancient forests at the moss covered foothills of Mountains. I hear the voices of ancestors, perverse whispers of hate and grudges, they are witness to our deception. They know the gaps in our souls are filled with the same darkness as theirs. When we once again come face to face they will tell us how the hours passed so quickly. You are that bird whose wings beat the air senseless, rainstorm eyes protest a dream unlived. That perfect blue honey of desire you washed away in golden brown. Swoop down, I miss the sound of you. Tell me how to survive beginnings. Save me from this carousel, my arms outstretched not knowing I am still spinning.
Unless you ask
I will always make you go
before the birds invoke the day,
leave our scent on the crumpled
sheets to the cats.
Though it is somewhat embarrassing
I love most among poets Aristophanes
and sultry dreams of cherubs that twitter like
juvenile birds drunk on adventure.
Unless you wake me to the soft sound of Coltrane,
the rich taste of espresso, the breath of fruity herbs,
I will always make you go before
the sun breaks the horizon.
Painting by Michael Lipke (1953)