Kingfisher

by Poetry

I have no song to sing
no tune rises from hard lips
as no pattern emerges
in the dance of this weak flesh
as no pattern emerged
from weaker bones in the wind

I have no song to sing
busy myself with proof
with evidence
in the digging of prisons
in the excavations of our bones
in the study of our wings

I have no song to sing
I shiver in the winter
I am too weak to fly south
I consume the weaker things
to survive the frozen rivers
to survive the snow

I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity

I have no song to sing
yet I have witnessed the singers die
leap from heavenly scaffolds
blind into the dark waters
with its promises of fresh life
their tongues swelling
their feathers turned against them
their jaws tear open with the applause
of lidless eyes

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poetry
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On Passion

Mightn’t it make more sense to spill my passions out upon the floor, Than direct it in meaningless frustration at these hollow keys, And the clicking clatter of their tombstone impact upon the white-page door – To ignore the lure of life’s great, dreadful typewriting...

Local Politics (Dream 9)

Sinister bloody sexless thing blowing out of Market Street with a red ridden burlap sack and a blood iron hood – a sexless thing, I said, from the depths of darkest spring sidling up the side streets with a swing in his thigh obsessed thighs. Sidling into men, don’t...

Kingfisher III

I am too weak now
to push the broken shells
away from my bed
so I sleep
in the bodies of our children
& dream of what they could have been