poetry
2018
From Birds Nests
when the moon is full and lays low in the sky
and radio waves thus come cheap
picking them up is not such a task from galaxies away
we should give thanks on these nights
angels and demons both put on faces of sorrow and agree to disagree
and there is at least a margin of light and time open for the spirit to have a spree
with those who have been lucky or intuitive enough to stay alert and awake deep into the night
even foolish drunkards at late night packed saloons can feel a faint chill that something more,
and somebody like them, tickles the dew on grass of both broad prairies and cemeteries little drops of wax cry from the hungry homes of those that wait patiently and with little hope for more as they read songs and stories from bird's nests
these are the night's of days that suggest something more, something much more
when you can feel that the flowers are tired and weak from holding themselves up, but still do so without question,
even the tide whispers its fatigue; and, there is undoubtedly things left for each one of us to do,
down to the tree-trimmers and the diggers of ditches to the poets that offer very little but a hint of metaphorical champagne or,
in the rarest of cases, a bit of anesthesia by means of words
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we are children
we are its children
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so stay up late a few more days of the year or perhaps don't, just let luck and fate and what's will is free but less likely - as it must wait,
and hope you catch a snuff of what can never be taught, even here,
and hold onto it until you're behooved to release it to the little sky above,
then cast it free to circle the waves and dots we make out of night and day skies,
release it without regret or impedance,
because not only will this be the more that you become part of everything
but you will understand just a small bit more why the birds sing, and if you're chosen... what they say, particularly during those nights -
those eves when you wonder why they sing at such an hour
in such a strange but wondrous key.
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