It isn't like that.
It isn't a left turn too early,
a lark awake at night,
thick brown light in an open field;
unpredictable: a bad or counter-miracle.
It is only wanton.

You know how it is
Suddenly, something trapped between your toes:
the world has a strangled voice, it is
unroofed. You want the comfort of normal walls,
normal light, normal noise; in your hand
is a hot brand you'd halfway use
to smith it back together
and halfway swallow.
I had different plans for this vacation
than destruction.

I had plans. You had plans. The earth
planned its axial tilt; the weather planned
its burning; we put aside too little water.
A few plants were familiar -
the ruined piñon pine I remembered from the placard.
One lonesuch tree that made a little niche
at a defiant angle into the air
and outlived all except its orphaning.
How we thought we could fare better, I cannot say.

Ten feet up by one hundred feet over:
one liter water per mile climbed:
fatigue. Fatigue.
The quiet supremacy of all these rules for living like
transit and occultation
refraction and dimness
exertion
hunger
peristalsis pulling down
huge loads of sunlight
into the ***** gully
like bread and meat.

You will not see the bottom
no matter how hard you look.

If blood I am, then what kind of blood?
Unsettled and unsettling. The circulatory system
has an apt name: sometimes I can feel yesterday's blood
in the same neurons, saying the same thing.
I have no choice but to repeat it.
Time sheds its significance.
I have no continuity:
I have rhythms.

The new day, on fire and sitting in the trickle
you held a golden fish in your palm
as if you had made it by will
and cupped, it circled in the valley of your fingers
and I ate from the vision of care.

Erosion: isn't that what made these furrows?
I beg it to unmake me
flat like a seabed and many fathoms green
where the sun will never reach me.

In the penumbra of your anger
I do not fear dying,
only dying unclean.
Heights are all the same.
They would all break me and none would enough.
The grasshoppers and gecko hatchlings
all die in their way, rubbed in the hot dry dust.
Parched, I gnash my stone teeth
and tongue of chaparral -
I am making a song to say
die with me
but smile at me.

Then I see it through flashes of temper,
frame by frame, like a fingertip behind a pinwheel:
a dream of something distant that is also true.
Dreams of freedom alongside dreams of dying.

On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.

You hanged yourself from a palm
on a desert island
Starved for weeks
Catching flies in the cave
that hung open
in your mouth.
Swaying in the wind
And saw a series of the most
beautiful sunrises
which you paint in my sleep
every night when you come
to visit me.
Telling me all that you know
of the habits of flies
while the new ones,
those kids,
dance around my breathing nose
and settle in my gums.
All waiting to hatch
to get a glimpse of that sunrise
their parents dreamt of.
-overandover.
andoveragain.

we met like two birds landing on a wire
and chattered with our chirping sounds that sing
at distance where no flights could we conspire

though thoughts of love nests set our ******* on fire
like humans holding tight to form a ring
we met like two birds landing on a wire

that laid upon the face of earth's attire
so far that only light-boxes could bring
at distance where no flights could we conspire

yet caught by love like wings snagged in a brier
two lovebirds sought to ease loneliness's sting
we met like two birds landing on a wire

and dreamed since then of hatchlings we could sire
with eggshells cracking at the scent of Spring
at distance where no flights could we conspire

above the clouds now dreams have floated higher
and soaring past the heavens there do sing
we met like two birds landing on a wire
at distance where no flights could we conspire

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

i.*   i've always loved the way the earth looks from an airplane window, small enough that i can filter through an entire city with my fingers and never encounter a single face that inhabits it. but this time, i looked out and could see nothing but green for miles. it was as if god himself could put his infinite hands together and they would still fill with trees and branches and coffee-stained rivers instead of people. i didn't know it was possible to drown in so much color.

ii.   a man who spoke in splintered english and carried a machete told me that he could survive in the rainforest for a month without supplies, that the jungle ran through his bloodstream as he imagined gasoline and city lights flickered through mine. the day he took us hiking on the trails, he glided through the understory barefoot, pausing just long enough each time to see if we were keeping up.

iii.   some mornings, i lay in bed still wishing i could turn the chorus of car horns outside my window into the songs of howler monkeys echoing across the treetops and into my dreams.

iv.   at night, we walked down a beach, dragging sand and weariness in our socks and watching the waves crest along the shore. i looked to my right and the stars leaned so close into the forest that they simply became twinkling electric lights atop palm tree lampposts. my feet even tasted the stars beneath them; when i kicked up sand, tiny constellations startled scurrying ***** into the tide.

v.   you will always be the first country that trusted me with a bottle in my hand, as i stole through the midnight streets of san pedro with the taste of *** mixing in with the laughter i felt hidden under my tongue. and in the morning, i awoke to a faint dizziness and the memory of boys who bought me drinks and asked for nothing more than a dance and a handful of stories in return.

vi.   *muy exótica, they murmured as i walked down the road, my heartbeat syncing with the wheels of my suitcase as they rolled over the uneven dirt. a pair of enamored scarlet macaws held no magic for them now; the real exotic specimen was the girl whose almond eyes were filled with desert sand, whose skin only became mocha when the sun stared at it too long. they couldn't turn away.

vii.   i still have countless bug bites that dance across the backs of my legs in tingling trails. i hope the scars stay long enough for me to trace them back to the place where they were choreographed.

viii.   only one of a thousand sea turtle hatchlings will reach adulthood, yet i watched one of eight make its way from my hand to the ocean until it caught the sunrise and disappeared. i kept my palm open as i waved goodbye, hoping he would someday be able to read his way back home.

ix.   the last night, we danced under a shower of stars and you told me about a time that you smoked until twilight and saw sea turtles dancing on the beach to bob marley. while we were sitting there wishing the storm would swallow up time, i imagined piro beach was littered with the shells of sea turtles using the moonlight as it pulsed off the waves to teach each other how to salsa too.

x.   i've never written a love song, but i spent my days in a hammock wishing i knew enough words in spanish to weave together one for costa rica. i wonder if i will spend my life falling in love with places and scattering pieces of my heart across the continents like turtle eggs without ever finding the one location i'd like to bury them deep into the sand and wait for life to dig its way back out.

Death called your name, you said
Not from the periphery
But right here
Right now
And it requires bloodshed

Eyes glazing over
The tracks before you
Dreaming of being
Splayed
For the length of a mile

I laugh nervously
When you tell me
Because it was me
Your son
Who handed you the phone
“For death, press 1”

You’re at the crossing now
From the pedal
Your foot lifts
The train’s horn
Bellowing
As into its path
You drift

The brakeman screams
As your body disjoints
Your shame for me reduced
To scarlet exclamation points

A nearby sparrow
Witnesses the scene
“Sad”, she thinks
Hatchlings cozy
Underneath her wing

It’s a bit cruel
To pile your ****
On my shoulders
As if I were a mule

And it’s a bit wicked
To claim my
Unchangeable
Existence
As sin committed  

The enigma of stigma
Is yours to explore
I slide you a key
I’ll be right here
On the other side of the door

A mouse creeps
Across the threshold
Seeing both sides
“Too bad”, he thinks
As he scurries by

You named me Christopher
After a boy killed
By a train
And now you say I’m to blame
Like an unfortunate stain
On the hem
Of our family’s pain

The truth is
I couldn’t keep living a lie
And I’m sorry, dad
I’m the reason you want to die

my body is a nest
for robin's eggs.
you taught me that
hatchlings aren't able to fly,
though they think they are.

my body is a nest
for robin's eggs.
you taught me that
in order to live
and to love,
part of me had to die.

my body is a nest
for robin's eggs.
you taught me that
i would never be
as beautiful or as perfect
as the dove.

my body is a nest
for robin's eggs.
you taught me that
i was worthless,
and if i wanted something,
i had to work for it.

my body is a nest
for robin's eggs.
you taught me that
you were protecting me
from the outside world.
i didn't realize i was suffering.


my body is a nest
for robin's eggs.
you taught me that
i couldn't trust anyone,
there were predators all around,
and when it rained, it poured.

my body is a nest
for robin's eggs.
i told myself that
it was time to fly.
oh, it hurt, but still,
your words were never as soft as the ground.

Soggy, forgotten rotten eggs. Sink side. Gobbledy gnus cruising, fast acting cheetah be cheetah for the eggs are scare and the Time is new. The few are no longer fastened tightly to these hatchlings, the weather is near and all the tides are complicated. I could stand around in my underwear, but there isn't a single night song or nightengale that would hear me. There's a thud on my head and a knock on the door, I can't sing my best, or try to impress thee. All of these letters un rest to the sound of your voice, even in calfskin a vegetarian can begin to have trouble breathing.

To the cables that untie thlemselves to a broom in a paradise, Pacific, galore. Forgot to. Invested. Contained poorl and drunks stowed in the holograms of hand-me-down prisms, here comes the infectuous lonely ol' lamb. This is the ewe song that sings you to sleep, keeps the sweat in your underwear. Where there is hunger there are poor but my gold chants forward to this Armageddon's sway.

If it means it in Greek than it does in cyrillic, if it's toxin you have rotted your bell. Inside my pink, neon briefs is a tale of insanity, where I had tried to squeeze out every ounce of relief that commenced while I was asleep.

There was only ever one of us that ran with the turmoil that romance does. Terminal two, Arizona-flu, carried through the ORD concourse I heard a saxophone tune. Final approach, a yawn. I'm home drinking ***** at 9:00am with my PJs on.

I wonder if you left the light on that night,
As you sat clutching your wine glass on the floor.
Or if you tucked yourself up tightly in bed,
After you securely locked up every door.
If you fought till you were sober,
And never gave up, though you lost,
Leaving your pillow fully tear-soaked,
And your covers unneatly tossed.
I wonder if you wake up every morning,
Like you used to, all alone.
But feel your heart sink deeper,
Once you realise you're on your own.
Or do you still continue preparing
Their clothes as if they're there?
And hum a melody as you wander the house,
Disturbing the old, settled air.
Do you still set three seats at the table,
And then call them when it's time to eat.
Then wait just for a moment,
To hear their scampering feet?
Have you stayed in touch with their friend's parents?
Or have you left them in the dark?
Are you afraid they would ask questions,
Or make some advisory remark?
I think they'd tell you to look in the mirror.
And to get up off of your lazy ***.
That you did less than you know you could have.
And, for God's sakes, put down that glass!
I don't think you were a bad mother,
But, sure, how am I to know?
I was the last one to find out all about it.
I just can't believe you'd let them go!
Have you dismantled his bed in the attic,
Or have you just left it there to rot?
Or have you moved out of that house completely,
Leaving behind all the heartache it brought?
Did you continue to leave mini eggs on her window sill?
The ones you used to pretend her dragons had laid.
Or did your body freeze in front of her door-frame,
As you asked yourself why they hadn't stayed?

I wonder if you teared up into your wine glass,
When you realised it was because of you they're gone.
Then I wonder why on Earth you would cry,
When it's what you wanted all along.

I make my grave in her dark treason of hair,
Fragrant master of soldiers and memories,
Bei capelli, conspiracy of internecine curls.
Her upbraidings strangle all my sweet nothings
To breathless wish of the emperor-purple of lips.

Flow then like black gloss of birds
And the brood hatchlings of shadow, exiled eastward,
Fled like a premonition of warmth somewhere far off,
While the wine-colored blood spills his heart into a throng of mouths.

Love, you are the hardest grave,
Were you ever just a kiss
Or always from daggers made?

You hanged yourself from a palm
on a desert island.
Starved for weeks.
Catching flies in the cave that hung open in your mouth.
Swaying on the wind until it was worn too thin and died.
And you see a series of the most beautiful sunrises.
Which you paint in my sleep every night after you've crept through my skull and come visit me.
Telling me all that you know of the habits of flies
While the new ones
Those kids
Dance around my breathing nose
To settle and sleep on my gums.-
All waiting to hatch to get a glimpse of that sunrise
Of which their parents dreamt.
A timeless chant
The only thing that god can be called
And the skin fell off of the shell of their light to make naked a thing that can not be named.
Cracking and peeling back their eyes to make way for the divine to come pouring out
Drowning a bloated belly thirst
Light explodes from every inch of the body-
It is the building of Ash,
The ripening of the past.
Until all that is left is he lthe two pupils falling
Like flies giving up on their lives
Into a pool of pure psychedelia
Dropping as a pearl tastes in the ignorant mouth of a thousand wanting oysters swallowing down the ****** of said god.
Who chokes on its own divine light
That it can finally die
Away from the madness of its mind

-overandover
andoveragain.

And our island
Is a venus fly trap
Devouring its neighboring flowers
Until there's no distinction between
The sweetness of rotting
And the living which is a thing we call ours.

Feather tipped tree trunks outside,
Mother bird's gone to bed.
Hatchlings with so many questions,
Poachers for natural insurrection.

Hundred degree heat
Hundred degree heat
Scrambled-Sidewalk-Eggs

On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.

the sensation of the wires hanging loose from your headphones gently brushing up with the blonde hairs on your neck like little hairthin whispers- spiders crawling on you throat

leaflets
blankets


fleece summercamp sweatshirt

the a/c rumbling

crisp fallings
hatchlings
seeds
wax paper tracings-rubbings of leaves

downstairs
  pageling

I walked to buy some Marlboro Reds
the kind I always used to smoke when I lived at home
with my parents
"Cowboy Killers"
"Coffin Nails"
My mom would relentlessly criticize my choices.
I tried to drown myself most nights,
but my parents broke the lock on my bathroom door
and stopped me, taking to a country hospital in-patient
facility.
I felt alone, and my shoes were stripped of laces.
But I drew a picture in an art therapy session
of my car driving over a bridge
like the one I'm crossing now,
that spans a creek I don't notice for the first time.
It was a clear day, in my picture, but I had been stripped
of my car keys, as well.

It is a clear day today, too, but it is still Nebraska
and the wind is blowing
and I still want to swerve into traffic, on foot.

My family liked my picture, and made allusions
to helping me cross this metaphorical bridge.
No one asked me about the way I imagined the bridge ending,
how I would fall over the edge and die.
But I successfully crossed the overpass, alone,
my shoes permanently tied.

When I got to the counter, the cashier made me aware
that the prices had gone up since 2006.
I had expected this, but they were already expensive
before
for my body, for my lungs.
I was thirty
pounds overweight back then
and ate mostly fast food, and cheese tortillas,
but the body I carry now seems heavier.

I wear earplugs to combat
the unrelenting flow of traffic
and people going to their houses, families.
I try to fabricate a reason to tell my parents
I won't be there
for Thanksgiving.
But I can't,
I just won't go.

I walk harder now.
The trouble I had breathing
as a fat schmuck
remains
as a skinny schmuck
and I go back inside
to ask for matches at the counter.

I just want to smell the sulfur strike
it reminds me of the chemicals my father used at work
and it is extinguished by the Fall wind, like I knew it would.
But still, I stood behind the gray gas station
the red trim.
I find this oddly exhilarating
this moment,
this fading scent,
from failed matches,
reminds me of when I got a friend to buy me cigarettes
in middle school
and I hid them in my room, until my parents went away.

I took them and the matches, to my parents' porch
and smoked one, imagining my neighbors saw me
imagining they cared.
The crinkle of the foil, the match strike--
these were the experiences I wanted.
And the nicotine.
But I did not want the coffin nails
for the dead cowboys.

I had a lighter with me, though.
I knew I'd have to light one.
I pull it from my pocket and inhale.

I had removed my ear plugs to ask for the matches
and all I hear is wind and vehicles.
I start to walk across the bridge a second time
I spit on the dying grass
that hangs in the dry chill
between the cracking sidewalk
in front of a gas station employee
getting off
her shift.
Her shadow races mine, and I am going to win.

I don't feel the nicotine yet, but I expect it to
kick in
as I listen
for a sign of life, not drowned out by thoughtless travel
for a moment,
I hear some young birds, sqwuaking under the overpass
spanning a creek
no one takes time to look
but I do.
All that collects there is trash.
There was a torn, Tar Heels hat on a rock, in the water, once.

I start to think again. It's working.
I'm open
Enlivened by the sound of hatchlings,

I hear young birds!
But I can not see
an anachronistic Spring
in my step, I am sure
for the first time in weeks.
I imagine having hope
and stride, watching my shadow crash
against the concrete ditch, relentlessly.

Suddenly, I realize,
what I thought were baby chicks
bound to freeze
were clanging coins
in my pocket which
I couldn't distinguish
until I'd passed into a parking lot, away from cars.

My momentum faltered.
The ******* my knee-support lost its velcro hold
and before I knew it
I was under the leaf-less trees
where red berries dangled
and no squirrel felt brave enough to ****** them.
I thought of reaching up and grabbing one,
but I knew no one else would think this seemed brave.

I smoked the cigarette until it burnt my finger,
then put the **** in the receptacle beneath my stairs
and went inside.
Enabled by the substance, inside my body just ten minutes,
to write again
19 times.

You hanged yourself from a palm
on a desert island.
Starved for weeks.
Catching flies in the cave that hung open in your mouth.
Swaying on the wind until it was worn too thin and died.
And you see a series of the most beautiful sunrises.
Which you paint in my sleep every night after you've crept through my skull and come visit me.
Telling me all that you know of the habits of flies
While the new ones
Those kids
Dance around my breathing nose
To settle and sleep on my gums.-
All waiting to hatch to get a glimpse of that sunrise
Of which their parents dreamt.
A timeless chant
The only thing that god can be called
And the skin fell off of the shell of their light to make naked a thing that can not be named.
Cracking and peeling back their eyes to make way for the divine to come pouring out
Drowning a bloated belly thirst
Light explodes from every inch of the body-
It is the building of Ash,
The ripening of the past.
Until all that is left is he lthe two pupils falling
Like flies giving up on their lives
Into a pool of pure psychedelia
Dropping as a pearl tastes in the ignorant mouth of a thousand wanting oysters swallowing down the ****** of said god.
Who chokes on its own divine light
That it can finally die
Away from the madness of its mind

-overandover
andoveragain.

And our island
Is a venus fly trap
Devouring its neighboring flowers
Until there's no distinction between
The sweetness of rotting
And the living which is a thing we call ours.

The child screams as the beast draws near,
unable to run frozen in fear.
Pinning the boy to the ground with one claw,
then ripping him open he begins to maw.
A girl so fragile yet so brave,
draws the beasts attention with one small wave.
The beast lashes out with fiery breath
The girl cries out with the pain of death
People flee without success,
from the dragons murderous breath.
Soon there is nothing left to ****,
the village lays quiet desolate and still.
The beast waists nothing of his prey
He feeds until the end of day.
The rest he takes back to his weyr,
To feed his hatchlings waiting there.

© Crystal Erickson 1999

Every coulee, thirsting, gladly drinks,
Every basin and every sleepless hollow;
Where duly each charitable droplet sinks,
Whither hasten the novel spring follow.

Yet it goes, unfolding as a tempo mosies
Shoots will shiver open their split edges,
To strip, unclothe their budding posies,
In the timber, the garden, and hedges;

Weaved is a grove of anchored love
A Finch or Sparrow to meet another,
A nest, a cloak, a marquee high above
A den for father, hatchlings & mother.

The ten commandments say nothing,
in the translations I’ve read,
against coveting my neighbor’s good
fortune,
timing,
intentions,
sense of style,
or the countless other intangibles
gifted by Nature
and our DNA's mischievous inventions.

I’m a strict constructionist,
when it suits me, and especially so
with documents carved in stone
by invisible hands
having no recorded fondness for the market.

I’d trade places with any nameless witch
caught cavorting in her coven’s canopied oases,
their cauldron-ringing capers
and care-free cackles cheered
by owl hoots and cricket song;

Or the smallish, self-sacrificing spider
who rather than a cigarette gets a close-up
view of his mate’s spinnerets dispensing
the silk sheets to wrap him
as a happy meal deferred.

I also envy their creepy hatchlings
who weeks later will climb to the tip-tops
of firry fingers, cast a single wistful thread
and wait for the wish-fulfilling wind
to carry them lifetimes away.

That’s how I could stiff this chill
that taps me on the shoulder, and chase
after a far-off warmth I’ve weened
since my weaning was done.

I count these covets no sins.

Dragons blood burning hot,
from the place where he'd been shot.
It drips from his enormous wings,
spoiling the color of the clear blue springs.
The mighty beast screams with rage,
with a whip of his tail he destroys the cage.
Then spreading his powerful wings red with blood,
he bounds through the air and lands in the mud.
With three more bounds and one big leap,
he's gone from sight without a peep.
He's gone back to his hatchlings and hen,
to see the likes of mankind, never again.
He will soon heal and be well,
and again rule the beasts of heaven and hell.
But most importantly,
He will be free!


© Crystal Erickson 1999

when slice of moon is left in empyrean
when sun does join firmament
azure is interchangeable with netherworld
darkness on opposite side of earth
jackal is dreaming
whilst hustler is scheming
broken shadow on rippled lake
lurching subject does awake
heron has found morning
with it comes turtle snack
waited all this time
for hatchlings to come back
to pond’s edge
rouse of jackal

Spin a web meticulous
Wield long, woven silk
String by arching string
Until your home is filled

Now you wait for flies to land
They garner you a feast
Until the instinct overcomes
You build yourself a fleet

Now your lovely spawns are here
They imitate your moves
They soon outgrow the mothers web
In time they bring your doom

The sprouts begin to retaliate
They **** your body dry
The hatchlings start their own new webs
With hopes to catch a fly

Perusing a concrete jungle
Luminescence hangs from vines in the trees.
Strife rears her horrid head
Making a scene amidst the thoroughfare.
Last words never came so easy,
Now they flow like moths to a flame.
A bitter sweet cacophony fills the air;
It derives in the heart, and
Echoes throughout the mind.
Dissonance abounds the pursuit of vain glory.
Angst it seems has found a new bottled friend
To misplace his faith in.

Pride’s timely advance to the rear
Couldn’t be timed better.
Stoops offer little comfort
Compared to the nest that cradles hatchlings.
A vagrant’s attempt to console loneliness
Falls like music on deaf ears.
Sleep that rarely comes easy
Now seems possible without porcelain prayers.
Resolve attempts a reawakening
On the concrete jungle’s stairs
Only to collapse beneath the weight
Of nature’s tipping point.
Remorse is destined to wait,
At least until first light breaks
The incandescent glow of
The concrete jungle’s neon lights.

There are flowers growing from my tongue
Hatchlings of the seeds in my tastebuds
Writhing roots crawling down my esophagus
Corseting my throat beautifully tight
In me you found an ironic beauty
Solely a repercussion of your gardening hands
Wilting nightly as you leave

Bitter crimson engulfs the sky,
Scattering the spectrum forth.
The sun sets out yonder as
Birds whisper to their hatchlings,
Tomorrow will come before dawn.
Willows wrap around their trunks,
Shivering from the coming cold
Of the wind, barely whispering,
There is rarely solace in goodbye.

Snow falls, leaving your footprints
Upon the barren field of
My frozen heart that weeps.
Time cannot fill the void you left,
Emptied by your departed soul.

Frost devours the stemm’ed
Requiem that grows before you
With a darkened sky, speckled with white,
As a shooting star sends me home.

Sun shines against a warped wooden bench
White ducks travel in a row to the pond over yonder where their hatchlings will grow
A fairy hides inside of a flower
Fending off honey bees
With her sword of shimmers she hacks at their knees
Admirer in secrecy led me to this land
I await the man who promises romance
When I feel a soft brush on my hand
Still engaged in conversation and laughter for hours as the sun sets into the night
Dark past vanished when hit by the morning's light

Hello my name is well known and will never be forgotten



dont focus on that right now because it is my power over you and your disbelief of it that is important



for example i was strolling through a park and noticed a dove with its hatchlings



so i reached up and grabbed it

and i stroked it , caressing ever feather

then i finally reached for a talon and with a little pressure... snap .. its broken



not a drastic wound , it just make  the bird walk a little gimpy



then i start plucking feathers from its head



next i shatter its left wing and strip it of any feathers. While it chirps in agony , its hatchling watch in fear



then i set it back in its next and come back tomorrow



i find the gruesome bird again and pick it up



This time i stroke down to its legs

and with a little pressure... snap... snap..

no more walking



i being to slowly puck every feather

one by one

but leaving the right wing completly untouched



i clip its singing chords and break its beak shut



i lay it down in the nest surrouned by its hatchling

with only the perfectg wing to remind them of what once was



i wrap my hand around the birds neck squeezing tighter and tighter ... but then i let go and walk away

i mark another tally on my wrist and let time do the rest.



hello my name is cancer

Inborn, instant wandering Orient, oh Dragon breathing fire, breeding underwater. Love your magnetic triangle, love it like your child , protect your nest, let none be safe, if that be best for your hatchlings.

Outgrown, violent ripping, Vesuvius rising, burning and churning her helpless spew, if only we knew she is the victor of balancing. Thank her inner fire, even as you melt beneath her flow, follow her stream into the dreams of tomorrow, for she makes for fresher Earth.

Changeling Eastern desert sands, there is much movement into blood and heroic tears for what has come to be a rearrangement of the nativity of the people's homeland, such duress is unreal, to those who do not live it day by aching day. God Bless You, you are sturdy, resilient, Strong.  I pray it won't be to much longer. My thoughts are with You All.

                         |~{•}~|

It’s dimmed outside.
Birds come back to nets with empty corps,
but with a lot of warmth and compassion.
Their hatchlings and fledglings will sleep hungry tonight.
I can hear their birdsongs though.
Strong wind blows,
across the yard,
and all around the cosy nests.
High deciduous trees rustle,
shuddering me.
Withered dry leaves fall,
reminding me of those humans falling every day,
without saying goodbye to their final autumn,
in my homeland,
in Palestine.

Mohammed Arafat
Nobember 20th, 2019

Slim whispers under snowfall
warblers vanish, send a postcard
bloom and batten just a memory
while wind hurls sheeting rain
against my window—
my heart melts, open to
the inner wild,
my soul sings
words through pen on paper
I come alive
in the stillness, in the
bleak months

Sun is warming skin and soil
hatchlings calling, can you hear them?
cherry blossoms pink to bursting
while springtime beckons little faces
to my window—
my heart skips, one eye
to the quiet
still my soul’s urge
to be open to the passage
ebb and ease into
the rousing, the
bright months