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Chris Weir May 2010
But even butterflies of sunset colors
still flutter in the wind.
Despite a heavy metamorphosis
the wind does still support them.
Their orange and yellow do remind
of something that has ended.
But their flickering flutter, too,
rekindles the memory of stars long suspended.

So let us all provide the wind
for one another’s wings.
Let us catch each other’s tears
that fall from cloudy eyes.
Let us help each other
embrace the memories of
cigar smoke, the white whale,
and warm holidays without worry.

        Because Father said clocks slay time.
        He said time is dead
        as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels;
        only when the clock stops
        does time come to life

And the butterfly knows this is true
for a pocket-watch would weigh her down;
her subtle strength would not allow
for her wings to leave the ground.

That is why the butterfly (accepting change)
releases time
in order for her time to be used
floating via a warm wind’s courtesy.
Without the weight of a timepiece
she is able to welcome the reminders
of warm memories of her butterfly,
now warm wind strong behind her.
Third stanza from William Faulkner's "The Sound and the Fury"
Chris Weir May 2010
In a desperate hug
we brace our spines
for what feels to me
like one last time,
me and my desperate fingertips
cling to you and plead for grip;
But in vain all ten on fabric slip
forced to settle for a steering wheel.
Chris Weir May 2010
In the dark
time shows no sign
forward backward or up
the diligent digital clock
tacitly ticks its tocks
dark recedes to dark and then
only to spare no light again;
But suddenly some scowling scream
("Still survive!" he shouts at me, according to the OED.)
shatters silence, tears the scene,
rips a hole in the dark, serene,
before any morning can be seen;
Some hidden pigeon's cackling
time revives, unshackling,
though the day is yet to come,
as if to offer a reminder to one:
"keep to the fore,
look to the sun."
Chris Weir May 2010
Let me gather my balloons
(I have ten)
I've been saving them for today
(I know you're scared for me
        But I have ten)
Let me see how far I can fly with them
(I hope they will support you too
        I know I only use five, really)
Will you be there when I take the first step
(I won't blame you if you aren't
        But--)
off the cliff
(perhaps a wind will help me rise
        I have ink!)
I know you say not to trust something so shaky as a gust
(You say this from your shackled shelter
        See?)
But I must trust my ten
        (and my mind)
And hope what I grip is not something frivolous
        (so I may ascend
         via steady zephyr pen
         and the luck it draws
         for me).
Chris Weir May 2010
Whistle while you work
whilst waterfalls wash
salt stained cheeks and
cracked callused palms cry
crooked crimson creeks and
carve crumpled X's in
everything you've written
tonight.
Chris Weir May 2010
Are my wavering watery
tired two in the morning
eyes
what the trembling violinist's
vibrato
tries to tell?
Chris Weir May 2010
How does the sound of a saw
slither so sweetly
from bow through wire to bone
a perfect wavering banshee
whose wails cut not but
fill
the air
with every remaining frequency
required
but never imagined
before keratin kissed steel?
      (But will I ever find the notes I need?)
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