How easy do those small birds fly,
Over the things which make us cry,
And feel like the greatest burdens,
In the depths and peaks of the sky.

I was told if I ate worms,
I could fly.
Ever since, I've stepped over sun-baked sidewalk worms.
I recall eating an orchard apple from the ground.
That didn't end well.
Rockwell suggested frying them.
Hamlet punned about worms travelling through a King.
Don't be called a worm.
Don't worm your way in,
You'll likely find a hook.
I'm forever grounded.
The worm hasn't turned.

i wonder
how we managed
to convince our hands
not to hold onto each other
when we said goodbye.

now, i'm writing
inside this flying can;
thinking this might be the closest
to a home.

these small seats,
with even smaller legs space.
these funny-shaped windows,
where all you can see are
white clouds,
and sporadically
some lights.
tiny houses,
with even tinier people.

and us,
tiny giants,
reading overpriced perfume catalogs,
listening to mispronounced english,
using disposable low-fidelity headphones,
inside low-light low-love low-cost
low-everything
airplanes.

He
Heard the voice calling in his heart
Grew his wings
Beyond the horizon he flies

There's no map of the skies
Nobody heard his cries
Lost forever in the mist
Of his mind

His way back he couldn't find
So he moved on
Fading into the colors of sunset
Nothing left behind

Shelter is a storm.
Flying high; my heart within.
Why must you float on?

The Bumble-Bees so happily
from flower to flower they bumble

A scientist insists:
              "this cannot be
                it's an areodynamic  scandal!"

with a formular:  Y somewhat x Phi
he proofes why Bumble-Bees can't fly at all:      
      their bodies are too heavy to fly
      as their wings are much to small

I humbly admit: physic is all greek to me
I enjoy Bumble-Bees and their humming

and the Bumble- Bees seem to agree with me
and continue to fly...

                                   ...isn't that stunning?

©Heike Borgard 01/21

they want to see you crumble like an old abandoned building
they wait for you to stop climbing
they pray that you will ultimately fail
however, they fear your gaze
for you have a fire in your eyes
and that fire is hot enough to burn away any doubt

We met on the corner of Saxon and 95 south
During one of those nights I was crawling out of my anaphoric daydream
I was a broken down bride in my sheets of white linen
When  I noticed the light in your eyes were as dull as mine
When the moon sculpted a mirage in the center of your ashtray
When you told me you needed me to stay a moment longer
I traded you a Chevy ride for a song of sweet surrender
As you blessed the burning willows that bled through my black and mild soul
Firing the sparks inside of me that had never seen a flame  
As I drowned in a carcass of rapids that never seemed to lay still
I reached into my lillies and pulled out a candle
To lighten your vision until you reached home
Until you were strong enough to love her again
And you thanked me with a smile and a tank of gas
I drove until midnight, staring at the moonlight
listening to the sighs of my breathe against the wind
And the sweet little woman who lives inside of my bones  
Reminds me of the way old Georgia worshipped my vines
I chose to abandon his comfort and wisdom
For the freedom of white lines on an open road
And while it soothes me to see him settle without me
I can’t help but wonder if I’ll always be a withdrawn vagabond
With my toes in the sand, with my head in clouds
Writing lines in a blank verse of commitment.