Sometimes I think poets are full of ****
Because so many of them use beautiful words,
When talking about birds.

I mean I only notice birds:
When they wake me up at nine am on Saturdays
Or **** on my dark colored car
Or mock my bored-eyed cat
Or beg for my sandwich at the beach

Honestly when you talk about listening to birds tweeting,
I think first of Twitter.

And when you talk about birds playing,
I think of professional football.

And even when you talk about the cool birds, the night birds,

I think of a particularly disturbing YouTube video of an owl's head going all the way around.

Yeah, I think what you guys like most about birds,
Is that they're easy to rhyme with words.

"If I was a bird, I'd be an owl."
If I was a bird, I'd be a-
"Don't say pigeon! I hate pigeons."
Pigeons? What is so horrid about them?
I thought and feared for my potential existence.
What if I was a pigeon?
What if my feathers were grey?
What if my belly was fat with breadcrumbs
and street scrap?
What if low coos did escape my throat
in efforts to keep warm and draw love?
What if children did push me to fly away?
What if I did choose to sit on trees,
and **** on statues of prominent people.
If I was a bird I'd be a warbler- no, a worrier.
One that plucks its feathers,
be it grey or rainbow-colored.
One that grows weak when flying in the cold,
but makes it south, all in all.
One that doesn't have a beautiful singing voice,
but chirps aways all in its lonesome.
If I was a bird, I'd peck at windows,
only to fly away
when someone comes to open it.
Because I know when I'm not welcome.

Mastering the ****
Is a major part of skill
For things with wings.

You angle your face
To pin-point the sound
Of the beating heart.

Slow and silent is your flight.

Some things never change
    


      The circular stains on the ceiling above my heart shaped bed didn't exist under that rule

  Sometimes they *seemed constant
           And sometimes that made me feel ok
            
        But other times, as I lay in bed,
            Somewhere near the halfway point between laying down and falling asleep,
       I stared up at them and they moved
         Left and right
Ellipsing each other,
    Becoming ovaloid in shape

Sometimes they simply flitted away, vanished


    I thought them gone,
But they continued to return.

They would not be so remorseless as to leave and not look back to see the blank space they had left.

     So my little circular stains stayed for a while.

    I was happy looking up in wonder at something I could never understand but never dared question.

   Until one day I simply wasn't. My interest in the stains steadily faded until I began to drift off on my side staring out the window, searching for owls I could hear but not see. These sounds made me hope.

They made me open the windows I had locked tight.
They made me breathe.
    
    Those sounds lull me to sleep even now.

*And I've stopped looking for the circles completely

Large eyes
Heart-shaped face
Powerful talons
Impressive wings
Sound of your call
Whispered leaves
Creatures hide
Away from sight
You silently fly
Ready to pounce
Infinite wisdom
Magic abounds

I still listen to music with words
When I am writing words

Sunlight streams through the window
Trees sway outside, with branches scratching the glass window
-
I smell fresh coffee beans
Starbucks, from the Philippines

A piece of paper flutters down
I look at it with a frown.
-
And one thing I suddenly recall,
It gives me an idea, a reason to stall

From what I am doing, (hummingbird mind, my friend.)
And I went into an imaginary glen.

With only my pen and my notes
For company, then my mind began to float.


He wrote in the most perfect handwriting
Compared to my scatterbrained black scribbling

He strummed a chord on my heartstrings
Without him even knowing


His name sounded like
the gold-tipped wings
of angels.
While mine sat on the
brown earth,
dreaming to the skies.


Though, once we'd meet once a week
And I would smile in the hallways
looking like a freak

There was always something idiotic
the way his teeth stuck out like a bunny's
He reminded me of Ishaan from Taare Zameen Par
A dyslexic student, great artist, had a smile so sunny.


I'm playing Owl City on my mp3
That's our secret anthem

Tears were there
The melody from the speakers
I wished I could've sat beside you
When your fingers waltzed over the black-and-white keys
Now I'm sitting all alone by myself
Tapping on black-and-white letters on the Mac


Even though I play the violin
I can't accompany you
My bow screeching against the strings
Just doesn't do your mesmerising piano justice

What I can only do is write
And draw with a cheap ballpen from a meeting hall
I will draw your eyes and your crooked grin.
And my dreams of you that remain unfulfilled.

I finish the poem
Rip the page out of my notebook
And tape it to the wall with my other works
and newspaper clippings, oh just look.

Tomorrow I take it down again
Slip it into an envelope
Wonder if I should buy a stamp.
Maybe mail it overseas with forlorn hope.

A month passes by,
The envelope gathers dust under my bed.
Oh my darling, oh my darling
The chances with you are hanging by a thread

We're going to fly back home once more
So I decide to get you a keepsake from here.
A wooden owl, carved by hand
I slip the poem inside, thinking what you'd think when it appears…

Owl flies in woods  .  .  .
Rush of death in the still air,
  .  .  .  Without any sound.

Branch out leafs stuck in tables
The call of the wild
Inner child alive
Bust lose wild horses hate their stables

Some birds don't fly?
Chicken with head cut off can dance
Do all 16 dances
Can't fly to France

Or live in a tree full of owls

Crows nest
Birds and the bees
Eat from flowers
Just like all the rest

Reincarnation, a dead man takes a vacation
When I die I want to return as a wise owl
Live with a girl owl

In a tree full of owls...



Davey of Montana

Beneath the bends of Barrymore
On the southwest winds she chants some more
The clouds scoot by beneath the moon
Some say she's crazy like the loon
Dressed in black she cackles back
Tossing ashes from a sack
She throws her body down
And moans and sobs into the ground
A dagger she does draw it forth
Holding it up for all its worth
She shrieks and damns her birth
And plunges it deep into her heart . . .
So ends the life of the despised young **** . . .

Now the owls come silently in
Alighting next to still warm skin
All walk around the disposed young beast
Only uttering "Who" to say the least
Then the great owl comes fluttering in
He'd be a giant if he were made of men
He collectively surveys the scene
Takes a few steps before he says a thing
"Take her body to Evermoor"
The great one orders and implores
And all the owls take to wing
Holding the remains of the breathless thing
And take her earthly shell away
And as drops of blood fell from the flow
to the earth a white rose would grow
Leaving a trail
To the land as some will say
To the sacred woods of Evermoor
Yes sacredness in evermore