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Lily Priest Dec 2020
If we were never here
left no mark
And disappeared
How could they ever say
That we were wrong?
But are we songbirds
Whose tune will echo on
Heavy with the hope
That all we are
And all we were
Is never done?
Brandon Chutuk Mar 2020
From the rubble of a sound mind
Comes calling the sound of songbirds
Drifting over inhuman air
Like a chorus, like reminders

So everybody stands and listens
One note and then the next
A symphony or a drama --
A comedy, perhaps?

Nevertheless a calm wind persists
Through waves of somber doubt
These birds persist in singing
In flutters and in toe

We look up to find their callers
And see empty trees around
No bird nor instrument
No motive, and not a sound

Is it winter or is it spring
Are the songbirds now listening?
Joined together in silent prayer
Like wardens of our cells

The writer keeps on writing
And the reader carries on as well
The singing takes over
It staggers then it swells

A crescendo of pitch and harmony
Only when non-observed
The writer finds his solace
Alone, in writing of his birds
Sometimes it's hard to hear the birds, when I'm so caught up inside my own head.
Mandi Wolfe Nov 2019
My body is a rugged mountain pass
whose dangerous peaks and valleys
call out to the hubris of would be adventurers
with its hungry siren song.

Lovers have come the world over
with their maps, pickaxes, fire starters and rope.
Some brought tents intending to go the distance;
several with flags to stake their claim at the summit;
a few with pocket knives for carving their names.
All leaving trash on the trails as they went.

“Did I make you ***?”
they would ask believing in their foolish arrogance
that their movement and noise were really capable
of causing my avalanche.
Covered in the sweat of my labors in Sherpa-ing them to the peak
I whisper “Yes.”
Understanding in those moments that some things cannot be taught.

Only one ever came truly naked -without intention or ego.
The many times he found himself cresting my summit
it never occurred to him to pierce me with his pride
but instead he kissed the earth beneath him in gratitude.
He always moved through me as if he had gone this way his whole life
and yet still could get lost on the trails of a single limb.

He made himself an eager student of my skin
and produced waterfalls where before there had been none.
Singing songs into me as he studied my topography with adept fingers.
The echoes of which ring through me even now.
Never was he concerned with the ridges
for he being too preoccupied with the beauty of my slopes
thought of them only as trail markers.

The songbirds in the trees of me call always for him.
The animals of my wilds stay hungry as never before.
A small fire burns constantly for his return.

Unclothed.
Brynn S Nov 2018
The rain bird whistles in my ear
The boustrophedon melody fallowed loud and clear
Breach my windows and ruin my sleep
A ****** delight my eyes do weep
Cradle my head in wretched screams
Erase and memorize fallen dreams
Trapped in dusk my eye does wake
Migraines conjured will soon dissipate
sunprincess Jul 2018
When one thousand years has passed us by,
I hope mother earth is still beautiful
And there's fruit trees and grass so green,
And fresh air to breathe that's clean

There's animals alive of every variety,
fireflies, ladybugs, and honeybees
I hope there's an amazing blue sky,
with songbirds together flying so high

And I hope most of all flowers still grow,
and there's a winter with falling snow
Juniper Zed Mar 2018
As with all things
That object you hold
The song that you sing
Are connected in a web of meaning.

The 300 year-old tree was alive
When the doe lost her fawn to the hunter
When your ancestors spoke their native tongue
When the songbirds were blissfully unaware of their mortal song.
Unheard it was then, and now it is a legend.

And just as the sun rose
For one last songbird song
So will it set on you
For we know of our mortality all along.
We call out to your imagination,
It's the only place you'll be able to understand.
Beyond sorrow and happiness,
Come master the air and the shadowlands.

We do not hear our voices sing,
They’re for you, your calling,
Gifts from a perennial spring.

Pure in heart, words lose in flight,
Leaving wings to trace the skies, bringing,
Ecstasy, to an unknown height.

The body falls back to university,
Tears they'll run down your face.
The final grasp disappears,
As you give chase.

And all that you’ve dreamed of,
Dies.
But do not worry, you are me and you are I
We are flowers in the sky.
Debut poem for a series of new paintings about songbirds I'm working on.
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