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David Navarro May 2015
Among twenty snowy mountains,  
The only moving thing  
Was the eye of the blackbird.  

I was of three minds,  
Like a tree  
In which there are three blackbirds.  

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.  
It was a small part of the pantomime.  

A man and a woman  
Are one.  
A man and a woman and a blackbird  
Are one.  

I do not know which to prefer,  
The beauty of inflections  
Or the beauty of innuendoes,  
The blackbird whistling  
Or just after.  

Icicles filled the long window  
With barbaric glass.  
The shadow of the blackbird  
Crossed it, to and fro.  
The mood  
Traced in the shadow  
An indecipherable cause.  

O thin men of Haddam,  
Why do you imagine golden birds?  
Do you not see how the blackbird  
Walks around the feet  
Of the women about you?  

I know noble accents  
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;  
But I know, too,  
That the blackbird is involved  
In what I know.  

When the blackbird flew out of sight,  
It marked the edge  
Of one of many circles.  

At the sight of blackbirds  
Flying in a green light,  
Even the bawds of euphony  
Would cry out sharply.  

He rode over Connecticut  
In a glass coach.  
Once, a fear pierced him,  
In that he mistook  
The shadow of his equipage  
For blackbirds.  

The river is moving.  
The blackbird must be flying.  

It was evening all afternoon.  
It was snowing  
And it was going to snow.  
The blackbird sat  
In the cedar-limbs.

- Wallace Stevens (not me)

Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.


I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.


The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.


A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.


I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.


Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.


O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?


I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.


When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.


At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.


He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.


The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.


It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
Paul M Chafer Feb 2014

Beautiful Blackbird,
Take heart, take flight,
Leaving all the hurt behind,
Upon the wing, you can sing,
Allowing troubles to unwind.

Precious Blackbird,
Be strong, be brave,
Be unafraid, just to fight,
Forever free, you shall see,
Blue skies, clear and bright.

Sweet Blackbird,
Know faith, know hope,
Sharing dreams, everyday,
Knowing inside, no need to hide,
Trust guiding you, all the way.

© Paul Chafer 2014
For my friend
I am the blackbird sitting
on the branch . . . watching you
Peering into every aspect you do
Kaw . . . Kaw
and you . . ,

Late at night if I ever get out of here
I swear I will turn into a thunderstorm
And hurl my bolts of light at you
And pound you with my thunder

I am the blackbird . . . and I am still
watching you
Can you feel the unease of my stare
Kaw . . . Kaw . . .
now you are aware

He held a grudge forever more
Never could he release the hate and pain
Nothing nice again , just rain
He could never get out again

The blackbird and me . . . .
as the feathers flutter to the ground
Went both of us . . . around and around
Dagers drawn , guns blazing

Like I said it is late of night
Cursing and swearing my heart pounds
Mark on my bolts , holding thunder
I notch another line on the barrel of life

Blackbird ! Blackbird !  Blackbird be !
I am the blackbird sitting in your tree
Peering into the aspects that you might be
Kaw . . . Kaw . . .
Penelope Winter Apr 2017
Blackbird baby
Wings of charcoal
You think the sky is falling.
Your lonely song
Straddling the wind
Searching for an audience.
The home you grew up in
Had white walls and high ceilings.
Pure and sheltered.
You thought the room was shrinking,
Pinning your wings to your sides.
But baby
You were just growing.
Destined to break down the door.
To let the art of your dangerous spirit
Use the clouds for a canvas.
Blackbird baby
You've been raised by doves.
They've passed on their sparkling reputation
But it doesn't suit your matte feathers.
You're a whole other kind of beautiful.

Blackbird baby
Wings of charcoal
You think the sky is falling.
You feel so alone
You don't see how they envy you.
Your mind is a weapon, my dear.
Never doubt it for a moment.
Your body is a treasure, my dear.
Love it like nothing else.
Your time is valuable, my dear.
Don't waste it on what brings you no joy.
These lessons you have yet to learn.
You see only the thunder in the sky.
But there's a world of rainbows to be discovered.
Blackbird baby
You find it so hard to believe
That you are loved.
But you are everything to me.

Blackbird baby
Wings of charcoal
You think the sky is falling.
You see pieces of it hit the ground.
The end in sight.
Let me hold you.
Let me hold your whole world
So tightly that all the pieces of the sky
Fit back into place.
Afraid of what could go wrong
You pin your own wings to your sides.
Force of habit.
But without them
How will you fly?
Blackbird baby
Open your wings for me.
Show me your dance of ebony
Like a silouette on the sunset.
Blackbird baby
Hatch from your prison

And soar.
For one of my best friends. Sometimes she thinks she's so alone and forgotten. She finds it so difficult to open up. No one has taught her how to fly.
Adelaide Knight Feb 2018
Silvery flakes drifted downward.
Glittering in the bright light of the harvest moon.
The blackbird soared.
Singing soulfully his melodious song.
Pale blue light glinting off his feathers.
From the luminescent moon above.
Everywhere he went other birds chimed in.
Adding their glorious tunes to the blackbirds song.

Little eyes clouded with sleep
Peeked through shuttered windows
Searching for the source of the joyous song that woke them.

Parents listened through cracked entry doors, listening to the tune of sorrow they heard.

The elders listened, wizened by age, each hearing a different tune.
Some of joy.
Some of sorrow.
Some of pain.
And some of love.

It was as if the world herself stopped to hear’
The everflowing song of her children.
The song of the blackbird rung throughout the night.
Bouncing off trees.
Dancing in the snow.
Skimming the seasides.
Climbing up the steepest mountains.

Crooks and frauds heard his tune
His tune of redemption and guilt.
Murderers and thieves wept at his cries
His cries of forgiveness and mercy.

The deaf heard his song.
The blind saw through his eyes.
The dumb sang his tune.
The lame danced to his glorious melody.

The old felt young, and the young felt complete.
The blackbird changed his tune.

He sung of pain.
He sung of sorrow.
He sung of war.
He sung of death.
In the blackbirds tune joy sounded no more.

Soldiers laid down their arms.
Drowned in the feelings this new song awoke.

Angry wives, and wrathful husbands, lost their fight.

Unruly children once loud and bold.
Became silent and still.
Cooing infants began to cry.

The blackbird sang his song louder.
Praying to his mother.
That the people would listen to his words.
Hear his please for peace.
Feel his sorrow at loss.

And they heard.
Oh, how they heard.
They drowned in his pleas.
They cried in his pain.
Trembled with his sorrow filled tune.
They heard and they wept.
Wishing for this tune to stop.
Praying to the elders for his tune of joy to return.

The blackbirds song changed for the final time.
He sang of peace.
He sang of joy.
He sang of laughter.
He sang of delight
He sang to the elders for their guidance this night.

He sang of parents living happily with their children.

Of the lame dancing through towns.
Of the dumb singing his song and spreading his pleas.
Of the blind seeing through him, and showing others the way.
Of the deaf hearing his song, and singing along.
Of children giggling through the years.
Of infants, cooing,  growing from one year to the next.

The earth listened and heard.
She sang with her son.

The birds once more chimed in.
The insects buzzing in delight.
The wolves howling through the pale moonlight.

The night sang loud and true.
With the blackbirds song.
Not a soul left deaf to its beauty.
No infant left unhappy.
Not a child left sad or scared.
No adult left fearing what came next.
And no elder left fearing death.

He sang loud.
He sang true.

The blackbird sang his tune.
As the silvery flakes drifted downward.
Glittering under the pale harvest moon light.
The blackbird soared.
Singing his melodious song.
The wolves howling gaily.
The insects Buzzing peacefully.

The earth listening to her child sing.

Throughout the night.
For the rest of their days.
All who heard his song that night.
Never forgot the beauty they’d heard.
Neither did they forget the pain they had felt.
Forever remembering the peace that followed.

The blackbird soared.
High through the night.
Never ending his song rung.
The tune that made the earth stop.
To listen to its sound.
The melody that made nature sway.
Caught in a dance of pain and beauty.

The song that made.
The whole world sing.

The blackbird soared into nights dark embrace.
Never to return but in the worlds dream.
Singing his song, he soared along.

The blackbird soared.

-Scarlett Evelyn
Mike Hauser Mar 2013
Blackbird oh Blackbird
Where is your proud song
I heard you sing in the sixties
Aren't you still downtrodden and all

Have you grown complacent
Did they clip your wings
I marched with your Fathers
They wouldn't hear of such a thing

Why was it they suffered
If not for the chance to be free
They had their eyes on the future
Is this what they wanted to see

The cage that contains you
The latch is on the inside
Blackbird in you is the power
To take freedoms ride

Blackbird oh Blackbird
Where is your proud song
If you'll sing it again
This time we'll all sing along
Em Glass Jul 2015
at three times the speed of sound the SR-71
was so fast it didn’t need to hide, but when
I met you we were slower, metal walls covered
in black reconnaissance paint, sonar silence.

blackbird, shy

sometimes you bit your lower lip, or my
eyes drowned, and we looked down and I cursed
my stubbornly earthbound feet, but blessed
be the stars that crossed for us to meet.

blackbird, cry

under the cozy cover of quietly building-up time
we moved on. when the back of your hand
brushes my face it slowly lifts another brick
of something sturdy into place.
the way your palms get clammy with excitement
when you point out planes coming out and in,
the way your eyes light with joy and nervousness
at my reaction is how I feel when I lean over your shoulder
and point out jupiter in the sky.

blackbird, dry your eyes

the hello was slow, but goodbyes move
faster than sound. we finally found saturn
and then time ran out.
standard procedure for the SR-71
in the event of a missile lock-on
was to continue being
the fastest thing in the sky.

blackbird, fly
I'm into space lately guys
Mike Hauser Nov 2014
Blackbird oh Blackbird
Where is your proud song
I heard you sing in the sixties
Aren't you still downtrodden and all

Have you grown complacent
Did they clip your wings
I marched with your Fathers
They wouldn't hear of such a thing

Why was it they suffered
If not for the chance to be free
They had their eyes on the future
Is this what they wanted to see

The cage that contains you
The latch is on the inside
Blackbird in you is the power
To take freedoms ride

Blackbird oh Blackbird
Where is your proud song
If you'll sing it again
This time we'll all sing along
Rowan May 2019
Blackbird, blackbird, whither 'way
Don't come down this way in
Sleek sails of five and six

Hither here, two and three
Come forth and fly in
Through the broken glass

Onyx separations carve
In six wings lost to starve
May the host slight the royalty

Blackbird, blackbird, whither 'way
Don't come down this way with
Sacrificial dust from seven circling

Hither here, two and three
Come forth and fly in
Through shattered self

Onyx separations carve
In six wings to starve
May the way be paved

Blackbird, blackbird, will I?
In the serene sloughs, call
Out from the dusk, ten sails high?

Blackbird, blackbird
Come around, see my gift
And sing your song
Mike Hack Feb 2016
Blackbird was a queen
She lived in the north
She was a mad queen
Her rage stretched forth

Aye' she was mad
Filled up with hate
She started wars
Only she could dictate

She loved the smell, the sound
And the taste
Of the blood that ran thick
Up to her gates

There she stood up
Up in her tower
Black eyes glinting
“Look the people, they cower!”

Her long ebony hair
Wiped in the breeze
Her deathly white skin
Stood out from the trees
Many lusted for the queen
In all her stark glory
For non were like her
So beautiful, yet gory

But the mad queen had a secret
A secret deep down
A secret not spoken
Lest she need make them drown

This beautiful queen
Yet mad in the head
With her long black hair,
Loved her birds instead

For everywhere she went
The birds flocked around
They were always with her
Sitting upon her crown
When the queen was alone
Not another soul around
Blackbird would cry
A very ungodly sound

She was meant to have wings
To sore high in the sky
Glossy black feathers,
No wonder she cried

Long ago,
When she broke from her egg
Never had she dreamed
She’d have legs instead

A great tall castle
That so many call home
But to her, oh to her
It was no more than stone

In a great big cage she lived
With heavy bones and bare skin,
When all she wants is the sky
And her feathers back again

But no, this is her life
Ever since that day
She cawed loud at the goddess
The ugly Grafey

Mocked her she did
For her outwardly shape
Then ****** to the ground
Suffering in this state

So here she was
Gnawing at the bone
Stewing with revenge
Longing to go home

For the ugly Grafey
Lives in the world of wings
So Blackbird instead
Makes the swords sing

But all the blood
And all the tears
Gain Blackbird
Only more jeers

For though she is mad
And ruthless and savage
She stays in her tower
Away from the damage

The people gossip
Snicker and sneer
But they won’t for long
Not with her near

“Come with me my loves,”
She croons to the birds
“Let us make them scream,
And drive them into herds.”

She took then her sword
A heavy old blade
But she carried it steady
Filled with her rage

Storming down the stairs
Yelling curses all the way
Death was coming,
With it she’d have her way

Yes, death and suffering
Mauling and tearing
This is what would help her
To keep on caring

Bursting through the doors
Of her cage, no, castle
Everyone stops, nothing moved
Not but a swinging tassel

The angels up high
All began to cry
For what happens next
Made them beat on their chest

“Too long have I been in this corps!”
She screamed tearing at her flesh,
“But if I go,
I’ll make you follow.”

She charged ahead
Into the crowds
Slashing, stabbing
Making the birds proud

She killed all those people
Men and women alike
Only the children she spared
For she could no longer fight

Her beautiful hair
Was now matted and tangled
Her shock of white skin
Looked all but mangled

For the people had been stronger
Then she’d originally thought
But now there they lay
Left only to rot

“What’s that? Is that laughing?
No, you’re all dead!”
She cackled loud,
With a wariness in her head

She thought she’d feel victory
But all she felt was defeat,
This isn’t right she thought
Stumbling on her feet

She sunk down to the ground
Soaked with too much death
The sword clattered down
Somewhere off to the left

“I want to go home now,”
She whispered in a small meek voice
“Come my lovelies,
Listen to my choice.”

All her pretty birds
Different blues and blacks
They all flocked to her
Their talons digging into the cracks

“That’s it my dears,
Come give me your love.
Send me back home
To the dark skies above.”

With tender love and care
Her birds ripped her apart
She gave one last sigh,
And that was her depart.

Her birds kept on pecking
For they loved her only too well,
Blessed be the queen
The blackbird who fell.
Yenson Mar 2019
Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar moll:  You dare say you're going to organise a petition to evict us, aha, who do you think the ******
country belongs to?

ME : you are a bare-faced thief, how can you steep so low as to burgle your neighbour, after all we've done for you and your lot. From you
moed in over three years ago, there's been over twenty burglaries on the Estate. Police always at your door, your husband always in prison. I don't understand what you mean by Country belonging,
what do you mean.

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll: I know I am not black and
you can't do anything to evict us. Just watch yourself, you're going to be taught a lesson, you wait and see.

ME : Yeah! you're going to send your hoods round to beat me up or
maybe steal my four wheels like you did before, what are you gonna do, **** me! I have done nothing wrong, I am not a ****** thief!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll :  Ah! just you wait, just you wait and see. We are going to do your head in, chuck mud at you, you ****** fool. we will hound you even into the hole of any woman, we will put ants in your head, we will drive you paranoid, you black man!

ME : I am not scared of you, let me tell you that, a thief, a drunkard, a scrounger and a Racist, what a lovely human being you are. I am going to report you.

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Haha..and I am going to steal the match on you, you don't know what you and your wife are in for, we are sorting you out, sunshine!

ME : You don't need to steal a match, I'll gladly give you matches to light yourself up, I hope you and your thieving gang go up in flames!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar :  Say goodbye to your life man,
nothing is ever going to be the same anymore. You will never be able to trust anyone again from now on..haha!

ME : How rich, a bare-faced crook talking about trust, what do you know about trust, I am not a thief and as you ****** know I live a lawful and blameless life, so carry your ****** threats and go stuff it. You do not frighten me one bit, you're a mean and racist crook!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Somebody is in for the jump and its not me. Soon, somebody will wish they were dead and it's not me either, that's all I'm saying, man!

ME : Yeah, go get your gang, come and **** me, you can see I am shaking and trembling already. Hopefully, we all on this Estate will be rid of you and all the undesirables you bring here, we are fed up of you all!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Ha..! all I'm saying is, Bye bye Blackbird, bye-bye Blackbird....haha, Gangster departs singing,
Bye-bye Blackbird, bye-bye Blackbird....hahaha...hahaha,,bye-bye
If you want to drive someone paranoid, do not tell them w1hat you are going to do, better still, do not live the sort of life where you'll need to drive another blameless innocent human paranoid..
Unfaithful Feb 2017
Far away over the clouds
blackbird flies high in the sky
It dives through the air
as fast as it can
And suddenly hits the ground

As I watch it my time stops
And I cant feel a thing
Then I recollect everything
When you whispered in my ear
And how we used to dance

I give one tier to the blackbird
So beautiful she was
Just for a moment ago
So small and pure
But next you know
She's gone

Like every happy moments in my life
Too quickly swiped away
How much light is there left anyway

I walk towards to the blackbird
And I see her lying at the ground
I reach down to help her
And I gently rise her from the grass
I lay her on the stone next to the river
Where I go to wash my hands

I look at my reflection on the water
So much has changed
Could I've done something different
Or was it all meant to happen
I ask
And then I hesitate
Better not to know
I can't change my past
So just let it go

I start digging the pit
Where I'll put the blackbird
On her final rest
I take a brief break
And let the last shout to the sky
I give another tier for the blackbird
And I open my eyes

Now she is standing on the stone
And she sings for me
I give my hand to her
And she grabs on it

How can it be
How is she alive
But she's not She is just in my mind

K'cia Natalie May 2015
The reason my thoughts don't follow me home.
The reason my feelings remain unknown.
When I try to think,
My heart starts to sink.
This blackbird won't leave me alone.

This blackbird won't get left behind.
It hits me with no warning signs.
It endlessly haunts me.
It tweets and it taunts me.
My life is stuck in rewind.

This blackbird sits and pecks at my bones.
The remorse it feels may never be shown.
It pecks at my hips.
It kisses my lips.
This blackbird won't leave me alone.
Charlie Fanning Apr 2020
Let the blackbird out you can't write
No more, so I let him stay there
Let the blackbird fly just to lose
Everything once again
Drown him in whiskey and smoke
To delay inevitable as
He cant be quiet as he follows
From a string as you keep ignoring him
I am too smart for him as I take
Another drink of naivety

There is a blackbird I wont let out
As he murmurs under my breath'
There is an angel which cries life
As the devil cries death

Let the blackbird see every blue moon
Once in a while
See the bundle of burdens shout
And scream as this is just a feeling
But I'm to smart so I wont let them see

I can't, until the blackbird
Shouts and screams
Then this gift of life
Turns into a shallow dream
Why am I so dif-fer-ent?
They say I’m out of touch.
Why am I, ple-nar-ily sad?
This life it hurts so much.
And why do they come, come every day?
Shush, quiet now, they’re here.
Those awful tormentors of my soul all cackling and queer!
Whirling head of spinning revolutions,
…feel my stomach ache and pang.
Why will they not leave me alone?
This crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.

I shouldn’t always feel like this, feel such solemn pain,
…troubling and trouble is these birds are driving me insane!
I’m screaming now! I’m mad with rage! Throwing ice cubes at my deck,
“Go away! Yes, go away!” -their numbers must be kept in check.
Blackhole-whirl, flying twirling darkness, their funnel it points to me-e-e-e-!
For too many is too painful and my mind’s a constant wreck!
One cannot think with those infernal be-e-e-asts,
...and the crazy song they sang.
Why do they so punish me?
The crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.

I know they serve the Saturn’s wheel and now they’ve come for me.
What did I do? Oh what great sin, oh the blackbirds from within;

The Abyssimal Sea?

Their whirlpool funnel is all around, as my harried soul, it expiates.
I’m done-in; I’m over now, a sorely victim of the Fates!
They took me, took me away, when the tolling bell it rang.
Why could they not leave me alone?
The crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.

If you find yourself all alone and mired in their thought,
…do not think, extirpate, all the human damage that you’ve wrought.
His flock of fledgling melancholy musical formation,
…will take you away and straight to Hell; the Seventh Circle congregation!
For they took me, took me away, when the tolling bell it rang.
And they will not leave you alone.
This crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.
The primary reason I came to Hello Poetry is that every single publishing house I could find on the internet rejected every poem I sent them. Since my work is deemed to be worth nothing I gave it all to you for free. It seems that in a digital world where people can share this easily there will always be more content available for free than for a fee. One would think publishers would know this. I have seen some seriously good poetry here and some pieces that are extraordinary.
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
Today a blackbird gave me inspiration.
It floated casually towards the ledge.
Inches away, only a thin piece of glass between us.
It stared, looked me in the eyes,
Opened my soul with its piercing eyes.
Gouged away until it found some real meaning inside.
Twitched, no, that wasn’t a twitch,
It was a motion, a signal,
A glorious method of communication –
No pigeon could mimic that!
It ushered my eyes towards the beauty of the lake,
And away from its black and grey and blue
And (I’m sure many other coloured) body.
My eyes were dragged from this beautiful, overweight creature
To the forever-moving, forever-living lake,
Then to the fountain.
Six shoots of white water kept the sky where it belongs.
They held it – of course! The sky!
The blackbird had given me light.
The sky was alive, the clouds were rolling,
The sun was breaking through,
And as I re-adjusted my eyes to thank him,
The blackbird leapt from his perch,
Cawed a “you’re welcome”
And soared towards heaven.
Denel Kessler Mar 2016
shadow death
the spiraling

silent over
once vital beehive
shorn gray
paper thin

raw honey
in the merciless

the suffering
concentration-camp thin
jutting bone
slack skin

the boundless light
of a shield
wrought from

these golden
futile gestures
they are not
infinitesimal grains

with beaded sight
*do not avert
your eyes
Xilhouette Jan 2016
Precious blackbird;
Please utter not a word
But please sing to me again
Under this moonlight, with my pen

Blackbird! Blackbird! Oh so sweet!
Let me stand again on my own feet
And while you take your grand encore,
Here I am begging for more!
© 2011 Xilhouette
JV Beaupre May 2016
       In a field, pecking corn;
       At a pond, drinking;
       At dawn, stretching;
       At sunset, disappearing;
       Chasing dinner, a bug.

       In flight, bringing the storm;
       Circling my house, waiting;
       Over sea, with the wind;
       Spiraling up, diving down;
       Quoting Poe, nevermore, nevermore;
       At the window, knocking;
       Bringing omens of trouble.

Message delivered:
Blackbird in a tree, observing me.
After Wallace Stevens, "Thirteen Ways of Viewing a Blackbird"
Alissa Rogers May 2012
Stepping out into the yard,
my curvéd bow strung tight.
Thereupon my driveway,
three blackbirds share the light.
The moment is opportune,
it must be now, do or die.
I've got thoughts of my belly
filled with hearty blackbird pie.
"What did they ever do to you?
They're not a threat in the least."
Yet should I die in my own yard,
they'd pick me for the feast.
It's really a poem to amuse myself more than anything.
The blackbird’s footprints seemed to trace
A footpath to the resting place;
Through the bright new layer of snow
They led the way, showed where to go.

They laid your baby in the ground
A tiny heart that made no sound;
I scattered earth and shed a tear
Scared and lonely, wracked with fear.

For two weeks before we’d tied your hair
With a band from mine as you lay aware;
Things would never be the same
A tiny being would have no name.

I never saw you cry that day
So I hid my sadness as I walked away;
I saw the blackbird that day too
Wise eyes watching, I think he knew.

The year is new, joy may it bring
As Winter changes into Spring;
And when dragonflies dart in the sun
I’ll  think about your little one.
Sally A Bayan Jan 2017

pale sky weeps stead'ly,
frozen tears soundlessly fall
white blanket...rises...

lone red-winged blackbird,
flies through dropping snow...eyes roam
.............towards kitchen eave...

blackbird finds shelter
whisks snowflakes off its body,
roosts..........and folds its wings...

a lone soul watches blackbird settles in
hot brew warms the soul...

(Dec. 17, 2016)


Copyright December 17, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Samantha Dias Dec 2011
Imaginary blackbirds flitting to and fro
In my mind, the only place for my made up blackbirds to go.
Imaginary blackbird wings flutt’ring in my brain
Tell me vivid dream, why dost thou choose a blackbird here to feign?
SøułSurvivør Aug 2020

Color me be a cymbal
Let me be a gong
Color me Coyote brown
Let me limp along
Color up my faltering voice
Let it come out wrong
Color me a blackbird
A deep & moody song.

Color me a minstrel
Let me be a knave
Color me a sinner
Who is yet unsaved
Color me a'weeping
Let tears come in waves
Color me a raven
Perched above a grave.

Color me a cloudy day
Color me the rain
Color me a carousel
That ol' circle game
Let me be a priest of straw
Let me see bloodstains
On songwritten pages
On my Christian name.

Color me a kite in flight!
Color up the strings!
Color me an angel
A rusty golden thing!
Color me a blackbird
Cuz, man, those birds can SING!!
Yes, even a blackbird has
Red & yellow on its wings...


by Catherine Jarvis
Dedicated to Joni Mitchell.
As anyone who has followed my work knows, Joni Mitchell is one of my muses. This poem is about me attempting to emulate her. That must make God laugh!
Jamie Nov 2016
As bluebird sings through springs cool chill
the blackbird watches ever still
as golden wings of dawn do rise
to meet the mountain's sleepy eyes

Blinking as they shift their heads
and shake the pebbles from their beds
amongst the sunlight's golden rays
the blackbird sings the bluebird's phrase

Through wooded hills that gently swallow
every cranny, every hollow
dark within night's baleful gaze
the mountain's whisper poisoned praise

To stars above they speak at night
far away, entwined with light
watching down from velvet skies
with glaring gaze from soulless eyes

As on the lake does moonlight gleam
a harsher glow, a silver sheen
of longing as the blackbird sings
and flies away on darkened wings
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
As a woman, and in the service of my Lord the Emperor Wu, my life is governed by his command. At twenty I was summoned to this life at court and have made of it what I can, within the limitations of the courtesan I am supposed to be, and the poet I have now become. Unlike my male counterparts, some of whom have lately found seclusion in the wilderness of rivers and mountains, I have only my personal court of three rooms and its tiny garden and ornamental pond. But I live close to the surrounding walls of the Zu-lin Gardens with its astronomical observatories and bold attempts at recreating illusions of celebrated locations in the Tai mountains. There, walking with my cat Xi-Lu in the afternoons, I imagine a solitary life, a life suffused with the emptiness I crave.
In the hot, dry summer days my maid Mei-Lim and I have sought a temporary retreat in the pine forests above Lingzhi. Carried in a litter up the mountain paths we are left in a commodious hut, its open walls making those simple pleasures of drinking, eating and sleeping more acute, intense. For a few precious days I rest and meditate, breathe the mountain air and the resinous scents of the trees. I escape the daily commerce of the court and belong to a world that for the rest of the year I have to imagine, the world of the recluse. To gain the status of the recluse, open to my male counterparts, is forbidden to women of the court. I am woman first, a poet and calligrapher second. My brother, should he so wish, could present a petition to revoke his position as a man of letters, an official commentator on the affairs of state. But he is not so inclined. He has already achieved notoriety and influence through his writing on the social conditions of town and city. He revels in a world of chatter, gossip and intrigue; he appears to fear the wilderness life.  
I must be thankful that my own life is maintained on the periphery. I am physically distant from the hub of daily ceremonial. I only participate at my Lord’s express command. I regularly feign illness and fatigue to avoid petty conflict and difficulty. Yet I receive commissions I cannot waver: to honour a departed official; to celebrate a son’s birth to the Second Wife; to fulfil in verse my Lord’s curious need to know about the intimate sorrows of his young concubines, their loneliness and heartache.
Occasionally a Rhapsody is requested for an important visitor. The Emperor Wu is proud to present as welcome gifts such poetic creations executed in fine calligraphy, and from a woman of his court. Surely a sign of enlightment and progress he boasts! Yet in these creations my observations are parochial: early morning frost on the cabbage leaves in my garden; the sound of geese on their late afternoon flight to Star Lake; the disposition of the heavens on an Autumn night. I live by the Tao of Lao-Tzu, perceiving the whole world from my doorstep.
But I long for the reclusive life, to leave this court for my family’s estate in the valley my peasant mother lived as a child. At fourteen she was chosen to sustain the Emperor’s annual wish for young girls to be groomed for concubinage. Like her daughter she is tall, though not as plain as I; she put her past behind her and conceded her adolescence to the training required by the court. At twenty she was recommended to my father, the court archivist, as second wife. When she first met this quiet, dedicated man on the day before her marriage she closed her eyes in blessing. My father taught her the arts of the library and schooled her well. From her I have received keen eyes of jade green and a prestigious memory, a memory developed she said from my father’s joy of reading to her in their private hours, and before she could read herself. Each morning he would examine her to discover what she had remembered of the text read the night before. When I was a little child she would quote to me the Confucian texts on which she had been ****** schooled, and she then would tell me of her childhood home. She primed my imagination and my poetic world with descriptions of a domestic rural life.
Sometimes in the arms of my Lord I have freely rhapsodized in chusi metre these delicate word paintings of my mother’s home. She would say ‘We will walk now to the ruined tower beside the lake. Listen to the carolling birds. As the sparse clouds move across the sky the warm sun strokes the winter grass. Across the deep lake the forests are empty. Now we are climbing the narrow steps to the platform from which you and I will look towards the sun setting in the west. See the shadows are lengthening and the air becomes colder. The blackbird’s solitary song heralds the evening.  Look, an owl glides silently beneath us.’
My Lord will then quote from Hsieh Ling-yun,.
‘I meet sky, unable to soar among clouds,
face a lake, call those depths beyond me.’
And I will match this quotation, as he will expect.
‘Too simple-minded to perfect Integrity,
and too feeble to plough fields in seclusion.’
He will then gaze into my eyes in wonder that this obscure poem rests in my memory and that I will decode the minimal grammar of these early characters with such poetry. His characters: Sky – Bird – Cloud – Lake – Depth. My characters: Fool – Truth – Child – Winter field – Isolation.
Our combined invention seems to take him out of his Emperor-self. He is for a while the poet-scholar-sage he imagines he would like to be, and I his foot-sore companion following his wilderness journey. And then we turn our attention to our bodies, and I surprise him with my admonitions to gentleness, to patience, to arousing my pleasure. After such poetry he is all pleasure, sensitive to the slightest touch, and I have my pleasure in knowing I can control this powerful man with words and the stroke of my fingertips rather than by delicate youthful beauty or the guile and perverse ingenuity of an ****** act. He is still learning to recognise the nature and particularness of my desires. I am not as his other women: who confuse pleasure with pain.
Thoughts of my mother. Without my dear father, dead ten years, she is a boat without a rudder sailing on a distant lake. She greets each day as a gift she must honour with good humour despite the pain of her limbs, the difficulty of walking, of sitting, of eating, even talking. Such is the hurt that governs her ageing. She has always understood that my position has forbidden marriage and children, though the latter might be a possibility I have not wished it and made it known to my Lord that it must not be. My mother remains in limbo, neither son or daughter seeking to further her lineage, she has returned to her sister’s home in the distant village of her birth, a thatched house of twenty rooms,
‘Elms and willows shading the eaves at the back,
and, in front,  peach and plum spread wide.
Villages lost across mist-haze distances,
Kitchen smoke drifting wide-open country,
Dogs bark deep among the back roads out here
And cockerels crow from mulberry treetops.
My esteemed colleague T’ao Ch’ien made this poetry. After a distinguished career in government service he returned to the life of a recluse-farmer on his family farm. Living alone in a three-roomed hut he lives out his life as a recluse and has endured considerable poverty. One poem I know tells of him begging for food. His world is fields-and-gardens in contrast to Hsieh Ling-yin who is rivers-and-mountains. Ch’ien’s commitment to the recluse life has brought forth words that confront death and the reality of human experience without delusion.
‘At home here in what lasts, I wait out life.’
Thus my mother waits out her life, frail, crumbling more with each turning year.
To live beyond the need to organise daily commitments due to others, to step out into my garden and only consider the dew glistening on the loropetalum. My mind is forever full of what is to be done, what must be completed, what has to be said to this visitor who will today come to my court at the Wu hour. Only at my desk does this incessant chattering in the mind cease, as I move my brush to shape a character, or as the needle enters the cloth, all is stilled, the world retreats; there is the inner silence I crave.
I long to see with my own eyes those scenes my mother painted for me with her words. I only know them in my mind’s eye having travelled so little these past fifteen years. I look out from this still dark room onto my small garden to see the morning gathering its light above the rooftops. My camellia bush is in flower though a thin frost covers the garden stones.
And so I must imagine how it might be, how I might live the recluse life. How much can I jettison? These fine clothes, this silken nightgown beneath the furs I wrap myself in against the early morning air. My maid is sleeping. Who will make my tea? Minister to me when I take to my bed? What would become of my cat, my books, the choice-haired brushes? Like T’ao Ch’ien could I leave the court wearing a single robe and with one bag over my shoulders? Could I walk for ten days into the mountains? I would disguise myself as a man perhaps. I am tall for a woman, and though my body flows in broad curves there are ways this might be assuaged, enough perhaps to survive unmolested on the road.
Such dreams! My Lord would see me returned within hours and send a servant to remain at my gate thereafter. I will compose a rhapsody about a concubine of standing, who has even occupied the purple chamber, but now seeks to relinquish her privileged life, who coverts the uncertainty of nature, who would endure pain and privation in a hut on some distant mountain, who will sleep on a mat on its earth floor. Perhaps this will excite my Lord, light a fire in his imagination. As though in preparation for this task I remove my furs, I loose the knot of my silk gown. Naked, I reach for an old under shift letting it fall around my still-slender body and imagine myself tying the lacings myself in the open air, imagine making my toilet alone as the sun appears from behind a distant mountain on a new day. My mind occupies itself with the tiny detail of living thus: bare feet on cold earth, a walk to nearby stream, the gathering of berries and mountain herbs, the making of fire, the washing of my few clothes, imagining. Imagining. To live alone will see every moment filled with the tasks of keeping alive. I will become in tune with my surroundings. I will take only what I need and rely on no one. Dreaming will end and reality will be the slug on my mat, the bone-chilling incessant mists of winter, the thorn in the foot, the wild winds of autumn. My hands will become stained and rough, my long limbs tanned and scratched, my delicate complexion freckled and wind-pocked, my hair tied roughly back. I will become an animal foraging on a dank hillside. Such thoughts fill me with deep longing and a ****** desire to be tzu-jan  - with what surrounds me, ablaze with ****** self.
It is not thought the custom of a woman to hold such desires. We are creatures of order and comfort. We do not live on the edge of things, but crave security and well-being. We learn to endure the privations of being at the behest of others. Husbands, children, lovers, our relatives take our bodies to them as places of comfort, rest and desire. We work at maintaining an ordered flow of existence. Whatever our station, mistress or servant we compliment, we keep things in order, whether that is the common hearth or the accounts of our husband’s court. Now my rhapsody begins:
A Rhapsody on a woman wishing to live as a recluse
As a lady of my Emperor’s court I am bound in service.
My court is not my own, I have the barest of means.
My rooms are full of gifts I am forced barter for bread.
Though the artefacts of my hands and mind
Are valued and widely renown,
Their commissioning is an expectation of my station,
With no direct reward attached.
To dress appropriately for my Lord’s convocations and assemblies
I am forced to negotiate with chamberlains and treasurers.
A bolt of silk, gold thread, the services of a needlewoman
Require formal entreaties and may lie dormant for weeks
Before acknowledgement and release.
I was chosen for my literary skills, my prestigious memory,
Not for my ****** beauty, though I have been called
‘Lady of the most gracious movement’ and
My speaking voice has clarity and is capable of many colours.
I sing, but plainly and without passion
Lest I interfere with the truth of music’s message.
Since I was a child in my father’s library
I have sought out the works of those whose words
Paint visions of a world that as a woman
I may never see, the world of the wilderness,
Of rivers and mountains,
Of fields and gardens.
Yet I am denied by my *** and my station
To experience passing amongst these wonders
Except as contrived imitations in the palace gardens.
Each day I struggle to tease from the small corner
Of my enclosed eye-space some enrichment
Some elemental thing to colour meaning:
To extend the bounds of my home
Across the walls of this palace
Into the world beyond.
I have let it be known that I welcome interviews
With officials from distant courts to hear of their journeying,
To gather word images if only at second-hand.
Only yesterday an emissary recounted
His travels to Stone Lake in the far South-West,
Beyond the gorges of the Yang-tze.
With his eyes I have seen the mountains of Suchan:
With his ears I have heard the oars crackling
Like shattering jade in the freezing water.
Images and sounds from a thousand miles
Of travel are extract from this man’s memory.
Such a sharing of experience leaves me
Excited but dismayed: that I shall never
Visit this vast expanse of water and hear
Its wild cranes sing from their floating nests
In the summer moonlight.
I seek to disappear into a distant landscape
Where the self and its constructions of the world may
Dissolve away until nothing remains but the no-mind.
My thoughts are full of the practicalities of journeying
Of an imagined location, that lonely place
Where I may be at one with myself.
Where I may delight in the everyday Way,
Myself among mist and vine, rock and cave.
Not this lady of many parts and purposes whose poems must
Speak of lives, sorrow and joy, pleasure and pain
Set amongst personal conflict and intrigue
That in containing these things, bring order to disorder;
Salve the conscience, bathe hurt, soothe sleight.
Bunhead17 Aug 2016
I'm a prisoner in my own city
with invisble handcuffs
and a target on me
no matter what choices I make
you'll still never let me be free
I just wanna fly
but everytime I try
you shoot me down
because the sky was meant for the birds
but don't you see,
i'm a bird too
so why won't you just let me be
Inspired by maya angelou ♡
It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.

You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.

A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history's overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.
in 2004, i was having weird delusions of me being left at the bottom of a volcano as a baby

which was a load of hogswollop,, because what really happened, in 1849, i finally entered

athena’s life as martha eleanora holiday who was born and died before the dentist doc holiday, who was athena

god of thunder, who later got a job as a dentist in st louis, but the protection of athena

over cronus, who is me 6 months after martha’s birth she died, so she can never meet athena on earth

she became a beautiful black bird from the year 1851 to 1855 and was shot by a poacher and laid to rest

and afterwards athena brought my soul away from america where doc holiday, who was athena

was battling to be a dentist and me, i was given protection from the old west, to become a aussie football star

in victoria and south australia, and i was left distraught because the holidays really loved me, and wanted

never to lose me, and the fact that athena was stopping itself from meeting cronus before blades of grass has been sewed

well, it could cause problems with the aura of the world, as i said, i need to know who athena is, because i am poor and mentally ill

and i had delusions of a young man who was doc holiday coming into my head, and yes doc was a bird lover and took my hand

when i was a blackbird and doc felt a bond between bird and man, as he held my hand, i know i was doing a play about a bird but

despite my weight problem, i did that very well, well, anyway athena got a poacher to **** me as a blackbird and force the city the holiday’s lived in

into complete chaos, what cronus was saying to athena through their earth bodies, we must save the world together and doc was really

starting to have a good school life becoming a dentist while the blackbird flew away to australia, where cronus became albert waldron

with a nick name of topsy, yopu see when doc explained this to his parents, they just said, visions of blackbirds in the air is very nice

mind you, i need to rid all of my delusions because at present the world is in the terrorist war and we are suffering from severe storms

but no matter how hard athena and cronus are working trying to save the world, it goes back to the 1850s in georgia, where doc was

a bird lover and i was a blackbird, who was looking out for her previous life’s younger brother and then athena forced a poacher to rid cronus

from the USA, in the days of the social media, you have to be careful in bringing crobus to athena, but at the end of the day, everyone dies

and caleb logan who was a star on youtube, died to get away from the world where cronus owns, you see caleb has been reborn, athena has been reborn

premature but safe, so athena and cronus can save the world by mending every blade of grass, that means peter sargent was athena,

yeah life wasn’t good back then, you see athena wants more people to protect their teeth and cronus has dentures, well, cronus is helping  the world

from the bottom, and athena is pushing herself down to help cronus

doc holiday is athena

martha holiday and the black bird and albert waldron is cronus

i am cronus, i as well as athena have been put on this earth to save the world
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
nivek May 2014
Blackbird sings a melody
into the eve of Sunday
summers reign
Jan Noah Tan Feb 2015
her voice whispers a calm breathe
a piece of her flickers another forever
i thought nobody would understand
well, she did.

- she did

i thought nobody would understand
well, she smiled

— The End —