So forth went the cardinal,
who from her tree perch had wondered
why her colors were of the earth
and not the magnificent sunset.
Others around her had bore
the brilliant crimson, yet she’d remained
as she had always been:
dull as the branches of home.
Thus went the cardinal,
who in the limitless sky soon discovered:
the music that beckoned her forward
was eternally blind.
There’s a bird perched on a tree high above me
Singing is what he does best.
As he’s singing, I try to sing along
And I’m waiting for affirmation
I’m wanting to know
If I’m singing this song right,
Or if I’m singing it wrong.
It’s his song, not mine
& he’ll sing it all he wants to.
The bird has taken off, and I’m chasing him,
I am running so fast and so far
I’ve finally found him.
He was tired of the buckeye tree
So he perched himself on a Cactus.
I asked him, “What’s so special about a cactus?
Come back to the Buckeye Tree!”
But the bird just started singing his song again.
So I sing with him.
Now I have a new song that I want to show him.
I want him to sing my song with me.
So I started singing it,
But he’s not singing along,
Just his own song.
The seasons have just changed.
His feet are sore from that thorny Cactus
& he’s about to take flight again.
Maybe now he’ll want the buckeye tree
So he’ll be at home with me.
There he goes, he’s flying away!
So I’m running as fast as I can
I’m trying to catch up
But this isn’t the way
This is isn’t the way I remember,
The way to the Buckeye tree.
The bird is perched on a Palm tree.
I am tired, weary, and out of breath.
“A Palm tree! Why a Palm tree?
You are a Cardinal!
What did you fly away for anyway?
Come back to the Buckeye tree!
Be at home with me.”
The bird just began singing his song.
I am done trying to sing along.
It’s his song, not mine.
"In the grave, whither thou goest."
O weary Champion of the Cross, lie still:
Sleep thou at length the all-embracing sleep:
Long was thy sowing day, rest now and reap:
Thy fast was long, feast now thy spirit's fill.
Yea, take thy fill of love, because thy will
Chose love not in the shallows but the deep:
Thy tides were springtides, set against the neap
Of calmer souls: thy flood rebuked their rill.
Now night has come to thee--please God, of rest:
So some time must it come to every man;
To first and last, where many last are first.
Now fixed and finished thine eternal plan,
Thy best has done its best, thy worst its worst:
Thy best its best, please God, thy best its best.
the numerical elements
in a sea of
so vivid and uniform
the parade of bishops look like
a stream of hot lava
pouring their way down
the mountainside to the pope
delivering its message on
wings so sharp, jagged
cutting through the blue sky
fundamental to the core
of the earth, of the heavens
a flash of red
in verdant trees
within its leaves!
the telltale call
and flirt of tail
in the plain
touches the pair
to bless my
The cardinals feathers are rich in blood.
His family used to be affluent because
they used to have the highest perch.
Now there's poverty behind his mask.
He lost everything to a wood pecker
He hunts for provisions, when the whole
neighborhood isn't looking. The dawn
used to guide his beak. Now he scratches
at the icy snow for seeds. His wife wearing
brown has lost the fairytale meaning of life.
He once promised her a gown of blood.
Their nest pricks just like thorns. Her feet
sweeps the snow away. She moves with
the energy of a carol. The wind shoves
the nest into flight. While gravity has
other plans. The sky shoots snow like
Her wings cut through the
river like oars. All the eggs are speckled
with their yoke. The crash frees them
from the toils of the future. Their mother
hides the shells from the sharp cold. Her
husband wasn't as sharp as the tuft on his head.
Her husband gambled with winter and lost.
sounds of the engorged worm’s lumbering steps,
they pierce not so stinging as the golden glow of orbs outside your window.
Quietude will find no home here.
neither will that longed-for sense.
what we want,
the ‘soul sleep,’
further still, and away from finger tips,
gently rest me in myself,
to sweetly mine the interiors of subterranean caverns,
within which, we held exiled domain for millennia before we were men.
You’re dreaming again, and it’s love at first sight. You’re walking home and it’s love at first sight and if you could only taste him your heart would explode. You’d burn from the inside out. Every nerve writhing in explicit ecstasy, a thousand tiny deaths over and over, and as your feel your lungs expand you are attuned to this earth, you feel every atom brush against your throat. He’s like a poison, he’s like pinot noir, he’s like orange crush and it burns when he takes hold of you. You’re walking home and it’s snowing but your eyelashes are blocking it out so all you see is him. You’re walking home and it’s cold but you’re burning from the inside out. You’re walking home and your legs can’t hold you anymore. You’re walking home and you start to fall, but not in love, and no one's there to catch you, no one even sees you stumble over your own words and fall without moving your feet or walk without hitting the ground. Just shadows in the snow banks, witnesses to your frailty.
the sweet aroma
around your neck
A fear of the fallen under
starts to grow
Need to take cover under
a black eye crow
your mountainous cup
cusp the silhouette
filling it up
rust of the sun
licking the salt
liver and all
I'm ruffling exhaust
burnt in the leather