"waxwing" poems
Winged migration
to flee from migraine
irritations:
I was the shadow
of the waxwing slain,
flung and flew through
wire flues on the roofs
To be some happier
glove, not on hand
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
True love is:
A waxwing bird feeding
A cuckoo who was left in her nest
The starving cuckoo is pleading
The waxwing is doing her best.
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
"I was the shadow of the waxwing slain"
said once a clever voice
I now am caught by words repeated
and sit
and stare
and do not dare to move
when I should do
As if I had a choice!
Or do I?
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 6:43 AM UTC
The poster read:
“Gone Missing”
The come-back-kid
has failed to show.
The Old Man saw him,
******* by the Rainbow Factory
wall, against the wind,
like a prayer no longer given
to the prism-surfing life.
He said,
“The come-back-kid, might
Not come back”..
He wrung his
swindled heathen, left
with haversack and Macintosh,
hummed ballad in a Sea-King crown,
the colloquy of shepherd lore.
head far too full to sing,
Caught riding
in a burnt out car of
rude December archetypes,
an engine feathered Westerling,
to think.
He went
to where they bury boats,
Where mud larks perk
for potsherd farthings,
red-shanked in the gallon slob
oblivious...
Far off the Ness
He’ll watch them go..
... on meteoric dawn patrols,
a contrast to his built-in
obsolescence.
In provinces
of platitude
He’ll form no evanescent tie,
invoke his tattooed waxwing
back against their lactic
saccharine, to beg
the notion die...
But leavened light may carry,
A bold ceramic dialect
that skitters off
the short-sun marsh
dissipates in linnet banter
winnowed from the winter barley
crossing out the county lines..
The come-back-kid
will not return,
a blue-eyed, fell, Promethean.
Disfigured by the absolute
He’ll beat his way
unrecognised.
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 12:30 PM UTC
I am a waxwing
feathered in snow
fat on juniper
with a wingspan 6 months long in either direction.
I sing the hollow bone electric
above the din of coyote
wolf pack on the hunt
... winter's whispers to bare branches.
there's no sun to sing to.
there never has been.
I will take flight, I will find it
6 months long
in either direction.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC