THE ONLY WAY OF LOOKING AT A BIRD

( "...it is an astonishment to be alive, and it behoves you to be astonished..." John Donne )

she looked at the bird
with all of her self
as if by some alchemy

of thought
she flew into
its shape

as it became the air
her mind opening
its wings to the sky

the house now
a little blue egg
far far below her

her voice curving
into a beak
that flung its being

into the song
of self
scrawled across a sky

becoming sunset
so that becoming
human again

was a grief
that could only be
expressed in birdsong


*


My little one being astonished when a bird came and stood beside her as just another friendly being. They both stood there looking at each other and then the bird flew away and her mind flew away after it.

I used to lay with my mother in the morning
my brother and I
half asleep in my parents bed
I remember taking her hands into mine and
feeling her knuckles
she had a green pillow
sewed in with flowers
even at 5 years old - the hands that raised me
were mesmerizing, they were my safety
I did not realize it at the time
she was tired
and their bed was monumental
it was what I looked forward too every night
as my father sang me to sleep
100 bottles of beer on the wall
and ill buy you a mockingbird
I looked forward to the morning

I held my brother
In his zoo pajamas painted with pandas
and I held my brother
as fast as the sunlight radiated in my bedroom, he was small and he was and is -
my safe haven
my brother snuggled up against my neck
and she held us, half asleep
and morning doves sang their songs

—-

that is now my lullaby
nothing mattered as I held my mothers knuckles
nothing mattered when my brother
squeezed my arm
I was never afraid of my mothers knuckles
I was never afraid of my father singing
I was never afraid of my brothers grip


I woke up this morning in my own bed
alone and tired
morning doves did not sing
they screamed
and my brother is still far
and my father is taking care of my mother
and my mother is taking care of my father
I woke up —- and my brother is far away
my father is growing older
and my mothers knuckles are nowhere near me
I ran my fingers across my
own hands
and I pray that one day

my knuckles will be remembered
the way I remember hers

Strip into segments the colours of life
At the birth of my sons, loving my wife,
Like the moment of truth when, whilst shivering clear,
I went eyeball to eyeball with that, which I fear.
Like the time when the engine went dead in the plane
And I ditched in the pines to confirm the insane.

When my Father collapsed and died in my arms
And childhood departed with God and his Psalms.
When I first kissed a girl’s soft velvety lips
And felt, the wild rapture of hands on her hips.
Discovered ripe apricots fresh from the tree
Taste sweeter than nectar collected by bee.

Felt the presence of death compellingly near
Though the body was wracked, the thinking was fear.
Climbed impossible peaks that I dreamt I perceived
To weep the hot tears of a life’s goal achieved.
Laughed loud and long with the wind in my hair
Yet wept when an enemy lost to despair.

Pondered the mystery of what’s round the bend
Concluded beginnings are part of the end.
Compiling the rules to maintain my space
Lie in keeping the oddballs out of my face.
Clasping friends, so few, to my breast
Embracing the true and to hell with the rest.

Committing my time to my one darling wife
And thanking the Gods for this colourful life!


Marshalg
Sitting in the long summer grasses
3 December 2012

In shadows deep where moonlight wanes,
Where whispers dance in eerie strains,
There prowls a creature of the night,
With eyes aglow, a chilling sight.

Amongst the hibiscus, crimson blooms,
Their petals soaked in midnight gloom,
A vampire lurks, his thirst unbound,
In silence, stalking without a sound.

He yearns for blood, a crimson stream,
A haunting echo, a silent scream,
And in the garden, where hibiscus weep,
His hunger stirs from slumber's keep.

Yet amidst the darkness, a delicate grace,
The hibiscus blooms, a fragile embrace,
Their beauty rivals the moon's soft glow,
A stark contrast to the vampire's woe.

For in their petals, life's essence lies,
A crimson hue beneath starlit skies,
But to the vampire, they hold no cure,
Just reminders of what he must endure.

So in the night, where shadows creep,
The vampire hunts, his hunger deep,
And though the hibiscus may wilt and fade,
Their beauty lingers in the darkness, unswayed.

© fey (24/04/24)

I suppose I'll be in a Nursing Home one day
  drooling all over myself
And still plotting revenge on this world for
  having wronged me so,
Or maybe I might just be dozing, probably
  having another nightmare
I might find myself on a train somewhere and the conductor he suddenly
  announces
"Next stop Dementia City
After that it's Alzheimersville"
I'll awake with a start
And then...then I'll see her... this beautiful
  vision just walking in
Elderly like myself but still so ladylike
Still so lithe and graceful
I'll tell my Nurse to quickly get my false teeth
And my good wig
And my walking frame
And to give me a couple of those heart tablets
I'd think to myself "I knew she'd come... one
  day"
It'd be one last chance for Love... one last dash for Love.

So moving slowly but determinedly across
  the floor toward her
I'd probably get a pain midway
And then keel over
She'd not see me, she'd have her back turned
  to me
The Nurses they'd be showing her to her
  room
She'd be walking away
I'd try to call out but the words they'd get all
  garbled and stuck in my throat
I'd try to reach out to her... reach out like
  she's some mirage in the desert
My last gasp... my last gasp for Love
But...too late...
Too late, the Hero.

My road, with the dawn of a beautiful golden sun, took me to a little rural Taranaki town called Opunaki.
There my bride and I took part in an emotional, short ANZAC Day ceremony....where in an ancient clifftop cemetary, against the backdrop of a raging ocean surf, thirty souls and two dogs remembered the troopers who sacrificed for their country in two great world wars.
The New Zealand flag flew hard and the words of the old Priest were lost in the gale... but the tears ran freely down every cheek as the little transistor radio played the military horn's Last Post at full volume.

It was a slice of old Taranaki and a comemoration of the ANZAC DAY of years gone by.

LEST WE FORGET
April 25 2024