Category Archives: Poetry

Songbird-A Song About a Singer

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Mountain Bluebird picture by Elaine R. Wilson on naturespicsonline.com shared under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5

You flew onto the gilded stage where all the world could see
And found it was another cage, locked without a key
A pretty bird to sing a song amid the smoky air
Trapped by the expectations of the ones who put you there
 
They come together every night to hear your voice and see
The songbird’s songs of love and pain in haunted melody
Hearing songs that take them to the springtime of their life
Living through your melodies your joy and pain and strife

I don’t know how you wove your soul into the lyrics of a song
I don’t know how to make right the words that came out wrong
I just know I love you and it breaks my heart to see
You flying up against the walls trying to break free
 
What happens to the songbird when she’s lost her will to sing
When she sits inside her golden cage because we clipped her wings
When her brightly colored feathers slowly fade to a dull grey
And the crowds that used to flock to her no longer come her way
 
They’ll find another songbird to put up on that stage
A beauty to remind them of when they were her age
But I’ll still love the songbird and I’ll try to set her free
But we broke her heart and broke her will for all eternity
 
Someone broke our songbird and she lost her drive to fly
Above where we mere mortal dwell, to dare her native sky
A fallen star or fallen angel cast upon the clay
I watched the rise, I watched the fall, now songbird fly away
I watched you rise, I watched you fall,
Please songbird fly away

New Growth

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Vincent Van Gogh, Tree Roots, (1890)

 

Water washes away the sins of the night, pushing them downward to the gutters
Running back through the storm sewers and into the rivers and eventually into the sea
Where they sink down, deeper and deeper, into the abyss where no light shines
Blood is thicker than water, so in the deluge of the summer monsoon it sinks
As the rain washes away the chains that bind and the relations which smother
Allowing the newly baptized child to walk through the renewing waters as a new thing

Perhaps the blood will wash deep into the earth, passing on its life to the fecund ground
Reaching down towards hell with its roots, or perhaps rising towards heaven in the trees
Or perhaps doing both at once connecting the hell of the past and the reborn hope
Forming a perpetual reminder of the journey from darkness to light, from seed to sapling
That even new growth comes from the ground fertilized by the struggles we lived through
That only the killing frost of winter can prepare the earth for the new growth of spring

Death and life, bound together like the elements of ground and air and water and fire
Dying and rising, sin and salvation, blood, breath, water, new hope and long departed dreams
The past may no longer be seen, may have washed away in the rain and still it remains
Flowing through our veins, the blood of our forefathers and the sweat of our children
The earth gives its silent testimony of the blood it has ingested and the tears it drank
In the flowers, leaves and grass which cover it like a blanket, its bright quilt of resurrection

Poet End This War

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Death of Chatterton by Henry Wallis 1856

Poet cast your spell upon our imaginations to see a way beyond this fight
Use your words to help us see another path than the road to hell we’ve paved
Be the prophet who helps us see the humanity in those we’ve demonized
Be the statesman who can inspire the better angels of our humanity
Be the sage whose wisdom can cut through the proud prognostication of fools
Move us beyond our fear, teach us to hope again and poet
End this war!
 
Poet, I know that in the past your words have fallen upon ears that no longer hear
Made deaf by the frenetic posturing of the pundits and politicians with their promises
You spoke an inconvenient truth as others shouted what seemed attractive lies
Quiet our minds so we can hear the peaceful words you softly uttered in our midst
Still our tongues and turn us away from the screens that distract us and close our eyes
So that we might see the visions you dream and poet
End this war!
 
Poet, I know this request would be easier if your lips still moved and your heart still beat
If we had honored your presence among us rather that branding you a pariah
If your difficult words, which were the medicine we needed, we received as a prescription
Instead they became the justification used for your surgical removal from society
For we danced the bloody dance where steel and lead are mightier than the pen
Where prophets and poets, statemen and sages are those out of step and out of time
We have drunk this bloody feast, this unholy communion and poet
End this war!
 
Poet, as I read your words through the tears in my eyes something broke inside my heart
I have consumed your words which were so sweet but turned to sourness in my gut
Your words were the mirror we needed to look inside to see how we far we fell
The poet may be gone but the poetry remains and there is some magic left in these scrolls
My dry bones sit in this boneyard hoping for some wind of inspiration to breath
When I hear your spirit whispering softly in my ear, “Poet
End this war!”

A Shard of Ice

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She draws thralls to her as she rides across the snow in the winter’s frosted air
The woman in black upon her black horse, with violet eyes and pale white skin
A spray of crystals cast up from the metallic shoes piercing the thin layer of ice,
That covers the earth as a frozen blanket fly through the piercing cold
Shrapnel waiting to puncture the skin of any who happen too close to her path
Those whose blood run cold from the shard of ice lodged into their heart
Unable to know any love other than that of the ice queen dressed in black
 
What made her so cold, this magical queen, who desires above all else warmth
Who draws others to her embrace until abandons them to their fate
To desire her who cannot love them back, for she never learned how to love
She knows the cold of winter, and while she may dream of the thaw of spring
That is not her element, she may have been forged in fire but now she is cold steel
A dagger that can only wound and never heal, a weapon not a salve
Yet many continue to dare to dance upon her razor fine edge and bleed
 
Yet, in the danger and coldness there is an undeniable allure that draws men
Like insects drawn towards the light that ultimately consumes them
She is who she was formed to be, she knew only abandonment and betrayal
Now she is the truth that she knows, the shard of ice that pierces her own heart
The desire to be loved and the inability to trust that the love offered is real
She wishes she could be an empty carapace of a cold skull unaware of the damage
She causes as she rides across the land leaving frozen souls in her wake
 
Black and white, fire and ice, steel and flesh, emotions, whim and lies
The absence of feeling and the presence of desire, longing for love and passion
Drawn to power, seeking truth, whatever it may be in her frozen heart
There is a cool fire that lies in her violet eyes, but there is ice in her veins
And those whose destinies have been joined to hers will know her pain
For they dared to draw to close to the ice queen as she rode through winter
And their truth is now her shard of ice that cuts into their souls
 

 

Neighborhood Watch

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Neighborhood Watch

‘A house is a man’s castle’ and so like the castles of old we surround them with fortifications
Locks bar the gates to prevent the approach of the barbarian hordes that loot and pillage
Cameras act as sentinels watching every boundary where someone might approach
Alarms await as klaxons to summon those who come with badges and guns to defend us
And we sit alone, separated from the dangerous world in the cage we built to keep it outside
Signs declare that this is a neighborhood where the citizens are on a hair trigger alert
‘Good walls make good neighbors’ declared the neighbor in Robert Frost’s Mending Wall
But perhaps we, like Frost’s neighbor who declares this, are merely cutting ourselves off
From the world of people who would otherwise pass through on their journey
Visitors who we might invite inside, to break bread with and to listen to their stories
Instead we sit alone searching our screens for the connections we used to make at table
Entering the sanctuaries we made from the modern world, only to wonder if perhaps
The neighborhood watch, instead of creating a place where our children could play in safety,
Instead became a place where we watch one another from our separate cells longingly
If our homes which became castles were really only dungeons in disguise, our own Alcatraz
Where the locks and bars and cameras keep us in, and the rest of the world out
Like animals trapped in some bizarre zoo so that the neighborhood can watch
As we live out these lives that are no longer worth living surrounded by the suffocating safety
Of the world that our fear locked us inside, disconnected from our neighbors and the world
On the other side of the walls, ingesting the worry that comes to us every hour from our screens
Telling us that the world is a dangerous place and that we are safest locked inside our homes
Where ‘good walls make good neighbors’ who no longer cross the property line
But instead remain as the neighborhood watch, watching for signs of life that approach our walls
So that it might be escorted back to its own place, its own home, its own cage
Lest some lion or tiger or bear might escape from its place in the exhibition

The Lament of the Forgotten Son

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Margaret Adams Parker, Reconciliation: Sculpture of the Parable of the Prodigal Son for Duke Divinity School (2005) View 1

Margaret Adams Parker, Reconciliation: Sculpture of the Parable of the Prodigal Son for Duke Divinity School (2005) View 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You stand out on the crossroads looking for the prodigal
Waiting for the return of the one who cashed in his heritage
Who took what we worked so long to build and walked away
He wished for your death and plundered your house
And yet day after day you wait for his return, this lost son
Like some wandering sheep you set out in search of him
Like some lost coin you search every corner to find again
And so, you stand out at the crossroads today and every day
While I rise up in your stead, tending the flock, sowing the seed
Working to ensure that for all of us there will be a harvest
You pine for your lost son, I grieve for my lost father

This son of yours, this spoiled younger brother of mine
Unwilling to dirty his hands among the fields or to care for the home
Who shirked the yoke that I bore for you countless seasons
There were always excuses that were made on his behalf
I thought that his last request might finally cross a line
That this final insult, this slap in the face might raise your ire
Is there nothing he could do, no request he might make
That might cause you to put your foot down and say, ‘no more’
How could you let him take away the work of our hands
Going off to a distant land with the wealth of generations
This son of yours, this spoiled younger brother of mine

The days you spent on the crossroads looking for the prodigal
Are the days you never once looked at me managing the house
Sweating with the servants in the field to sow and reap a harvest for you
Holding everything together while you stayed lost in your grief
Did your eyes never fall upon me as I shepherded your flock?
Was a word of praise ever uttered from your lips for my longstanding obedience?
Did your desire to see what was lost blind you to what remains?
The absent son who erased the son with calloused hands and burnt skin
Who stayed and never strayed from the homestead
And who is still waiting here for you to join him as he works in the vineyard

Then, one day, as I exit the fields at the end of a weary day
I hear merriment as the town eats our food and drinks our wine
The fatted calf has been slaughtered for the prodigals return
And while the entire town was invited to the celebration
You never considered coming to the fields to retrieve me?
It is only from a slave that I learn that my brother has returned
And my father as well, back from the crossroads and the ends of the earth
You rejoice with the town while my soul bleeds outside the home I sustained
What must I do to be seen, heard, loved and welcomed?
Must I also become the prodigal for you to celebrate me?
Must I deny you so that you might accept me?

How long before you realize that there is a son missing from your feast?
Before you make the journey into the fields you abandoned for the crossroads?
Until you see the son who didn’t squander your wealth with prostitutes
He feasted away your fortune and you throw him a feast of rich foods
I worked your fields, maintained your table, fed your flocks
Yet, not even a goat was to be spared for me and my friends
Welcome home father, I hope you appreciate the pantry I stocked
Welcome home brother, I hope you enjoyed the calf I raised
Hear this lament of the forgotten son who awaited your return
To the family you both turned your backs upon

Christina’s World

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She reclines among the grass of the field as the breeze gently blows across the plain
The only sounds are the sounds of the buzzing bees which dance across the grass
Searching for the scattered wildflowers which splash color upon the early spring’s brown
While the musty earth awakens from the long slumber while snow blanketed the ground
Waiting for the suns rays to warm the ground and open the seeds left at the end of fall
She reclines among the grass of the field as the wind moves over the fecund creation
 
She sees the humble dwelling of humanity with its walls and roofs to keep out the rain
As off in the distance the clouds thunder, announcing the advent of the April showers
Which come from the heavens bearing the gift of water and the promise of new life
Baptizing the ground with the joyous tears of God to awaken a season of resurrection
And as a daughter of Eve she awaits the rains which renew the creation’s fruitfulness
She dares to sit among the grass of the field as the rains sweep in to cleanse her anew
 
Perhaps the time will come when she runs through the rain back to the waiting house
But for the moment she sits surrounded by the sights and sounds of the prairie
She breathes in the scents carried on the wind and drinks from the celestial waters
Her hands run across the blades of last year’s grass and rest on the unturned plain
While life continues to cast off its long season of hibernation to stretch towards the sun
As she too arises from soil to sing and dance songs of spring with rhythm of life

The poem is inspired by Andrew Wyeth’s painting Christina’s World which can be viewed on the MoMA website

The Ruins

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The Ruins of Holyrood Chapel by Louis Daguerre (1824)

The bone-chilling spring rain fell upon the wind worn stones of the ruin
Melting away the ice and the snow which blanketed the dead tower
The water which slowly seeped into the stone leaking out through the cracks
Another year’s detritus pooling in the corners where once nobles talked
Some ancient lords and ladies once gathered in this hall to hold court
As the looked down the hill at the serf’s slaving in the fields to sow the seed
Believing the order would stand like one stone placed upon another
That mortar and stone would hold back the threatening winds
Keeping them safe and warm within sheltering arms of the mighty fortress
But now nothing remains of that long dead world but the shattered stones
Serving as the grave marker of their neatly ordered world where they reigned
For the king is dead, the queen is gone, no knights or archers protect the kingdom
As the earth reclaims the stone that was taken from her womb and placed on a hill
Now the soil raises up its green memorial as life emerges in the midst of death

O, what stories would these stones tell, of wars waged and blood spilt
For within the ghostly shadows there is a haunted air that hangs
To examine the dust that has fallen from these stones is to find fear
The fear of a world that has reached its end as time marched mercilessly
Terror of those who thought their way would last forever and still
The world has moved on bringing with it the ending of the old order
For the foundations have been shaken, the towers have fallen
No more does the warrior defend the reign and the old ones are forgotten
Demons and devils now dance in the abandoned bones of the castle
And feast upon the unwitting traveler who dares to come too close
By the rivers that once watered the fertile field that spread below
But now only feed the creatures brave enough to enter into the wasteland
We sat down and we wept as we remembered our Zion our home long lost
Now a haunt to jackals and a home to vultures and the lost dreams of yesterday

 

Watching the Skies

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The moon was slowly consumed by the shadow of earth
But life continued its unending cycle of misery and mirth
For if math and science have stolen from us that which was magic
And the heavens movements we no longer look upon, it is tragic
If the stars and moon hold no stories and myths anymore
And we’ve lost the art of telling stories and have no lore
Yet, for a moment perhaps within the movement of the week
We stopped for a moment, looked into the early morning sky to peek
At this brief disturbance of the heavens above and understood
How this event might have been read in the past for evil or for good
Questioning how our ancestor’s fecund imaginations might
Explain the darkening of the moon in the waning hours of the night
And crafted tales from holy to the obscene
To pass on to their families and kin what they had seen
While they watched the heaven to try to learn
Some piece of guidance for their earth-bound sojourn
 
Or how when the sun’s rays began to paint the sky and the cloud
In a palette of reds and purples and blues so bright and so loud
A picture more vivid that any done with paint and canvas and brush
Were the work of their creator’s hand as the heavens commenced to blush
For the piece of beauty that unfolds before our sight as day ends the night
Is a work of no dyes or colors but a painting of pure unaltered light
Celebrating the death of the night and the resurrection of the day
In a magical world where the children of men may run and play
Yet, for a moment perhaps within the movement of the sky
We stopped for a moment, looking into the morning sky wondering why
These brilliant red skies which evanescently decorate the transition from night
Once gave ancient sailors warning where we only take a brief delight
As they searched the heavens for signs while they crossed the hostile deep
Looking to stars, clouds and wind for signs they might keep
Watching the heavens above trying to learn
Some piece of guidance for their nautical sojourn

Belonging

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Growing up I wanted to be a part of the cool kids
To sit at the right tables with all the beautiful people
The pretty girls and the athletic guys who others wanted to be
With the witty conversationalists and jokers who made everyone laugh
The teenage courts of royalty where these young princes and princesses danced
But I was just a commoner on the outside looking in on a world I imagined
 
As an adult I wanted to be a part of the biggest and the toughest
To run with the elite of the elites, to be among the company of the fearless
The warriors who were the modern knights of the round table
The new chosen fighters for king and country questing across the globe
Missions that would save the realm from the forces of chaos all around
But some things we are never built for physically or by temperament
 
Sometimes I feel I spent so much trying to belong somewhere else
In the dreams that I thought I was supposed to dream
Seeing the ways in which I imagined I didn’t fit into those adolescent imaginings
Standing on the outside looking in at those who lived those lives
Trying to find a place where I belonged and belonging nowhere
Until I learned I belonged only to myself and becoming me was the home I sought