Birdsong, #162

From the same perch each day
where we put up this nest,
we sing our odd warble
in unison and time
with the shifting moments.
Still, our clawed feet clinging
to these branches, dug in
to keep from keeling
to the ground, these wings tucked
under like tuxedo lapels.
With each number we sway
back and forth, arrested
by the sound of our full
throaty melodies, rhyme
of our syntax, accent
we level on each swinging
rhythm. The violin,
played with the deft feeling
of a maestro, is stuck
chasing our matchless swell.

The bird song, for so long
what you thought was no more
than instinct and no less
than sad thought. So you thought
the calling from a tree
to a tree was mating,
a dance meant to find food.
It was sung for you, dumb,
foolish fool. What a tool.
This artwork,a smart ass
like yourself can afford
to ignore. What a sad
empty life you must now
sadly live. You could give
a bird seed or money,
plumb nickels to build you
anything. The artist’s
not picky. We create
creations. What language,
what medium? It’s flavor
and preference. So wake up,
say sorry, offer food
or glory, say something’s
beautiful. In the sky,
that’s a bird, yes a bird
on canvas. He’s singing.

Look from the trunk below
to locate this plumage,
to see if you can see
what great creations bring
to life such harmonies.
We’re hidden from the ground,
from lines of sight to keep
the hunters and the snakes
from their discovery,
their meals or trophies.
We are for the ears, though
you may want a smidge
more, a photo or three
of these bodies who sings
such unswerving decrees.
We refuse to be found
by line of sight or cheap
opera glass. It takes
something of a degree
of love to set us free.

The bird song, for so long
what you thought was no more
than instinct and no less
than sad thought. So you thought
the calling from a tree
to a tree was mating,
a dance meant to find food.
It was sung for you, dumb,
foolish fool. What a tool.
This artwork,a smart ass
like yourself can afford
to ignore. What a sad
empty life you must now
sadly live. You could give
a bird seed or money,
plumb nickels to build you
anything. The artist’s
not picky. We create
creations. What language,
what medium? It’s flavor
and preference. So wake up,
say sorry, offer food
or glory, say something’s
beautiful. In the sky,
that’s a bird, yes a bird
on canvas. He’s singing.

But to hear costs nothing,
the verse we give away
like sweets on Halloween.
Come to the trunk and shout
your requests, some ballads
from long distant English
shores, one our grandfathers
warbled flew off of boats
and spoke of long rolling
hills and a western sea.
To these old songs we cling,
like the twigs whose array
makes up these nests, the green
and pliable woods, stout
and sturdy woods, the grids
of scraps that now exist
as concert hall, reefers
turned to stone to promote
song, color for pallid,
rainy days in the trees.

The bird song, for so long
what you thought was no more
than instinct and no less
than sad thought. So you thought
the calling from a tree
to a tree was mating,
a dance meant to find food.
It was sung for you, dumb,
foolish fool. What a tool.
This artwork,a smart ass
like yourself can afford
to ignore. What a sad
empty life you must now
sadly live. You could give
a bird seed or money,
plumb nickels to build you
anything. The artist’s
not picky. We create
creations. What language,
what medium? It’s flavor
and preference. So wake up,
say sorry, offer food
or glory, say something’s
beautiful. In the sky,
that’s a bird, yes a bird
on canvas. He’s singing.

The rain will not submerge
the verse, nor damp the chords,
nor keep us silent. Leaves
like the rooves will keep dry
the notes, but not the eyes
that fill at our simple
unmatchable chirping.
Try to translate, fathom
a language past just verse
backed by rhythm and tune.
Nothing is there. The urge
to assign us the sword
of a drift, or to heave
meaning on art. You try
to connote each note, buy
a vowel or to pull
a sense from what we sing.
You’re limiting. We’re done
with your listening. What’s worse,
you stopped the song too soon.
The saddest truth we speak,
we’d not yet reached the best
part, the divine center,
our consummate chorus.

Advertisements

Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s