They come and go
They go in and out
They grimace when I copy their sounds
Their wings are unformed or vanished
That is really a sadness
They must keep me caged from envy
Their purpose is unclear
They press their strange faces up to the bars
When the door stood opened
I was paralysed
I know I shouldn’t be here
I struggled to keep a small bird alive.
The bird, tight beaked, was unwilling.
Now my mother lies curled,
The same as a bird,
Tired of this thing we call living.
If we let her go now she can open her wings,
the windows are open, flung wide.
I defend her souls right
To escape in the night
And fly into sweet oblivion.
Mr. What-Was-His-Name
Had many Things
He lived in a house
Very fine, fit for Kings,
But the doors folded inward
And never lead out.
I ask you, my friends,
What was that all about?
The boy on his doorstep,
Had flowers in his hat.
He sat on the doorstep
And talked to the cat.
The cat said his fortune
Lay out in the fields.
The boy on the doorstep
Was happy with that.
The boy wandered off
In search of a wood.
He whistled and sang
As he went on his way.
His only thought was
‘What a fine day!’
When he was hungry
The berries were good.
He never did anything
Quite as he should.
When the night fell upon him
He looked at the stars
They hung high above him,
Over his bed,
Where he curled himself up,
Under a tree
And slept the sleep, of the just
And the dead.
Mr. What-Was-His-Name
Had many Things
He lived in a house
Very fine, fit for Kings.
But the boy, in the morning,
Woke up with the lark.
He shook off the dewdrops
And sprouted fine wings.
Lucky is he who whistles and sings.
like lace these fragile flapping wings,
new born from the chrysalis, pale butterfly
drying under a yellow sun, bright burning
full of life, vibrant, short lived, time burning
stretching out its virgin wings
clinging to a tender stem, this butterfly
climbing upward to your journey, butterfly
prepare to fly away, as I, burning
with desire to touch, with care, your wings
an awful thought, lost dust, wings burning, butterfly
if they walked
down the street
hand in hand
in this town
they would stop all the traffic
in no time
more magic than movies
their beauty surpasses this place
people may wonder
as the crowds part around them,
like water around an island,
why her mouth
has that other-world touch
that slight strangeness
he loves
so much
his smile looks like music
she walks like a river
his eyes dream of forests
there’s a glow, there’s a shine
in the softness of skin
that’s so hard to define
their words
are not spoken
but the birds,
in concealing
her wings,
overheard
their song
There’s a song that wafts so gently
in music faintly heard,
a song with words so fleeting
I cannot hold them still.
Where many paths are meeting
in the tangle of the shadows,
just beyond your glance,
in the patterns of the dance,
from a farewell to a greeting
they will spin you into trance.
In a fluttering of wings, do you hear them speaking?
”No time today for sorrow, no time for needless weeping.
Mortal though you are, follow your own star”
I sense them in a twinkle,
in a gleam, a flash of star-fire
the silver light behind a cloud,
across the moonlight sweeping
in the rhythm of my breathing
and a heart that’s wildly leaping,
to the strings of their desire
”It’s a dream within a dream within a dream”
i hear them whisper
as i rest,
almost sleeping,
almost waking,
only seeming to be here.
the bee
eagerly flying
deeply desiring, flower to flower it skips
urgently buzzing, furiously humming
with perfume divine and wide open lips
the orchid accepts
the bee
All windows locked, no door, no sanctuary,
no hopes, no kindness, all dreams your nightmares
in this world, of your creation, only you
spreading your despair
Locking loveliness away with bitter hate,
dread fate, you hover over me, a demon.
Is this the best that you can find to hurt me?
I have my own mask
Masked and silent, with my stomach clenched in fear
I fly a million miles away, never near.
You shut me in a darkened room, I vanish
I wear my own wings
You cannot reach inside my mind, never will.
There is a light you can’t extinguish. It burns,
buried under night, it glimmers softly still.
I have my own light
You mistook me long for one who cannot see.
I know you, I see you struggling in your hell.
I cannot help you, break the spell or reach you.
I can’t set you free
I will go from here one day. I’ll forget you.
You’ll remember how I tried to bring you light.
No doubt you’ll see that as a greater torment.
I won’t be haunted
When I escape, the sun will shine the brighter
in a world that’s new to me, reborn from dark,
clearer, stronger, its definitions sharper.
This is not defeat.
Fame is a bee, brown and gold,
It buzzes round the nectar.
Bees suck and work away all day,
Turning all to honey.
I would rather have fame
Than any amount of money
Fame has a song,
long and lasting,
A ballad played on silver strings
Mortality surpassing.
Death is so distressing!
I would rather have fame
Than any other blessing.
Fame has a sting, like any bee.
We are bound to our own fatality.
Poems may live on.
Ah that just one might last
Rising away from gravity
On the outstretched wings of fame.
Immortality.
Such precious wings!
Death defying.
~*~*~*~
inspired by ~
Fame is a bee. (1788)
by Emily Dickinson
Fame is a bee.
It has a song—
It has a sting—
Ah, too, it has a wing.
I hurtle through space
velocity pushing my breath back
choking on air, falling, eternal spin.
Seven aeons, seven hundred,
Seven days, seven minutes
No sense of time or a reason
I land in a world of stone
hard and unforgiving.
My left wing broken, unable to fly
I lay on the rock alone.
She comes to me with a scalpel blade
unpicking every stitch in my wound
with exquisite, fine pointed precision and care
lost again in space, I roll from the rock
drifting downward in free fall
the earth rises up to meet me
old greeting, old paths, old ways,
days barely remembered
this land of arches and doorways
doors open, doors locked, mystery
I escape from this place
to the trees by the river
where the castle shadow still falls.
Staggering I fall to one knee.
I try to hold on to what’s left of my heart
tired, broken winged, exhausted
time and space don’t matter to me
i wish only for peace, tenderness,
to know that she will remember me
*****
wings battered and lame
spinning in free fall panic
hold me still again
The painting is Fallen Angel by Luis Royo
The Dreaming Path 