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Songbird Poem on Process

My lover sings songs into the moon or sound black sky.

My lover sings to write, and right stories.

I saw him on stages.

Changing faces - my lover sings songs.

Well, what do you know of songbirds?

Their songs may please,

indeed jolt or squeeze,

but what do you know of the species?

Is their existence and creation

for frivolous pleasing?

Under their lilting tones,

is there a soul crying - a reason?

Reach, and reach notes!

Da-do-DA- LA-le-lo... Go!

Don't choke or fear. No!

No smothering tears.

Notes reach! Make him free.

I've seen you on stages,

which are places and phases,

and you're my song, bird.

A child and man

I've seen you on stages,

places like cages,

but music always in hand.

Songbirds fly to ride, or hide to cry,

but no they do not die.

You dive to survive - flee before plea,

but by that pulsing song heartbeat,

you won't die.

In the branches of a tree

you found and caught me,

sliding and crying 'til I was braced by your song.

Songbird savior - grace to pain,

many thanks and thanks along...

Notes wrap pain,

soul-breaking pain,

and lift it to an ether of neither

nectar or sweaters, or warmth or safety

and calm.

Notes take pain,

soul-breaking pain,

and turn it into all knowledge

we've never set upon.

That ether is light,

where neither death nor fright,

can make cages of stages,

or endless stunted phases.

There's a stream that carries us,

with no screaming or bleeding,

to face all we're pleading to be shown.

So, what do you know

of songbirds then?

What do they do with the wrong?

A child and man,

no show - no microphone stand,

but two hearts,

my hand and your song.


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