Ode to a Parakeet
You little snowball cotton-puffer,
gas-pilot-light chested,
CSI-watching ceiling-fan sitter
(“We’re watching ‘Eiger Sanction’ next”)
“You’re pulling the trigger?”
(not a fan of Clint Eastwood)
Blue blur, feather flurry,
sky diving, flying home to rest and sleep,
perched upon your royal throne
while we tuck you in at night with your blanky.
You made us stronger, wiser, softer,
by your presence, grace,
your one-eyed stoic-stork-staring face –
we miss you our little tree-trooper, mid-air swooper!
Travel far, dear Bleu –
your pilot light will never burn out.
Waiting for You
Torch smoke rising, sky-high fire
carrying scattered landscapes and skyscapes
we raise the gate and the glass
and open wide our mouths
into the ditches of the wretched lines
of what lays bare before us
not slow, not going into us, but around
surrounding us and seeing to it right now (“Yes Sir!”)
we are a small piece of bread taken
chastely bowed down to the stern examination
of the gazelle grazing waiting
for the lion’s embrace from the edge of dark
the bright orange mane burning
into the brush the scattered flames churning
lands dark and barren of words
wanting and caring of nothing but grace
OJibwa Woman
Honored in my heart
babies you bore and carried
winter storms weathered
you lived and died by the lake
The trials of a given moment
nor the toils of any day
nor the survival of any season
alone define who we are
To share your lodge and fire
would surpass the value
of all the treasures I possess
And yet I cannot escape this –
I will never be worthy
to touch the blanket you wear
Mistakes
Mistakes I have made –
Not saying all is okay
Not telling you more stories
Not letting go of my fears
Not taking you for more walks
Not looking inside myself
Not seeing inside you
Water
Drifting on current
streams break stones into pieces –
mountains to beaches
Cambodia
Over the locked gate
she threw her baby weeping
The Well
Faith in emptiness. Endless, unforgiving faith. The faith at the bottom of a fathomless well. We should never be disappointed not to reach it. To move up the rope is to move further away from truth. To descend – even slowly – is to make progress. But this is an illusion. Everyone is descending. Even if you move away from faith, there is a hand that guides you back on the path, and that in turn becomes a state of continuous movement toward faith. No matter your state of mind – no matter how your path twists and turns – you are continually moving in one direction.
On the Back Porch
Secrets cascading off cloudless mountains
The smallest thing crawling
Creeping down into the tree-lined forest
And we are but blades of grass
Living deep in the hollows of the dark world of richness
Seeking out hidden rays
Hoping and praying for a better day
But I am here now listening to the birds and that is all that matters
Rebel Q, 27Sep2021