Sometimes a poem doesn’t come. That is a fact of life. So you throw words at birds and hope they take flight.
Advertisements
Tag: birds
I’ve seen many crows flying around in my town for the last few days. These are sizable birds. When I see birds I think they must have a message for me. Maybe some of them do. Crows are able to recognize people’s faces. Is there a crow out there that knows me?
My life as a normal person is not at all interesting, so I try and convince myself that the presence of these crows in the sky has some mystical meaning.
I could be expressing gratitude for the uneventful life I lead. I’m not in a wildfire, or getting tear-gassed as I try and cross a border with my child. I have food, shelter, a car, devices that can access the internet, and a lot of stuff that I’d like to get rid of because I have a problem with clutter. Still, it feels as if there is something I’m missing. There’s something that I’m doing wrong.
Sometimes it helps to escape into art making.
The act of writing a poem also provides relief.
Wouldn’t it be be nice to be able to eat a giant chocolate candy bar whenever the craving strikes? I understand people who use food as a drugs. I see why people get high and drunk. We all need to escape the mundane.
This existential anxt is likely a product of seasonal affective disorder. Things should get better when winter comes and days begin to get longer.
For now, I’ll keep looking for messages from birds and making meaning with words.
Let’s be together
Let’s be one
We can raise our voices
And sing the same song
We can sing for love
Sing to those we love on the other side
They hear us
And they’ll send shooting stars and friendly birds and butterflies
And unnoticed miracles
Until we come to join them in their resplendent song
We will all sing along
It’s really too early to write. Brain and body say no. Just drink your tea and go back to bed. There’s nothing to be said.
I know that it’s quiet. Quiet is good. I can hear my thoughts. I can hear birds chirping and the fridge running. Across the street, a car door slams. Someone’s going to work, or coming home.
More birds are stirring. Is this their morning colloquium? Do they take this time to plan the bird day? Maybe they just sing for the joy of it. They sing because they sing.
Today will be whatever it wants to be. I’ll do what I want to do. Me and the day, we’ll meet somewhere in the middle and it should work out just fine.
I’ll breathe and stretch and look gaze at birds. I’ll secretly ask them to sing with me.
She stood outside the door, holding the dog’s leash, waiting for the pretty chocolate lab to do her business. She looked up in time to see two large crows winging their way across the sky. Her eyes followed them until they were out of site. Then two more passed, and then three.
There was something profound about the way these birds floated across the sky. Maybe the profundity didn’t reside with birds, but in her observation of them. She felt that she had witnessed something holy. She didn’t have a religious practice, so holy wasn’t the right word. There was just something about experiencing those birds that made her feel connected to the universe, and to her, the universe was God. There were days when she believed in God and there were days when the existence of an all-powerful deity seemed impossible. She sometimes wondered if the universe, or if she herself was real.
The dog finished what she was doing, and responding to the tug at her leash, trotted back into the house.
I will type a title, and then base my post on that title.
Or, I could say I’m planning to do something, and then not do that thing.
I might just write sentence after sentence about nothing. I might not.
I will say that I’m tired of not having enough time to do the things I want to do. I’m tired of having clutter in what should be my craft room, or my yoga room. I’m tired of telling people I want to blog for a living, and then not doing just that.
I’m tired of driving to campus so I can park my car, and then take the bus to my job at the library. I’m tired of worrying about comma placement. I’m tired of not being able to sleep well without taking Benadryl or NyQuil.
I began writing a poem on my phone while on the bus yesterday. I quite liked it. In an attempt to copy and paste it into a different app for safekeeping, I deleted it. There was no undo. I will write a new version, but it may not be the same. It won’t be the same. Maybe that’s okay.
There is too much and not enough these days. And sometimes there are birds.
I’m two three days behind on Zero to Hero, but I’m not going to beat myself up. In fact, I’ve decided to do the rest of them on my own time, or maybe not at all.
Instead of doing Monday’s, Tuesday’s, and today’s assignments, I made something with an image from the Flickr Commons.
