My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the tag “birds”

Brass

Pavements,
spat on.
Statues,
shat on.

Marble and metal heavyweights,
like huge paperweights
Tributes to persons from another age:
forgotten,
except by the pigeons
and their stained reminders
as a burger wrapper takes to the air
and tumbles down the street
in a rustle
amid the bustle
of a city on the move.

In contrast to the statue:
a memory given permanence;
an old campaigner prominence.

But soon it will rain
and extricate it from the excrement
of the ignorant pigeons;
and the crapping crows.

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Ernesto, has the sun risen?

The sun also rises.

Donde esta la fiesta Ernesto?

The sun also rises. It rises on a new day, in a new way, earlier than yesterday and later than tomorrow, when the sun also rises.

The sun also rises in a cloak of washed pink, when the blue finally lets go and after the black has given up the ghost.  Eventually it will shine a light on the eastern-facing peaks 5,000 feet above my right shoulder as I sit.

The sun also rises on new hopes and old fears.  Hopes are always new, even if they’re the same hopes you had yesterday, last week or even last year. Hopes are renewable, and like solar power, and are renewed with the coming sun.

The sun also rises on the birds that sing in the new day. Each voice different, discernible from the others.  If I was a cat I’d be at my wits end figuring ways to go and catch one. A swift bite to the neck and it would sing no more. But I’m no more cat than I am prehistoric Auroch, and the birds fill me with pleasure. I can leave them to their song. What do they sing anyway?

The sun also rises on a short night of discarded dreams. Dreams, and drugs to make you sleep, but don’t. The sun also rises on tiredness, which I fight with everything I have to hand; my 2H pencil and notebook. I write.

Lunch in the park

Sun beating, sun shining
People walking, people watching
Trees growing, green leaves
Groundsmen cutting, green grass
Lake lapping, water’s edge
Water sparkling, countless diamonds

Birds singing, birds flying
Ducks swimming, swans snobbing
Violinists playing, Mozart scales
Me sitting, listening
Not speaking, just thinking
Eating lunch in the park

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Spring morning

Spring morning, spring dawning.
Sparrow, starling, blackbird
in unison calling,
out their names, and
singing loud their songs.
What is the language
of the birds that I hear?

As my love sleeps,
a sleep content
and undisturbed.
Whilst I, I alone
sit with eyes and ears open,
to the coming of the dawn,
as the birds greet the morn
and each other.

“Good morning to you too,”
I say, as I open the window
and breathe in the air,
as yet untouched
by the waking of man
of cars and vans.

Enjoy the moment
though in silence
it not be.
As the break of day
not far away,
has been announced to me.

Old Birdman

Old Birdman sits and stares

Squinting in the sun

The sparrows eagerly await the moment

when he

Opens the white paper bag

placed upon his lap

They know him now

and his eating habits.

 

The bag rustles

He looks inside

No smile lights his face

as he takes out

the sandwich

Which he will share

 

They gather around his feet

never coming too close

awaiting the moment

he eats and drops the crumbs

He watches the pigeons on the grass

fed fat from passers-by

He hopes they stay where they are

and not chase his sparrows away.

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