deepundergroundpoetry.com
blackbird on the wire
Some days,
I like to take a lonesome
Walk around your mind.
Smokey crematorium perfume
Drapes o’er shrouded curtains,
Doors open at 24 frames a second
Lit by lingering vision
He's still in his armchair
Chewing a pipe, lips circling tea cup
As if that why God gave
Him such a kindly mouth.
The aqua urn resembles
Vase on the mantelpiece,
Where flowers whispered
To be set free, to wilt
For the soil to be more than a grave.
Our fable
Is what we are not
& never can be.
Our fable
Lies in the wick
& strike of the match.
Our fable
Becomes a petrol bomb
Passed from generation
to generation,
Exploding at foetal footprints
Carved into clay by dead man’s shoes:
Again
And again.
Used to be a sensitive boy.
At back of church
Held his hand tightly,
Fear that vicars delivered death
Amongst pews, polished shoes
& ridiculous hats.
He was the light
At top of the stairs.
Antiseptic twilight
We counted the
Blackbirds on the wire:
…Ninety eight
Ninety nine
One hundred…
His throat burst with pride;
Darkness began to close the blinds
Carrier bags wrought the wire.
The blackbirds had never been here
Not here.
Somewhere >>
Over there.
The world was out.
Blue dreamer eyes
Were shut by whirled wind breaths,
Occupying the tongue, fading,
Flickering, deceiving…..fading.
No 68 gun salute, glitter falling from ceiling -
Merely machine plink
Car alarm
& silence.
When I returned from arse of world
He rang and creaked angrily:
“You look for happiness in wrong places son.”
Not anymore Dad
Not anymore.
Learning to count blackbirds again.
ERUGLCT #16
Pic. Adrian Henri. Bird. 1960
I like to take a lonesome
Walk around your mind.
Smokey crematorium perfume
Drapes o’er shrouded curtains,
Doors open at 24 frames a second
Lit by lingering vision
He's still in his armchair
Chewing a pipe, lips circling tea cup
As if that why God gave
Him such a kindly mouth.
The aqua urn resembles
Vase on the mantelpiece,
Where flowers whispered
To be set free, to wilt
For the soil to be more than a grave.
Our fable
Is what we are not
& never can be.
Our fable
Lies in the wick
& strike of the match.
Our fable
Becomes a petrol bomb
Passed from generation
to generation,
Exploding at foetal footprints
Carved into clay by dead man’s shoes:
Again
And again.
Used to be a sensitive boy.
At back of church
Held his hand tightly,
Fear that vicars delivered death
Amongst pews, polished shoes
& ridiculous hats.
He was the light
At top of the stairs.
Antiseptic twilight
We counted the
Blackbirds on the wire:
…Ninety eight
Ninety nine
One hundred…
His throat burst with pride;
Darkness began to close the blinds
Carrier bags wrought the wire.
The blackbirds had never been here
Not here.
Somewhere >>
Over there.
The world was out.
Blue dreamer eyes
Were shut by whirled wind breaths,
Occupying the tongue, fading,
Flickering, deceiving…..fading.
No 68 gun salute, glitter falling from ceiling -
Merely machine plink
Car alarm
& silence.
When I returned from arse of world
He rang and creaked angrily:
“You look for happiness in wrong places son.”
Not anymore Dad
Not anymore.
Learning to count blackbirds again.
ERUGLCT #16
Pic. Adrian Henri. Bird. 1960
Published 19th Apr 2020
Author's Note
ERUGLCT #16. Umanoid. Dad. Rushed/Brainstormed. It takes guts to be gentle and kind. STAY SAFE ALL
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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19th Apr 2020 00:32am
I love the symbolism here, counting blackbirds, an expansion, exponential knowledge of faith and the heavenly.
This is my interpretation, out of dark to light. Or vice versa. Also the blanket covering actuality of what is considered holy. Religiously speaking..
I loved reading this in its entirety, and then in pieces. And my thoughts, feelings went.. .here, there. It was good.
And to...
Death and the separation from what was taught, learned.. passed.
Of keeping parts and letting go. Learning to count (understand these) ...on your own terms
This is my interpretation, out of dark to light. Or vice versa. Also the blanket covering actuality of what is considered holy. Religiously speaking..
I loved reading this in its entirety, and then in pieces. And my thoughts, feelings went.. .here, there. It was good.
And to...
Death and the separation from what was taught, learned.. passed.
Of keeping parts and letting go. Learning to count (understand these) ...on your own terms
19th Apr 2020 3:14pm
19th Apr 2020 11:55pm
Loved this quality of poetics you churning out daily my Poet Ultimate... its unique to your crisp verses packed & loaded with symbolisms, striking realizations, summating philosophies, stirring emotions, touching deep in Love... You do yet again all the magic of your pen, I loved this esp. for the blackbird that immensely conveys the Life, Love as it happens & as it is evolves in a different spacetime.. towards Hope, Love..Also Loved this piece as a dedication to Dad, may his lovely soul be always felt with Uds as ev in the blessing .. wordless now Robonoid... Gratitudes for the daily Challenge, this is not so easy, with the high poetics in creation by your tireless heartmindbodysouling versing pen & print the pages.. Love me xx
20th Apr 2020 6:35am
that was so moving.
"Our fable
Is what we are not
& never can be.
Our fable
Lies in the wick
& strike of the match. "
i really love how well you expressed dual feelings of childhood misunderstanding and adult realizations. i'm feeling this generational healing in your words. so beautiful. thanks for sharing!!
"Our fable
Is what we are not
& never can be.
Our fable
Lies in the wick
& strike of the match. "
i really love how well you expressed dual feelings of childhood misunderstanding and adult realizations. i'm feeling this generational healing in your words. so beautiful. thanks for sharing!!
