Dream Trash

Invisible trash

Collectors of glowing,

Immaterial

And broken winged

Orbs, blue and green, pink and pure,

Depending on the

Imagination.

Do deer, with liquid brown eyes,

Windows to wild and

Meek souls, dream of green

-er meadows, stronger legs, or

A world without man?

You Know (Or you should anyway, seeing as how I don’t. Someone has to have all of the answers)

I’m my own kind of crazy

And anyway,

What is normal?

Just a matter of opinion,

If you ask me

Which you won’t,

Because you’re scared

I’m too weird,

Too alien,

Too one of a kind for you

Or your friends,

Or anyone in the world,

For that matter…

Thank you,

For taking the time,

I know you’re busy,

What with your soccer

Games,

Your dancing lessons,

And your pre-scheduled play-dates

If that’s even a word,

As someone in a book I once read

Said

I forget which book…

Ah, you’re still here

Looking at me in stunned silence…

Y’know,

You’re quite welcome to leave,

But it must be by your choice

I’ll just ramble on,

Whether or not if you’re standing here,

I’ll just be talking to god

(Who some say is everywhere, you know)

Or myself,

It really depends on my mood…

Black,

The color black

Is now everywhere.

(My sister forgot to put her paints away,

Which really isn’t like her at all,

You know;

Or maybe you don’t,

It’s not like you’ve met her.)

I dislike black now,

It’s all over my SAT

Study book,

And it really doesn’t belong there,

(I hope) you know…

What was I saying?

Oh, you’re still standing there,

Why are you still standing there?

Why are you still reading this?

Why did I even write this?

I, personally,

Don’t have any of the answers

So you’d better get up from your chair

And go find them

Hurry,

There’s not much time left,

You know

Birds of a Feather

1.

There is a bird,

A maternal little bird

Who visits the

Westerly-peak of

My little green house

But once a long gray year.

There is a bird,

A motherly little bird,

Shaped like a teardrop,

Brown and gray

With a sharp black beak

Pointed

Toward the end of the day.

There is a bird,

A wise little bird

Perched silent and unmoving,

A guardian of seemingly

Unimportant things,

A guardian of the voices small.

There is a bird,

A knowing little bird,

With striped-black wings,

And an anticipating look

Above a

Lovely spotted vest,

An anomaly of things

Uncertain.

There is a bird,

An occasional little bird,

At whom I sometimes wonder,

“What

Is your purpose in this

Particular place?”

“And what is so special about

My space?”

2.

There once was a bird,

A hushed little bird,

Who was always deep,

With lovely spoken words,

Of a thoughtful and a

Soulful kind,

Full of voice,

And full of mind.

There once was a bird,

A silent little bird,

Who sang to me often and long,

Of a charming scene,

With a wonderful song.

This little bird,

This thoughtful little bird,

Prompted me once to write

Of the Visiting bird.

3.

There once was a bird,

A hushed little bird,

A black little bird,

And a silent little bird,

Whose word about the

Brown and knowing

Little bird

I

Have always kept.

Love's force

And she loved him, more than words can tell,

Before anyone had even thought to

Care about his shining blue

Dancer’s

Eyes.

Fluttering, her heart she

Gave to him,

Her love she promised forever, “For as long as the rose is considered red”, she breathed.

Icily, he did not accept her

Just reward, he could not believe in love. Too many girls had

Kicked his heart into the dirt,

Like so much disdainfully beheld garbage.

Mortally wounded, she believed she

Needed him, more than water or air, or even, the pale blue of life itself, Out of the many

Other boys in her world, who jostled for a

Place in her coveted heart. “Be my

Queen,” they all offered, proudly

Roaring in their haste. They

Scared her, like a leaf

Trampled in an effort to

Uphold as the prize. She fled their

Vividly colorful offers, “I will clothe you in silks!” “I will crown your head in the most
Wondrous of flowers.” She ran away, fleeing through

Xanthan sunlight, the color of living dandelions.

Yearning for love, for that which she could not have from Him.

Zealous, she searched once more.

Of the House Wren

There is a bird,

A maternal little bird

Who visits the

Westerly-peak of

My little green house

But once a long gray year.

There is a bird,

A motherly little bird,

Shaped like a teardrop,

Brown and gray

With a sharp black beak

Pointed

Toward the end of the day.

There is a bird,

A wise little bird

Perched silent and unmoving,

A guardian of seemingly

Unimportant things,

A guardian of the voices small.

There is a bird,

A knowing little bird,

With striped-black wings,

And an anticipating look

Above a

Lovely spotted vest,

An anomaly of things

Uncertain.

There is a bird,

An occasional little bird,

“Who,”

I sometimes wonder,

“Are you?” “And what,

It your purpose in this

Particular place?”

“What is so special about

My space?”

2

There once was a bird,

A hushed little bird,

Who was always deep,

With lovely spoken words,

Of a thoughtful and a

Soulful kind,

Full of voice,

And full of mind.

There once was a bird,

A silent little bird,

Who sang to me often and long,

Of a charming scene,

With a wonderful song.

This little bird,

This thoughtful little bird,

Prompted me once to write

Of the Visiting bird.

3

There once was a bird,

A hushed little bird,

A black little bird,

And a silent little bird,

Whose word about the

Brown and knowing

Little bird

I

Have always kept. 

Daily Creative Prayer

 Maker's blog, update of my latest drawings, since I just can't seem to force myself to make anything right now. I'm going through a drawing phase again.
http://dailycreativeprayer.blogspot.com/2010/10/symbols-among-other-things.html