A Bird outside the Office

A bird outside the office

Was tapping on the window glass.

I whistled, and she cocked her head

As if in protest of that crass

And unrefined endeavor

To signal I would like to know

Her better.

Still, she sang, her eyes aglow,

Then fluttered off the ledge to go

About her day, with me behind.

I wish I knew what words she said,

For something in my heart has realigned.

 

This poem was inspired by the birds that sometimes land on the ledge outside the window at my office. Occasionally, they do tap on the glass, and I might whistle in some ill-conceived attempt to communicate. I think they notice - but I'm not really sure what they think about the noise they're hearing.

The Story in the Paper

I put the pen to paper,

And it seemed to move itself.

A story lived inside the fiber

As real as if it sat upon a shelf.

 

When the pen was touched to paper,

It awakened something dormant in the page.

A long-lost memory was sleeping –

A forgotten forest where it lived an age.

 

Before it turned to paper,

It formed the grain that grew beneath the bark

And watched what living things were creeping

Beneath the canopy on soil dark.

 

Now those remembrances are paper,

A million separate pieces from the trees.

So I will try to put them back together

Before their voices fade upon the breeze.

 

I just finished this poem last night. It originated from the idea that we write stories on pieces of paper (though I guess that's less true now that it was in the past, because of computers). In any case, when writing on paper, the pages themselves come from a living thing, with a story all its own. This poem is just a brief, fairly simple exploration of that idea.

The Sounds of Warmth

Warmth is a feeling, they say,

But I hear its music at play

In the crackle of logs on a winter night’s fire

Or the songs of the birds that spring morns inspire,

In the rolling of waves beside pale summer sand

Or the rustle of autumn leaves quilting the land,

And, most impactful of all to me,

In the voice of a friend from across the sea.

 

I wrote this one a week or two ago, but it flet appropriate to share now, after receiving a number of birthday wishes. There are times when I wish I could be in multiple places at once, living so far from so many who are important to me. That's not how life works, but messages like those I received yesterday help me to feel those connections.

Two Perspectives of a Roadside Hedge

Over the Hedge (toward the Heavens)

Over the hedge

Beyond that wall of branch and leaf and green

Lies something more,

Something brighter than my eyes have ever seen.

For where I walked before

Was veiled in shade below its topmost edge

To guard my fate,

But now I hunger for

The hidden lore

And brilliant sheen

That wait

Just past the hedge.

 

A Hole in the Hedge (toward the Earth)

There’s a hole in the hedge,

Which I might crawl through

To explore other realms

And locations new,

Which were blocked before,

Reasons why unsure,

But the barrier broke,

Which expands my view.

As I think I've shared before, there are hedges along the sides of the road where I do most of my walking. I wrote these two poems at different times, and I didn't really realize they had a connection until after they both were finished. I feel like they express two sides quest to learn and grow: first, the desire to do so, looking up and stretching beyond yourself; and second, the act of doing so, by returning to the practicalities of the world and figuring out how to actually move in the direction you want to go.

Fallen Flowers

Upon the sidewalk after rain

Are flowers, fallen from the strain

Imposed by stormy winds and water’s weight.

The chimes of chance have changed their fate.

Where once the flowers blossomed bright,

They’ve come to occupy a mud-stained plight.

Aloof, our footsteps undermine

And crush the dreams their lives define.

Yet still, their colors grace the sidewalk’s grain,

Downtrodden souls whose rays of hope remain.

 

Here's another poem about the flowers that line the streets and sidewalks as I walk outside. In this case, I was inspired by the flowers that have fallen to the ground after a storm, which are then crushed beneath the shoes of pedestrians. It made me think of the people we may not see as we walk through life, but who are nevertheless affected by the choices we make and the ways in which we live.

Moonflower

Each month, another bloom is born,

Beginning closed and dark,

But bit by bit, each night and morn,

All silver-white and stark,

It blossoms, filled with gossamer dreams

Of subtle light and spark

Reflected from the stars’ bright streams,

Then petals fall and mark

The cycle of all life we know:

To grow and gleam, then, it would seem,

To wither, but in memory to glow.

Last week, I was out walking and saw a flower pointed down toward the ground, facing away from the sun. Of course, it made me think of sunflowers and their following of the sun. It made me wonder what a "moonflower" would do. Eventually, I decided that it would focus more on the cycle of growth and diminishing suggested by the phases of the moon. Each month, the flower would produce a bloom that opens, then closes, but remains in our memories - suggesting our own cycles of life on the Earth.

City and Savanna

Standing here

On the boundary between

The world I know

And the wider realms my eyes have never seen,

My mind is clear,

But my heart betrays a fear of what’s ahead,

Where the grasses overgrow

And the wildness of nature shows instead,

Instead of ordered streets swept swiftly clean

With rows of storied buildings standing near.

Those silhouetted skylines spread

As early rays of dawn appear

And wake the living plains from sleep serene.

The change I undergo

Once every shade of dark has fled

Recalls how cities’ corners overflow,

Encroaching toward savanna’s gentle curving.

This threshold where my sight expands

Creates in me a conscience for conserving

What lands remain beyond our human hands.

 

This is a poem I've been wanting to write since I visited the national park right beside Nairobi and saw the wide savanna spread out in front of the city skyline. It seemed suggestive of living in harmony with nature, but also the possibility of encroaching too far on the wilderness. This poem is about the interface between these two environments, as well as these two ideas.