Soaring on
streams of consciousness.
I’m speaking up
speaking up —
even if you’re not tuned-in.
Haven’t you heard?
I’m broadcasting
so that one way
or another
we’ll find each other.
I’ll spread the word.
Come dusk
we’ll find a spot
with great acoustics,
and sing our hearts out.
I’m speaking up,
speaking up,
because I have a voice.
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The fly on the wall
watches closely,
focused on
nothing at all
yet ready for anything.
Buzzing wings,
hundreds of flutters
in the span of a heartbeat,
fling the fly on the wall
down the hall
to a new perch,
a fresh perspective
for further study.
10,000 telescopes per eye,
surveil you.
They tell all —
giving forewarning,
performing troubleshooting.
A mind,
with no capacity to judge
speculate
or daydream
makes life amongst
the clutter
easier.
Unbothered
by raised fists
and rolled-up magazines,
until they’re impossible to ignore —
it evades every strike,
like trying to wrestle
a wisp
of smoke.
Never quite
out of sight
out of mind —
I too will watch,
you may be small
but this house
doesn’t have room
for you.
You and I
have new blood,
The oxygen we need,
pulled from each breath,
is cradled
in a molecular nest,
and bound in iron:
scarlet Hemoglobin.
But our ancient ancestors,
and the still-living
relics of the copper age,
still hold to
their old ways.
It courses through their veins,
blue
like the patina
on a penny,
that’s seen
better days.
Red blood caught on,
but ours is not the only way.
Our cousins in the deep,
also well-travelled,
use azure Hemocyanin
it still works it’s magic,
just like ours
but matches their lifestyle,
working tirelessly
undaunted by cold,
darkness,
and depth.
Flesh and blood,
follow their own
rhyme and reason,
what falls out of fashion
can often still function,
in the right place,
at the right time
and in the right hands.
“Ready?”
Take a deep breath,
you’ll want to make it last.
We all traversed the undercurrents,
and took shots in the dark.
The sharks played chicken with us,
though there’s safety in numbers,
we didn’t need the hassle
so we went fishing.
We grabbed a bite to eat
And did some networking,
with a few like-minded pods.
“Let’s take a break”
in the tropics,
we met the locals
the coral shimmered in the choppy light
coming through
crystal-clear water.
“Let’s make waves by the bay,”
Anchored boats watched
as half of us
caused a ruckus
and the rest lazed by,
until we saw Sailors’ Delight.
“Let’s get going,”
“Same time tomorrow?”
“I’ll have my people call your people,”
“listen for our code.”
Fond farewells
echo in the distance
as they await
another day.
I’m from an ancient bloodline,
patient and pensive,
and to my surprise,
time flies,
regardless of whether or not
you’re having fun.
Everyone I related to
left long ago,
and all that remains
are these fraud lizards,
with my third eye,
I see right through them.
Meanwhile,
here I am,
in exile,
under a rock.
I’m from an ancient bloodline,
strong and tenacious,
I spend my days digging trenches,
eating spiders
and hissing at tourists,
what a complete indignity.
My ancestors,
walked shoulder-to-shoulder
with giants and beasts,
now that there’s finally some room to breathe,
It seems there’s less space for us than ever.
I’m from an ancient bloodline
peaceful and wise,
and for old times sake,
I’d like to revisit the Halcyon days,
and have the sun blocked out once more,
an equal playing field.
Trust me on this,
the world needs it.
Beware of any oasis,
because nowhere in this world of oddities,
will you cross the same river twice.
Try, try, try, as you might,
leaning into the current,
cannot bring you to the past-
grasping for the rain drops,
will not help you
stand steady and weather a storm.
No matter how torn,
you may feel,
there are times you must leave it all behind,
you’ll know it when you see it.
But so be it,
and fear not,
you never have to leave green pastures,
if you can bring them with you,
in tempests and torrents,
deserts, meadows, canyons, summits.
So long as you’re still going,
you are always exactly
where you need to be.
If you’re a fish out of water,
I really hope you’re a mudskipper.
Life in the undercurrent,
isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
If I could still see,
I’d tell you all about it.
But I’m not complaining, believe me,
I get by.
No one bothers you down here,
unless they’re really asking for it.
Lazily,
though I prefer “efficiently,”
Sliding through nooks and crannies.
I spend my time,
sidewinding,
along dark-as-night,
limestone-lined,
walls to find,
fissures filled with my friends,
hopefully I’ll be the first to find food.
Life here is slow, simple,
beautiful in its brutality,
we’re up to our necks,
in fresh,
cold water,
and little else.
I wish I could tell you more,
or give you some clues,
but you can’t see what I do.
The tools of the trade:
Cryptic plumage,
Hawkish mannerisms,
And a steady supply,
Of child soldiers.
The cuckoo lies in wait,
Standing stealthily,
Avoiding strife,
With her victim’s eventual lapse,
She strikes.
Though they care not for their neighbors,
They do have a knack,
For finding babysitters,
Despite their reputation,
As impolite guests.
The screaming chick,
Sounds like the clutch,
Of hungry children,
It jettisoned.
On the other hand,
In the other hemisphere,
The cowbird makes little effort,
To make its egg inconspicuous,
Instead it relies on mob mentality.
The mom pays a visit,
To her nest of choice,
Which will be destroyed,
At the first sign of resistance,
To their alimony.
If there’s any acrimony,
It isn’t apparent,
As the often very different parent,
Raises the imposter.
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IMAGE CREDITS:
https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/bird-and-wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/c/cuckoo/
http://jasonking.net/site/brown-headed-cowbird/
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Seven mallard ducks flew in the familiar v-shaped formation they take when coming from or going to far-off places.
The land they cast shadows on grew more and more sparse the further they traversed.
“What a spring this has been,” the Second Lieutenant said with pride, he was sick that day.
The group was well-fed and riding high.
“I know,” piped the First Lieutenant enthusiastically, “I even got some french fries!”
At the apex of the V, the Colonel glanced at the Lieutenant Colonel incredulously.
“Love those things,” said the Captain.
“Guys, watch yourself out here,” sounded the Lieutenant Colonel.
“Yeah, humans were handing out bread like it was going out of fashion,” said the omega male, no one acknowledged him.
The leader stayed silent.
“We had the park all to ourselves! It was a great spring,” said the Major
There was a whooshing sound, then a smack.
The captain looked behind him, shed contour feathers twirled in the vortex of displaced air.
“Well,” the Colonel said, “seems like our idle chit-chat got our Second Lieutenant eaten by a peregrine falcon,” he said in monotone, “let’s try to keep our mouths shut for a little while, huh?”
The spider in the corner,
Of my dorm,
Foreigner,
Hoarder,
With web in disorder.
If I were shorter,
I’d steer clear,
And try not to vear,
Into his hunting gear.
He’s well-equipped,
Works from home,
And quite strict,
When prey roams,
Toward his crypt.
The monster,
Stands,
A stone’s throw away,
Saunters,
On silken-strands,
He’d be easy to slay,
With a magazine,
But that’s mean,
And I’d have to clean,
After.
He keeps,
His heaps,
Tidy,
And tiny,
So I’ll let him stay,
Maybe.
The File Pile 