Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Coodle Birds

This is poem number three in the Perfect Day for Poetry challenge on Blue Line. I am endeavouring to write a poem a day for 30 days. I like that - gives me incentive. Poems 1 and 2 may never see the light of day ha ha - writing like this is kinda like going through my underwear drawer. Anyhow, this one can be more public - I used a challenge from redactions.com as the idea behind something I was playing with anyhow. Let me know what you think!

Coodle Birds

When I run through trails
up by the dump, black birds
clock at me from invisible places,
knock warning with their tongues like marbles
against the wood of their
coodle throats. My hands
hold the rhythm of each breath,
the birds, the leaves in the trees,
my own green bliss.

In all our family pictures
my hands are hidden.
The artist is ashamed, can't draw wings.
My little girl doesn't notice.
Keeper of her own flapping birds
she presss wood blocks to her ear
paces about, her bird voice yakking,
her other hand flapping.

Pacing about, her bird voice yakking,
she presses wood blocks to her ear.
Keeper of her own flapping birds,
my little girl doesn't notice
the artist is ashamed,
can't draw wings. My hands
are hidden in all our family pictures.

My own green bliss:
the birds, the leaves in the trees,
the rhythm of each breath,
the coodle throats. My hands
know the wood of their
knocking and warning, their tongues like marbles
clock at me from invisible places.
Up by the dump, black birds
and I run through trails.

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