Flying Blind

I

Laying in bed, awoken to a sudden silence.

Darkness thick like a blanket. I can’t see.

My eyelashes brush against the pillow.

They sound loud. Grating. Brittle.

My fingers reach from under the blankets.

Groping slowly, tips flared back from palms.

A cool corded neck brushes my wrist.

The lamp, as cold and dead as a cod.

Down my hand travels. Confident now.

BANG! I forgot what I left there that fell.

Hands pull back and I push myself up.

Feet drop down through cooling air.

The floor comes too soon. OuCh!

The stillness is thick. Breath loud.

The electric hum of our life dead.

There is no silence like it, that

takes our sight on a dark night.

 

II

I stand, face to the early spring sun.

So bright I close my eyes to it.

Let my senses tell me about things.

CrEaK! That broken branch rubs

crying a death song in the wind.

TAPPPPP TAPPPPP TAPPPPP

Rustle. Thwwwwwwop. Two!

Woodpeckers start the ritual.

Clouds make the air chill,

and my eyelids flutter against

the shadows they throw down.

CrUnCh! cRuNcH! The snow

breaks under dog feet running.

Thssssssssssssssip. Thssssssssssip.

Tires on asphalt covered in melt.

I can almost feel their passing me.

 

III

I close my eyes. My fingers seek them.

Two nubs. F and J. The ‘home keys’.

I can type blind, and fast, if they I find.

A new keyboard is slower though.

Why can’t they all be the same?

Waiting for inspiration, eyes closed.

I rub the keys, worn smooth from touch.

Fingers brushing F and J. F and J. Home.

If only I could find a place that felt

that good to the touch. That made sure

my words, and world, made sense.

I can type blind with my homekeys found.

Without them I am flying blind. Making

no sense. No words that matter. A cat

chasing shadows on a keyboard left

unattended, or by a muse gone quiet.

 

IV

Close your eyes. Don’t make eye contact.

Keep still. Very still. Feel the seeds in your hand.

Listen for them. Twittering. Flying. You can HEAR.

Did you know that? Wings sound so LOUD when you

aren’t looking for them, or counting their beating flight.

I wait, still. Listening. FEELING their approach. Cautious.

The bold chickadee challenges me, but wants the seeds too.

She lands, sharp feet holding tight to my skin. I don’t flinch.

Suddenly a rush of air, hard feathers dust my skin and she’s gone.

A fly by, a feeding bomb done by a woodpecker. I stand, alone. Again.

 

Brian has us thinking about being blind, or being without sight as we compose poetry for dVerse. So often we use our sight, even in our comments, “I can see that!” but there are other senses that can also convey the story when we lose, close or bind our eyes.  I will try later to do a blind contour drawing to add here. Until then, visit the other amazing poets taking on this challenge!

 

Wind lifting feathers

#micropoetry

book pages on the side

of the road flutter like

the wind lifting the

feathers of a dead bird,

I pass by and mourn both.

~

I pass the river where the

snapping turtle lives and

wonder how she fares

and if she will wander

again come spring in

her larger than life

shell across the road.

~

Who encourages the

encouragers? Cares

for the ones who give

care? Who holds up

those who hold us

up? How can we

say we didn’t know?

~

Birds sit hopeful

on last year’s

bowed sunflower

heads. Soon my

feathered friends.

Soon.

~

It is Open Link Night for dVerse Poets Pub. There are some great poems already going live on blogs from all over. Stop by, read some poetry and leave some love. Share your own, it’s open to all poets! 

Today I am musing about things I saw on my drive yesterday, and the memories certain places bring up. Some are short enough to be #micropoetry and others not quite.

Random Thoughts on a Snowy Day

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Filled the feeders, the birds called their friends to empty them again for me

*

Drifts dance across the fields, horses and cows turn their backs to the winds.

*

Boys jump on drift tops testing their strength against the wind blown snow.

*

Not feeling so ‘winter tough’ I would be happy for spring-like weather.

*

Needing a window view, I shiver at the sight of cold puffed birds.

*

Horizon and sky sharing the same grey hue, winter vertigo comes.

*

Dead sunflowers bow to winter, hiding their spring promises in white.

*

Windows rattle, floors chill the feet and I miss the wood stove heat.

Doing some American Sentences for Open Link Night (a day late!) at dVerse! Come by won’t you?

Talk this way

Why do you use such weird words?

Weird words?  Not me! I use words that fit.

How can feeding birds take so long?

Because I have to talk to each one! Photograph them too.

I think not only in pictures you see, but in poetry.

In story and in song. I usually have so much I want to

create in words and images that I don’t have enough hands!

You talk so fast! How do you know all that?

Fast? Maybe you listen so slow? Seriously I space my words.

How do you think of such things?

What things?  Of shapeshifting, cloud dancing, song making?

Or how about quarks, Buckey Balls and nanotech?

I read, I think, I listen and sometimes when the words come

I write songs, poetry and stories.

Your poetry doesn’t really sound like poetry to me.

Cool! Tell me more about that, I want to learn how you think and hear.

No I mean it doesn’t sound like what normal poetry should be.

Oh, like what you learned in school? Or read by Shakespeare and Seuss?

A sonnet can be a bird in flight. A haiku a fence line.

Poetry, when my muse is kind, fills my veins and my soul,

it comes through me, to me, I don’t make it flow.

Can’t you be normal? Like, you know, someone else?

Who? Tell me who and I’ll probably not try.

Well, you know just don’t be SO MUCH YOU.

Oh, that I get. You want a latte version, maybe a half fat or low cal me.

Sorry, no can do. I’m the me you see, I’m the me I am going to be.

Like me or not, it’s you choice you see.  I don’t give a cracker either way.

I’ll still love you and of course I’ll pray but I won’t stop being me, even for thee!

(Was that enough real poetry for you in those last lines? Ah too sarcastic. Not pretty enough. C’est la vie ma cher. C’est la vie.)
 
For dVerse, a conversation about me, as spoken by me, the italics could be anyone of a number of friends and family who love me but do not understand me.  Sometimes mywordsruntogetherandItalkreallyfast but that is slow compared to my thoughts…how about you?