didn't move fast enough
they are dying
& they are called Poets"
- d.a. levy
The winter winds are late
and unforgiving.
The birds for the most part
have flown south
in search of warmth
and survival.
A few have stayed behind
to brave the bitter winds
of death.
I smoke a cigar
with nothing else
to do but watch them.
Perched on stark black
telephone lines,
they will slowly begin to die.
The wind kicks around.
I curl up my coat's collar,
flick my cigar butt to the ground
and the birds take flight.
It's here, where
the sky swallows motion,
and loose feathers
quiet lightly in the air,
I know, despite their
cold indifference,
they are the words
of desperate poets,
born free, but
long ago forgotten,
left behind, homeless in a world
without a
care.
3 comments:
nice poem, i just watched a Levy documentary
Mike
The other day I noticed some ducks in the center of a frozen pond. I figured they were keeping that little patch of middle from freezing, but then, a couple of days later they were still there, and I figured they'd been trapped, frozen in, and died.
That's found poetry. You capture it well. And I love cigars.
BRUTAL LOVE IT WELL DONE MR. REARICK!!
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