Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Thursday, October 10, 2013

For the Birds

Count my feathers and judge me
Then pluck out several more
because I fall short
Don't you know that I make this home
for you?
I use scraps of myself for your comfort
I am mostly scrap
Whatever good there is in me
is in my function, not my form
I am a trifle
I can't even escape this place
where the sun is wrong-
bright but not warm-
and night comes, not gently,
but with a thunderous cloud of sudden darkness
It is a wonder
that I sing at all
but I suppose instinct
overcomes intellect
and you are easily entertained
by meaningless cheer.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Weds. With Peggy, Point of View and Place


Sherry Blue Sky said...

This is so right-on. That must be how a caged bird feels, and your closing lines totally nail it, with the instinct over intellect and the "meaningless cheer".Awesome write.

Brian Miller said...

there is a lot of angst in this...as there should be...I use scraps of myself for your comfort...that is a hard line, good line for me....what a charade eh?

Vandana Sharma said...

Noone wants curb on freedom, lets free em; all

Jim said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Jim said...

Nice write, Ella ~~ I feel the caged bird must feel about the same as the predicament of being a spayed and declawed cat brings to poor Kitty.

Kay L. Davies said...

Hello Ms Mouse—you've done it again, a super write with plenty of emotion.

L. Edgar Otto said...

Nice song what I could download of it, gotta reply to you lolamouse I did expect something more of the Disneyland variety - that cute little mouse on your keyboard that makes the spirits of other living things all the more real in children.
Cananaries caged to warn the miners lest they be caged in a cave - Guirjeff who in the desert dry painted the yellow to sell before the rare rains.
And worth posting again, the white wash walls and window to the white snow of the winter prairie the ladies kept canaries for a little song and color... even in small boxes long after they passed away.

L. Edgar Otto said...

the common sparrows yellow...

Ella said...

I love your poem there is a shadowing, foreboding feeling!
I kinda feel that way about my house, when everyone leaves me their mess~ Yes, my claws are coming out-lol

Well done Lolamouse
I have to read it again!

Peggy said...

Clearly the view of a caged bird. Poor thing, so unappreciated. We had a canary that would not sing once--makes me feel sad about him.

humbird said...

so ironical the last lines:'but I suppose instinct
overcomes intellect
and you are easily entertained
by meaningless cheer.'
Feng Shui might helps? ~ Creative writing!