spiritual

four Freedom-Focused Poems, Including “A Bird of a Different Feather”

four-freedom-focused-poems-including-a-bird-of-a-different-feather

The Globes

Night is
the fluttering shadow of a moth,
the impulsive kick
of a tiny foot
inside her stomach.

Can’t rise up
to shoo the insect.
Can’t stop the infant
from doing what it needs.

The moth flies simply.
She is cumbersome.
More just like the furnishings.

It scrapes towards the window,
soaked in moonlight,
anxious to be free.

The moth’s drawn by one globe.
She’s beholden to a different.

February, Home at Last

Everything’s frozen over
aside from the marsh
which is extra chemical substances
than water anyhow.

And the timber can’t discover
their shawls,
whereas doing their greatest
to persuade me
that dying shouldn’t be actual dying.

Once in the home,
heat locks the doorways,
a fireplace roars, distances itself
from what’s occurring exterior.

Living, as soon as subtracted from,
is now multiplied,
with one log, then one other,
all to the tenth energy.

A Bird of a Different Feather

I set her caged fowl free.
Fly away. Fly away.
How might I watch
the birds roost in
the excessive branches,
flit from tree to tree,
or just soar on the breezes
after which return to her condominium
when one poor specimen
pecked all day
at its seeds, its water, its bars.

The rattling factor didn’t go far.
Fly away. Fly away.
It sat on the window ledge,
twisted its head
in order that its small darkish eye
was pointed in my course.
It was asking me
to outline this freedom
that I appeared to need for it a lot.
I discussed the roosting,
the flitting, the hovering.
It didn’t transfer.

I attempted to shoo my feathered prisoner.
Fly away. Fly away.
But it merely hopped again contained in the room,
from the again of a chair,
appeared longingly at its cage.
So I picked it up,
positioned it again inside its cell,
and closed the door.
I stuffed its meals and water dishes
and left.

I attempted to set her caged fowl free.
But that creature most popular
imprisonment together with her
to freedom with everyone else.
I’m a fowl of a unique feather.
But that too is what I’m up towards.
Fly away, fly away, neglect it.

The Newspaper

It’s just a few sheets of paper
divided into sections.

It shares my morning espresso,
appreciates a spill or two

in its course.
Considering how

shut it’s to dying,
it doesn’t look its age.

But I begin on the obituary web page,
anticipating to seek out

the Journal there someplace.
But no, it’s simply the same old faces,

The relaxation is all
what will get us to the top:

pols and murderers,
celebrities and warmongers,

sportsmen and conmen.
Some sob tales, too.

Ordinary individuals simply getting by
who someway handle

to assemble up the household
and grin on the digital camera.

The newspaper’s not
what it was, after all.

It’s been outdated
by the web,

the cellular phone, cable tv—
that’s, every little thing and nothing.

The information is
what anyone says it’s.

And individuals don’t die a lot
in any of these media.

Who, however me, cares
concerning the passing of strangers.

Who, however me, nonetheless thinks
the newspaper’s not certainly one of them.

«RELATED READ» POEMS BY REBECCA SHEA: Butterfly, Hers, Umbra»

picture: Pixabay

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