Truth Lies Behind the Eyes

You can pray for peace

the words will last

the words are pieced

beyond the past

but clothed this time

with bones and shoes

and thriving on the greys and blues

Nighttime marks its usual stars

in falcon's eye and sullen cars

but the answer lies, in otherwise

a far more fatal tune...

Fools in Power

It doesn't take more than a few seconds of news coverage to understand the basic state of the world. People are suffering and those in power seem to tuck it away so they don't have to deal with it. The new era we have entered makes it acceptable to be ignorant. There is also a more prominent divide between "us" and "them."

Within this divide, we encounter perspective. How does one see what I see and how do they make sense of it? Of course everyone has a different take on morals and values, but how does this ultimately translate to the decisions made over the people of a nation? What is just and moral to one person may be seen as savage to another, but common grounds are met to ensure cooperation from both sides. The problem is imbalance. When one side reigns over the other, and those without common sense are in power, conflict ensues and things turn a bit chaotic. I am angry with all that has happened and continues to happen within our world. I am angry with mindless decisions and fear that consume lives every single day. I am angry that people are supporting a person who does not and will never belong in office. At the same time, I understand, and it becomes clearer each day why these things keep happening. Humans are cyclical creatures. Time generates clockwise and history does the same.

"Another Day"

There's no space for your fingertips

so let them run and rule

a cold and faithless tool

to the leader and his loyal fool

There's no space for your feet to walk

so let them graze the sun

or crush down everyone

for the battle is never, ever won

There's no space for your eyes to see

so let them turn to rust

the essence falls to dust

for a gale or breeze or startling gust

There's no space for your heart to give

so let it fade away

the exterior decays

so the inside lives another day

Hope

In our world today, hope is regarded as a positive source of inspiration and faith. When one has hope, one has trust (or something of that nature) in an unforeseen outcome, and in this sense they possess strength. However, some disagree with this notion. Hope can be seen as a thread to which we hold on to for dear life. It is a thread that can be cut or tied stronger, depending on circumstance and will. It is in this idea that hope is torturous and cruel. Hope rests in the wish for a particular outcome, which roots itself in the unknown. Because of this, we are left to hold on to a thread, which will weaken or hold strong, without the certainty of either. This is the duality of hope.

"Shards"

Life was cascading twilight

in street-lit park benches

where dogs cease to fight

in feral shards of moonlight

where angels mourn a human's soul

and lose their gift of flight

It is sad to think of the dawn that follows

when all is exposed to sun

and bloody backs are turned towards everyone

Everything is daylight

Everything is seen

but the eyes are killed to bullet wounds

and all have lost their sight

Whirlpool of Lost Knowledge

Sometimes poems burst out of my head in the strangest of times. They form so perfectly and beautifully, but they never make it to paper because they always form in moments when paper is scarce or I haven't access to a medium on which they can thrive. And usually, in these moments, I am caught up with other important things that cannot be delayed. For instance, I may be showering. Whilst the water soaks into my head, a stream of words are formed and molded into the most perfect set of stanzas. I can always envision them floating in sepia backgrounds. The minute the water turns off, the poem is sucked down the drain, along with the water, into a whirlpool of lost knowledge. Cue the sad violin music.

It is honestly the worst thing to happen. 

Today was a different day. I finally caught a poem that tried so hard to escape. I wrote it by a lake during a job hunting mission. As the poem started to form, I dropped everything I had on the nearest table and scribbled furiously into my diary, knowing I looked like a complete freak to all that noticed me in the dark bush far away from most of the happenings. I wrote and wrote and wrote until I felt that I had completed the piece with all the might I could muster. Now, you should know that every time I write a poem, a part of me feels like I deserve some sort of prize because of how profound and deep it is. I am cocky, right? Then the next day I usually dislike the poem and move on to something else. This, my friends, is the famous cycle of the writer.

Nah, I am kidding (lie). Poetry, I believe, is made to service those who write it. And others who happen to like it stay along for the ride. A lot of people I know, besides family members, do not like poetry and it amazes me sometimes when I hear a piece by William Blake or Edgar Allan Poe, and I think it's spectacular and mesmerizing, but they think it is boring, old shit. The first thing that pops into my mind was whether they were paying attention to the words that were spoken and written. Did they understand the message? Did they listen? But then I must remind myself that people have preferences. Just because I like something doesn't mean that others will too. Apart from that obvious message, poetry is a vehicle for dreams and the imagination, just like music and art. People pick what they choose and make it into what suits them best.

Now, I will present the poem I have captured, butterfly net and all, and I hope you come to like it, dear reader, whoever you may be. One thing I have always admired about poetry is its simplicity. Everything is poetry. The trees, the sun, the moon, the half eaten sandwich laying next to your cracked-screen phone. And I always liked that fact that poetry allows you to pick and choose what you like from it, so you may take away a message that resonates with you, whether it be a stanza or a single word. That is part of its magic.

Hunger

When at midnight

gifted rosewood rivers

save dances with the

eternal love of sun

and the beating heart of spirit

It is mist over mountaintops

that fly as the world stops

when the core is carried

to rain and lust and happiness

Life becomes pen scribbles

within the notebook of death...

It belongs to the trembling

hands of children, awaiting

their final breath when

chords snap and fail to sing again

It is time, diminishing with spirit

It is time, diminishing with soul

It is time, the essential hunger...

Welcome!

To all who stumble upon this page, welcome. This blog will focus primarily on poetry, but I will write about anything and everything that piques my interest. Consider this blog a diary (with more of the juicy bits cut out).

So you may be wondering who exactly I am, or maybe you don't really care. To those who have stuck  around, I am pleased to have held your attention. I am the Lady of Birds. What exactly does that mean? Well, it means precisely what it says. The name holds true to itself without support or justification. It is what it is. Now that we have cleared that out of the way, I will present to you the first poem to mark the blessed internet (for maybe the 3rd time? I don't do well with blogging. I typically quit within the the first week). I hope the unpredictable blogging element adds to my mystique.

Anyways, this poem was conceived as of March. It is called "Orchids" though I still don't know why I chose that title.

May came through my window, softly
not wanting to wake the life that
still slept and breathed when 
the world shut down
and the lights of the town
faded in now and forever


It was easy to live and to forget
and to set timetables for things
that haven't happened yet
but were anticipated by the anger
and frustration of the afternoon and
evenings that followed birth
sculpted by the hands of the earth
and shaped to fit a common soul's worth


But as the shift came forward
and all that was accepted became scarce
a beginning was made and an end was reached
and open fields met their breach
to the eyes who saw not love 
but an enemy in life's arms

As time progresses, you may notice a theme within my work. I will let you figure it out on your own. And, you may see that almost every poem I write is written within the bounds of metaphor, except for when it's not, and it becomes evident where the genre and theme lies. And with that, goodnight.