untitled

birds

Two old palings lean together. One wets a rolly
wrist all knobs and gristle

Staring ahead chipped syllables like a stream
run over mountains—

Too many winters up in the hills while spring
grassed the turned graves

unmarked. Unmarked. The minaret felled and
tanks on the highways—

Doleful, the other agrees—and there’s talk and talk
says nothing. Emphatically,

he gobs onto the pebblecrete a green jewel, his heart
glistens in the sunshine.

Above birds crowd the eaves and branches.
Doll-eyed they remember,

rue the day they let Tippi Hedren pass, love
birds at her breast. Never

more. Ravens above, trios of magpies busk a chip
purchase on plastic chairs.


This one from the archives – and posted today at dverse the poet’s pub – open link night #206 – where Gayle is hosting.

10 thoughts on “untitled

  1. Rhythmic and lyrical, your dark poem trips along deceptively, Peter. I particularly enjoyed the ‘chipped syllables like a stream / run over mountains’ and
    ‘he gobs onto the pebblecrete a green jewel, his heart
    glistens in the sunshine’.
    The doll-eyed birds made me shiver.

    Like

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