I talk to the birds about complicity
and courage. How both need wings.
How both burn red. How both grace
and macabre defy gravity. If only,
briefly. They come every evening.
Pied Wagtails with homes somewhere
I cannot see, to hop around on the
tiles and sing from the terrace walls.
All. All things can be obliterated in
moments. Both life and death
occupy time, if only, briefly. We need
anchors. Things that cannot be swiped
away. Even over ten thousand dead.
Even broken children. Even outrage.
Disappear. From conversation. From
throats. From decency. The birds rise
as night descends. Perhaps we dream
the same monochrome dreams. In
which we fly, lighter than guilt, higher
than shame, fire in our beaks, smoke
rising to singe our tails, to leave bloody
handprints on the eyeless moon. See
how both escape and retribution
require departure. If only, briefly.
THOUGHT PURGE 
I love this parable (as I see it) you describe here. The brevity of each sentence and simple images accentuate your point.
LikeLike
Thanks Sunra… it’s difficult when you take a step back and see how normal the world is in some parts while it has completely crumbled in others…and how it seems ok to carry on like that….
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wow, Rajani! So powerful. The flight “lighter than guilt, higher than shame, fire in our beaks…..” above all the carnage that is breaking what’s left of our hearts. Thank heaven for poetry, somewhere to put all this pain.
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Sherry… yes, thank heavens for poetry.
LikeLike
Yes, in these bewildering times, I struggle to find anchors
LikeLike
Yes, we need to stand in the truth… but we’re in a world where there are so many versions of it…
LikeLike
Beautiful and also hurtful poem ( as it sometimes, in my opinion, a poem should be), full of those truths that for sure creep out from our own mind’s dusty corners, “How both grace
and macabre defy gravity. If only,
briefly” – this part especially speaks to me of choices, and how sometimes they must be made, and how in today’s world, we are shoved in into the macabre ones. Truly a touching write, really making me think!
LikeLike
Thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is perfect, thank you – lighter than guilt, higher than shame…
LikeLike
Thank you, Bob…. quite unbelieveable, what’s happening, what’s being allowed to happen.
LikeLike
I was touched about the anchor, when everything seems to be torn apart I wonder what those anchors should be, maybe the migratory birds sees it as that pond they always return to… I think we need the same. We came from the savannah, and moved around, but I am sure that we came back to the same places over and over… or was it the journey itself that was the anchor like the songlines of the the aboriginal people they used instead of maps.
LikeLike
I think the idea of songlines- deep memory as an anchor across ages – is beautiful… and as much as a physical place can anchor us, I think maybe truth too should be an anchor. No truth and no love, if we stood in it, would let us stray.
LikeLike