For metal birds I’d have never thought,
That proper words would e'er be sought
for poetic composition!
But on an urn did John Keats cry
And Blake, on "fearful symmetry",
Quest'ning with Powerful passion!
Can we too ask if, when or whether,
With birds of steel, so stiff of feather,
A poem could e’er be urged?
They watch unseeing, the electric wire,
which no words, e'en fleeting, inspire.
On the morning’s wistful shadows though, words splurge!
I would be wary
Calling that a canary
Cos I'm not so friendly with birds!
But if boards they would carry
Saying "Tom", "Dick" or "Harry"
I would certainly cry, "How absurd!"
For unknown they’d all like to be,
And care nought for or-n’-tho-lo-gy
They'll greet you each morning
With their chirping at dawning
Regardless of Doc Salim Ali!!
The promise of a fine day dawning,
Hidden in a grey-haze morning,
And the half-smile of a little girl!
The memories of yesteryear,
The laughter, the occasional tear,
Flit off the half-smile of a little girl.
A half-smile is perhaps a token
Of pleasure or pain, mostly, unspoken,
But, mark you, it sets your mind awhirl.
Ah, somewhere a glorious dawn doth break
And someone’s breath away doth take!
As ever, the brilliant sun shall rise
While night crawls to its corner, and dies.
Sometime then, my darkened soul, to light awake.
To light awake!
We see a hen with feathers of gold
And remember
that fabled goose of old!
But what we
ignore
Though well
we all know
That goose wasn’t
much to behold.
If you could
judge a book by its cover
Or a man by
his polished demeanour
Or a woman
by virtue
Of what she
tells you
He stands upon the ears of grain,
For birds of prey his eyes do strain;
Twixt "fight or flight"
It's only slight:
His chance of standing here again.
But life goes on from day to day,
As flitting around for wisps of hay
He builds the nest
And keeps the rest
In His Good Hands, ... and whistles away.
