Wednesday, September 13, 2017

The Nest






The Nest





In the dark of dreams
the heartbird flew
far and wide till she came to my arms.
I built her a nest of silver and blue
wisps and mirrors and scraps of sky,
lined with the down from my own broken wings;
but she cocked her head, blinked her jet-bead eye
and jumped to my breast.
With head tucked to my chin,
her warmth and mine 
cupped 
and entwined,
together we slept
through the tempest outside
heartbeat to heartbeat
against
the cold tide.



~September 2017









Optional Musical Accompaniment










Images: The Phoenix Bird, 1990, ©Viorel Marginean     Fair Use
Oak Fractured By A Lightning, 1842, Maxim Vorobiev   Public Domain



8 comments:

  1. All I can say is, I love this. (and the musical piece as well, which suits the poem perfectly.) The 4th and 5th lines put me in mind of the Bower Bird, which makes an elaborate nest on the ground out of whatever colorful baubles it can find. This poem has a maturity to it that's rare, but it is how it makes me feel that makes me love it.

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  2. The 6xth line had me clutching my hand to my chest. Such beauty and depth. People often talk about love a sacrifice without truly knowing what it means, but this poem knows... it knows!

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  3. I love this too. Of course, the tender ending, but also the idea of making a nest of scraps of mirror and sky. And of course you make me think of Jung and the wounded healer with the mention of the narrator's broken wing fluff lining the nest. Just so very much good stuff here, Joy.

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  4. A wonderful lyric expression, with a resounding and satisfying end.
    SK

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  5. Thanks all, much appreciated--just a dream poem--better than the Trump ones, though.

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  6. the rhyme works so well, a strengthened spiral around the spine of this fine, wise, and ultimately bright clear-eyed pen

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  7. Magic, friend. Wings of comfort. I have null feelings about higher powers but I do ardently believe in deeper ones. We offer our brokenness to it and it whispers in our ear that we are loved at a more fundamental level. That's grace.

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg