Like A Dying Baby Bird On A Battlefield






Like winter’s moon-play,

its violin strokes across first morning snow

summer sunshine stippled along your skin

a joyful sticky pineapple juice.


I only wanted to be one of many 

leaves, petals, butterflies 

that clung to it, basked on it.


I wanted  to be fragrant morning jasmine 

of the billions of summer, just so, 

the one that drove you crazy with hay fever

but even madder with passion;

I’d from a lofting, cruiser cloud

fall across your skin to cling 

like a fat hot grape

no matter what  

I might have been before.


My outlaw heart you loved

and I was always there 

in the brown dirge

of late autumn leaves’ mat

whenever your heart was broken

like a dying baby bird on a battlefield —


how it mourns so sadly, 

its slowly closing eyes,

the opening beak raising back 

then up one more time to its god

such trusting love, as its broken wings, 

like a run over cricket’s  legs, in death

trembling, ceases as baby  bird dreams

of flight and fat bees, thin, thin,

and smoke-like flee 

to its tender god who loved 

its titanic heart.


How I love the jasmine and the leaves

as I roll among them naked 

to wear my hair-shirt 

this aging skin oiled 


dirt-smeared with the mother of things

that touched you, the perfection 

never gathered ~ I gather in the sun

hot fat grapes and pineapple dreams

and mandolin streams of star dots flung 

in a memory of songs

unsung as love


like a dying baby bird on a battlefield .




 













 





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DannyBeatty
Poetry
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