Little Bird
I promised I would never leave your side
And that I gave you my word
Nobody knows the day that they’ll die
But that’s different for this Little Bird.
Everyday is a Gift
So don’t take Life for Granted
You see all the changes and all the shifts
So remember the names you’ve chanted.
I reminisce about my mother’s words
And how she taught me right from wrong
That a mistake is a chance to learn
That, was my mother’s song.
Mother would say this everyday
Always reminded me to be safe
But there was something I never got to say
Those three special words, to her face …
You said it would only take a minute,
But I swear it’s been more than a year.
Your Little Bird’s song, hear ‘em sing it
And share with me this shedded tear.
I swear to God, it’s been too long
And I still await your return.
Come down to see your Little Bird!
All grown up now with its own song
This pain is too much for one word
And mother, you’ve done nothing wrong.
I still feel her wings wrapped around my chest.
My heart viciously pounding,
And now …
Never finding rest.
How dare that Big Black Crow in the Sky
Take away the White Pure Heart of Dove?
The Heart that taught me it was okay to cry.
The same Heart that showed me Love.
I was told to be strong,
And really it all seemed like a blur.
One more tear and One final song,
Now let me share with you, One last word.
I’m sorry and I love you Mother,
To say this it feels absurd…
I’ll be there soon Mother!
From me, your Little Bird.
Continuity
Written in the style of famous poet, Margaret Atwood
Like Hunters the men they run
With their big guns and big knives
Stripping away every Rhino’s horn
Every Elephant’s tusk and every Shark’s fin.
Taking away their ability to fight, to feel, to swim.
Like Vultures they feed on the frail and the dead
Absorbing every bit of will and strength
We fight and they sin, Oh the Temptation
The Devil’s words must be of warm honey;
Sweet and Soothing.
Why must they prey on us?
Big Brother, why must you steal my present?
Is my love not enough?
Or have you not cured the greed in your fiendish blood?
The same blood that father passed down to both of us.
Do my bright-red yet pruny hands not compare
To those grease-stained, full of blisters?
Instead of torturing and tormenting my dreams
Allow me to flourish such as the daisies
In father’s garden, because father too had a garden
The garden where he planted the same seed
The same garden where we planted his ashes.
Everyone claims that times have changed,
Yet the Hunters continue to strip away an animal’s pride
So the Vultures will never go hungry.
I wonder how I’m still alive, and I wonder if this will continue
Inlandia: A Literary Journey 