If I Were a Bird

If I Were A Bird

If I were a bird
I would glide to the sky
I would brush the wispy clouds as I fly by
And then I would dive through wind and breeze
And I would feel the earth as it lives and breathes
I’d slice through the air with fiery wings
And against the white sun I would begin to sing
And through the hush of the air my story would go
Whispering secrets it would blow
Then the the rivers would gurgle and the trees would hiss
Of the dark swirling depths of my soul’s abyss
Gold eyes ablaze and bronze talons alight
To the sun I would soar as it sinks into night
And as my soul burns from it’s scorching heat
My freedom as a bird would be complete
To the Heavens I’d go to finish my song
Melodies drifting all nightlong
And after I died everyone would know
Of the bird who’s eyes would always glow
Who’s secrets were kept locked within
Her flamed wings never to be seen again

I dreamed

I dreamed of the ocean and I dreamed of the sky,

and within the two I dreamed I could fly,

I dreamed of those who are high up above,

and I  hoped and I dreamed of endless love,

and then my dream ended and a nightmare arose,

and everything stopped and everything froze,

I dreamed of violence and horror and tears,

I dreamed of the world as a world of fear,

I dreamed of fire and darkness and light,

and it kept me sobbing all through the night,

then I dreamed of memories at last,

of the comings and the goings all through the past,

and when I woke up I wondered if

my dreams were real, actual things,

If people were bad and I could have wings,

or if they were just dreams within dreams

 

I was inspired to write this poem by-how ironic-a dream. I actually wished all these things. For a while, I dreamed of leaping into the air and flashing bronze wings in the moonlight, showing off my feathers. One time, I was separated from my friend and all I could see in her face was the wild fury of flames in her eyes and the darkness that separated us and the light in her, in us, slowly and painfully fading away. In this poem, I combine all the things cherished, now bittersweet memories. The end, or the conclusion, is a hook. And even though I have already posted this poem and  published it, I still wonder if those things were reality, or my mind slowly drowning in emotions.

Challenge week 5: A Memory

Baby. Such a stupid name for a doll. Then again, every 3-year old calls everything the name with an “e” at the end. Doggy. Horsey. Birdie. Mommy. Daddy. What could a baby doll be named as? I probably asked when I got it. Such an expensive thing should be named and cherished. And while I did loved it so much, I never considered naming it Mary or Rose  or anything else reasonable. So Baby it was called.

I took her absolutely everywhere. Every night, I snuggled with her. I told her all my secrets. Complained to her about those little things in life that bothered me. Whispered to her my favorite books at night, when I was supposed to be sleeping. Chatted to her merrily with not a care in the world. And the exciting part was?

Baby was always there. When I spoke to my mom, she was usually on the phone. My story would end at the same time the receiver’s message ended. “What did you say?” She’d ask carelessly. And when I muttered,”never mind,” she’d lecture me on how rude it was to “be speaking while Mommy and Daddy are on the phone.” Baby never said a word. She always listened. And she was always there when I wanted her. She had lovely blue eyes that looked so peaceful. Not the creepy eyes of any regular doll. Her dress was plaid. She had frilly white socks.  But the best part was her sparkling gold hair.

When I was little, I chewed on my hair. Didn’t everyone? I don’t do it anymore. But back then, it was too much a problem for my mom. She told me of nasty bugs and lice that could damage my hair. Attempting to scare me into breaking my habits, she showed me them online. “Does Baby have them?” I asked her innocently. “Ye-no. What?” My mom sputtered.

I chewed Baby’s hair instead.

One night, we were at an airport. I can’t remember  what I saw but where we sat was near a window. One of those huge ones that you could look through to see planes taking off and landing at. And it stank-like sewage. we were near a trash can. The air was heavy with airport junk food and old leather seats it was awful. But we were stuck until the plane came so I took out Baby.

I fed her and let her sip out of plastic bottles. I rocked her back and forth while singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little star,” the only real song I knew. The next thing I knew, I was being pushed and shoved into the plane. I screamed at my mom. Poured tears until everything was blurry. My sister cried silently.

I am told that my dad cancelled his flight and took one back to that airport, just to look for that doll. The only one I cared for. He talked to attendants in worried tones. They shook their heads and turned away. Me and my sister were quiet, mourning Baby’s loss. My sister knew how much I loved Baby. She had a doll of her own, too.

Some people know what it feels to have people dead. People we care about stiff and cold, their sightless eyes staring up. But at least they had bodies to mourn over. I had nothing.

Only when I missed Baby did I realize just how much I loved her. How could a torn, crinkly toy be loved so much? Love is mysterious in more ways than one. And everyone is different.

When I was five, I wrote a letter to Baby. Because of course she wasn’t dead. Not really anyway. But who knows what position she was in? Perhaps she was being shipped to Africa for a child in need. Or perhaps she was found by another kid, one that was snotty and mean and ripped Baby apart. Or maybe, just maybe, she is under the ancient leather seat, waiting for a child who would never come.

 

 

Displaying photo.JPG