Creeping

crow — you are free, giving thanks for your feathers, and hollow bones,
I have neither and I cannot escape gravity
so bird, fly for us both — my heart will soar with you

 

 

Yellow dirt near the walls
where curious crows carous
they caw caw caw as they creep
then fly to gingko tree boughs

the Qin river girl is creating
beautiful brocade with her loom

the emerald yarn is mist like
the crow’s shriek hits like a fist strike
abruptly, she stops the shuttle
and sadly thinks of her long lost love

she is lonely here in her room
her tears like the rainy gloom

but alas I see you crow
in the carrion half-light
of this midnight caisson
up to which you creep
this funeral hearse
where my world
does sleep

as you cluster
with your murder
in this chilling rain
to defile the entity
drawn in this caisson

I celebrate
that you cannot

the living presence it bore
is greater than you

your gluttonness lust
might pick the meat clean
pick the bones dry
but the soul it carried
has gone its bye

yes — this being
has lived well beyond this muscle
beyond this sinew tendon and bone
these were its limits
now it is gone

now it is set free

so help yourself brother crow
sister raven
birds of black
help yourself
the spirit here
will not be back

this essence has gone beyond
far beyond
to become infinite
pure thought
unbound energy
completely free

what you pick apart
is the afterimage
of a mortal
now eternal

so take your fill crow
have your way raven
fat black bird — do your best
engorge the inglorious
the rest has left

then be gone
scatter
and far off
this caisson
has delivered its miracle

and still she mourns
she is lonely here in her room
still her tears just like the rainy gloom

*
rob kistner © 2021

Poetry at: The Sunday Muse

Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers

Poetry at: earthweal

Poetry at: mindlovesmisery

 




26 thoughts on “Creeping”

  1. An eerie poem, love the way the woman grieving seems to be weaving the mist itself and the idea of an afterimage of life.

    1. Makes you wonder if she has special powers to be so in-tune with the crows? How did her lover die? Why? What is she weaving in her grief? Why emerald and not black? So many questions. 😐

      1. Fine story Rob, I needed one. Your mention of the yellow floor beneath the crows reminded me of how glad I was when we went to the penguin pasture in the bogs at the Falkland Islands that we had brought plastic painter’s foot covers. They were disposable, others had to wash and disinfect their shoes or else discard them.
        ..

  2. This is a mesmerizing poem, Rob:

    ‘the emerald yarn is mist like
    the crow’s shriek hits like a fist strike’

    I just love these lines! But there is so much to love. Haunting and liberating.

    1. Thank you Sara, very much. The piece was a most fulfilling write, and evolved from two separate concepts over time through rewrites which lived as unfinished drafts. This photo prompt was the spark that united the two into one draft, and inspired the final write, which you see here.

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