Unmade Bed

My life, my unmade bed.

Comfortable and incomplete.  

With blanket half-hung.

And sheets speechless in white cotton mouth.

Like newsprint waiting to meet the ink,

Storylines keep me captive in the “wanna-be” writer’s head.

My life is waiting for words unwritten,

A lull, a pause in conversation,

And the bed becomes a part of me.

I am wrapped in the embrace of the one I love.

I am tucked safely in between.

I am climbing onto the rectangular pyre of love-making.

I am becoming an object participating in the motion of sleep.

I am taking up residence in the world of dreams.

I am waking up.

I am putting feet beneath this body of mine.

I am beginning again.

Bed unmade, still.

Left like a crime scene,

A still shot, frozen in former motion

Waiting for my return.

Bird Song to Baby on Blanket

Why the obsession with birds?
To fly.
To sing.
To swim and dive.
My baby lays on a black fleece blanket in the backyard.
His panorama is the sky in grandest blue.
The crows, like specks of dust
Enter and leave his point of view.
Sometimes I want to fly up high and escape the fire below.
The turmoil of an earth half-hinged.
The murmur of mankind filled with rage.
Why does a yell take up more space than a smile?
Why are we so silent to those teeming with the same elements?
Why do we feel so helpless and hopeless and all alone?
My baby gazes with innocent unknown at the bliss above
while I hover nearby with guarded eye
and words whispered behind raised tongue.
You will fly.
You will sing.
You will swim and dive.
You will become aviary.
Free.
In spite of this cage below.