Bird Light Day Night,

-from,

The New Springtime Journals, Prose Poems and Pictures 

(for Tara)

Rya, R-eee-ya, R-iii-ya, goes the bird and it’s night when that occurred and the bird is unseen. There are soft lights in the real reality indoors. Love and friendship also, plus literature,- stacks of books. Papers and pens. 

Before, it was morning, and the sun ascended and the earth was warm if a little damp. Reading quickly through Rimbaud’s life and times. The diviner listened to, said a bird would fly overhead. A slightly larger than normal bird. This happened. And there was a large tree and winding paths, hills that went quietly up and then standing on the summit one could see far and far,- distant buildings and more hills,- trees. I watched the thawed and therefore flowing river, and the closer I went the louder and more wonderful it was. Morning, afternoon, dusk, and night. These things and the things within them. Airplanes and clouds in the sky. Spring. The new springtime. The springtime poems from springtime journals. Messages. Letters. Many words. 

A ring. I had lost a ring. Looked for it for weeks. Then I let it go for a while. When this night arrived I sat in silence and it came to me…the ring is on a bookshelf. I didn’t know exactly where but that was the message. From spirit or from the higher self or internal knowledge or something. I got up. Turned on lights. Stood before the shelf. Saw a small box. Opened it. There was a picture of Jesus Christ and a small medallion also, and some jewellery. There, amidst all that, was the missing ring. I put it on my finger. I had tried it on at a carnival once, the night fairgrounds of electric eclectic wondrous lights, vendors, music, scents wafting through the nocturne. Distant firecrackers of the firmament. Metropolis of summer. Scenes. Life. Streets. Cars. People. So many people moving about. The vendor: ‘It fits well.’ Me: ‘Yes.’ Memory. The beloved. Brown eyes and dimples, slight blonde streaks in her dark brown hair. Lovely. She doesn’t wear earrings but has been of late,- this year. She is pretty. Naturally pretty. A good soul. Wise. Strong. Honest. Reliable. From the South. Virginia. 

We look around at the carnival night. Before and after ride buses, trains, and in a car. Fine. Summer evening. Make memories. Hold hands. Talk. You know how it goes. Everyone has a story as they say. 

Back to now: pears and strawberries. Literary biography. Dreams. Good dreams and some bad dreams. But far less bad dreams than before. Almost a whole day without writing prose poems. For reading. For finishing a book I was into. Carson McCullers. A biography. Hmm. Pastel green duvet. We share chocolate the brown haired one and I. A fan whirls. The fields are out there, to be walked in and through, tomorrow morning again. Birds. And window sills here. Silence. Glass. Fences. Cleaning things. Wondering about the future. Aruba. Planes. Places. Beaches. Pools. Short walks. Longer walks. What will be there? Pictures and poems from the parapets and by the promenades of life. hopefully. Take it easy. The world needs less ambitious people anyhow. There should be a district for daydreamers, a mountain for magic, an arena for artists, a shrine for seers, a beach for believers, an applause and clause for the apolitical, a placid pool for poets…

There is a story I wrote about a blue crocheted heart and a small metal heart was found while looking for that ring. A diviner said: ‘Someone out there can hear this message- a blue heart I am seeing. Strange. Hearts are usually red. But this is blue. That message is for someone in the collective…’

Later I’ll step outside. Maybe the night birds will be there somewhere in the distance. A-r-iy a. Ryiiia. That’s what they seem to say. Loquacious if anything. It’s spring. I guess they are taking to their friends. Everyone communicates in their own way. The birds sing those strange songs. The architect makes a rendering. The mechanic repairs the engine. The train conductor sounds a whistle. A teacher makes a rubric. The novelist, an outline first usually. The poet the poem. The mystic creates themselves a new, with God. 

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