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the ocean always dreamed blue dreams

The Bird's Nest

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looking at it I knew it was different
a bird's nest
full of hope and fear
and the cavalier fulsomeness of life
the blind ability to get up each day under the weight of it all
to go out every day believing you were one of the masses
dressed in the same uniform
believing the same things
that god is good
that love will find a way
believing or hoping to believe that
the others would not notice your vampiric differences
that your eyes glittered with need
and that you preferred the dark

no, we, you got up each day and covered ourselves in
our indifferent raiment
to throw ourselves at an indifferent world
which, when it saw suffering
was fully capable of staring
in unmitigated glee
at the train wreck of lives roiling past

but inside, inside
it was lined with feathers and strings of hope
the same DNA that made them, made us, made you
the same hope provided the filtered light
of day from striking us blind
let in the filmy light of the moon
so that we could spin awkward dreams
the same sticks could be blown asunder
by the mere idea of a superior being
(do those even exist?)
or from a strong wind blowing down
from the plains or over the ocean
through clouds that gather greenly
to mark the impending horror

and inside, inside, too,
the hurricane, the tornado
can descend on the unsuspecting
few gathered there in hope and pity
before the sacred light
hoping to warm our hands against the cold
longing to huddle with some few others
like-minded and weary in the night
huddled in our blankets and cast off-clothes

seeing with the weary realistic eyes
of those who cannot see the light, but only
the dark, curving walls of the tunnel,
only smell the dankness of walls
that have never seen the sun
still, there, there, the wind and horror
can descend when there is too much,
descend, if only for awhile,
and your hope rides out the waves
and when they, at last, subside
peek out hopefully
yes, lovingly to find
the remnants of something good

it's still a bird's nest
made of sticks and strings
and battered hope;
a prison or a gateway?
we do not know
we only know it's home

December 27, 2011


  1. mtpspur's Avatar
    Poignant is a word I rarely use but I believe it applies well here---may the future be bright dear friend.
  2. TheFifthElement's Avatar
    Qimi, this is a breaktaking poem. So full of tortured, tenuous hope, a desperate search for light against the shadows. And in the end it is still hopeful. There is always in your poems a kind of restrained passion, never more so than in this one. It is beautiful. I wish you would publish. I would buy your collection.
    Thanks for sharing this one with us.
  3. qimissung's Avatar
    Thank you, Rich, and thank you, Fifth.
  4. Maximilianus's Avatar
    I agree with the above comments. It's truly sharp, characteristic of a sharp writer