Today's poem is by James Crizer
The thought of ostrich heads gone subterranean
seems out of place as the robins splash
the depression near an old maple.
They are more rhetorical, less reptilian.
The dip and rise between natureís octaves is enviable
despite the large nut, small brain
truth of things.
Yellow leaves twirl down in light clusters.
A manna of Asian ladybugs rides the falling
and feeds the birds, orange dots eaten,
yet never seeming to decrease.
Bugs often misconstrue their own plagues.
This might be holy, might be bounty in the face
of peripheral witness,
a minor plague.
People hum for the worst reasons.
Man can fancy himself the ultimate virgin, ridiculous
in a cool autumn wind, male breasts
Bird watchers pray for a species off its course.
The robins actually do something, function
for the sake of moment or cycle,
secular thoughts and twisting necks.
Naturalism is a difficult school.
Nipples are decorative breaks, arching
from the ribsí proscenium,
feathering lost props.
Many birds inhabit all three planes.
People dig, plant, voyeur clouds and movement,
poke fun at folk singers, say nothing
for large parts of the day.
Ostriches donít sing. They fear a misunderstanding.
Copyright © 2005 James Crizer All rights reserved
from Cimarron Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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