Bukowski, Bluebirds and my Blue World
On blue moons,
between barstools
and broken beds -
I have moments
where my
beer-battered brain
opens the cage,
brave enough
to let my own bluebird
fly across a blank page.
My caged bird sings
in tweets of pain,
dragging
my life-sentenced
ball and chain
across
the telephone lined terrain
of purgatories page.
Painting the space
in hues of blue,
birthed by ballpointed dissection
of wing-clipped
captivity,
my bluebird bleeds out
those soft, tender
places within me,
mocking the freedom
I'll never know.
victoriavautaw@gmail.com
Sun 6th Dec 2020 14:30
Love this poem Rob. It reminds me of one of my favorite passages Colleen McCullough wrote in Thornbirds...
“There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to outcarol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain… Or so says the legend.”