Johns Poems

Nostalgia

Brushing past the

red berries there,

the old dirt path grown over

now with green and thorn,

lighted by the moons tears

that drop one

by one by one,

into the dark forlorn.

A gentle stream now replaces

the impressions young feet

made and the

limbs once swung upon

now reach out in agony

to the sky, too tall

 for those little hands

that once clasped one

over the other and

swang and sang

with merry bands.

Oh promise me now

my good fellow,

that you will remember me,

and preserve the paths

that we once walked

in kind antiquity.

Death Perch

Death laid with her

for some and the call

of a morning bird echoed

through.  She stirred once

before passing.

The limb that gave

perch to the calling

was cut down and laid

to rest with her.

One less place

where death may call..

Solitary Bird

I reach down in the grass for a

small bird that is unmoving,

helpless, unable or unwilling

to fly. Perhaps

needing time to decide.

Nearby, Mother scolds and chirps.

I can feel its tiny heartbeat,

a fluttering of anxiety,

a faint pulse and yet

it surges through my

body like thunder.

I stare into its eyes

as it sits in my palm,

head bobbing,

and wait for it to fly.

Until it does, I

may not close my hand.

It turns its head slowly

from one side to the other,

looking up at my puzzled face

from time to time, still

undecided.

I cannot feel its weight.

I cannot grasp its tiny body-

I am spellbound until,

with a flutter that

empties my soul…

 it flies.