I'd like to think I'm like Saint Francis
Preaching to birds
Making them witness the importance of
Everything and it's inherent
Emptiness
Making the birds understand
Why they needed what he was selling
Even though they had no money to buy
What a pro
The problem is
Birds don't think that way
They live in the moment unless
They're trying to get laid
Or protect their young
Saint Francis knew that
He kept selling them up
Even though they had no meaning
For god or his son
Besides
He made pretty noises
By moving his mouth
And sometimes kept food in his hand
Winter will still be here
For another six weeks
Even if Phil sees his shadow
Or is it the other way round?
I know what cold feels like
It goes inside you and creeps
Making living seem bitter and stale
Making birds
Forget to be saved
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1 comment:
Out of the three poems, this one was definitely the best. Are you going insane not being able to paint?
I can't paint. I paint with words. A book I've re-read recently does a fantastic job at painting with words (Memory and Dream by Charles de Lint). I mean literally, because the story is about painters living in a place kinda like Seattle, but on the East Coast. (I never checked to see if the place the story named was real). The writer does a great job writing about painting, and art in general. He's either married to a painter or did some really good research.
I can get you an audio copy if you wish.
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