Birds That Are Blue

The blue jay has perched.

I wear it on my sleeve

Like a heart, elusive

Here and there it flits

Looking for acorns

To fill up the knothole.

Up in smoke

Down they roll

Never filling.

But if only one takes root

This logged cabin is coming down.

Blue-Jay Yarn

From the land of memory
I made the journey long ago
And remember only the veiled Joys
Whom men do not yet know.

And were I nimble now as the
Happiness of Running Barefoot in the Dew
I would not catch the bluest birds
Not here and
Not where the black bird turned blue.

Blue Bird of Happiness

Smelted by Tolstoy

Trudging through a one hundred page soirée 

Asking why, why must I read this book

I committed finally to see it through to the last page

The third time I started reading it.

I know you will look at the last page,

See 1038, and ask why, why must you read this book.

And you will pronounce me a bore 

If able to endure the first hundred.

If I knew the exact page the book begins to captivate,

I would not tell you; instead, I'll ask you

If not for ore to compare to,

Would value smelted from it be as valued?

So trudge along.  This book will smelt you.

As it did Natasha.

As it did Pierre.

Read the Book

The Bells of Notre Dame

Read the Book

Hear the Bells

Quasimodo gave a name
To all the bells of Notre Dame
Empowering them to toll
And sound the depths of every soul
In deafness waiting
Feeling through bells reverberating
That somewhere out beyond his tower
There was one.

There was one

Waking the sun with her flower and

Little white goat with bell tinkling

Following capering frolicking

In the meadows of her gypsy soul

Condemned to hang on the gallows.

Two entombed.

And now no bell remembers 

They had names.