Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Night Owl

I want to be someone else.
No, something else.
A bird.
An owl.
A big-eyed owl with wet silver wings
and talons that can pluck out an eye.

I want to nest up in the rafters
of that Deep Deuce jazz club,
the one that opens late and closes early.
I want to hoot when the horns move me,
and screech when I'm feeling the swing.

And, when I'm flying low with a contact high
and spy the Monday morning mouse,
I want to whisper,

"You've slept a dozen deaths.
Welcome to the resurrection."

12 comments:

Buddah Moskowitz said...

Exquisite.

Susan said...

Moving! Resurrection after reincarnation . ..

Susan said...

Moving! Resurrection after reincarnation . ..

Sylvia K said...

Another great one!! I love it!

Kerry O'Connor said...

I cannot imagine anything more perfect than this poem.
"wet silver wings"
"hoot when the horns move me"
the sleep of a dozen deaths...

Brilliant!

Grandmother (Mary) said...

While I was visiting my daughter and her family this last Christmas, an owl flew into the house by my grandson and landed on the top of a bookcase near him. It stayed for quite a while and my grandson took at an omen for him. I want for him what your poem describes with all the hooting and screeching involved.

Brian Miller said...

ha. love your bit of dialogue there in the end....

Fireblossom said...

You make one killer owl, babe.

ayala said...

Great poem!

georgeplaceblog said...

LOVE THIS and yes I'm shouting.

Kathryn Dyche Dechairo said...

Perfection.

grapeling said...

I know it's your other blog, but I found a hummingbird inside my boys house the other day. I was waiting inside, asked my ex-wife -when did you get a bird? We didn't. Well, there's one there. Oh! Had to protect him from the dogs, but got him outside without damage.

I wonder if the local hawks, or crows, were waiting, though.

And, I did end up penning something to that image of Frida ~