the young poetess & the free bird

He’s been flying high around the longest skyline, spreading seeds in different high lands

at times, singing with the wind’s soft songs with his flapping wings magnificent feathers, resting on branches; waiting for more perplexing flowers to bloom as he watches the sun slashing shadows beneath the grandest of trees.

He said, “I’ve seen them all; beautiful and ugly.” I know this one , this thing they call ‘bondage’ and so I know that liberty can only let me be and live.”

This young poetess goes for a walk looking for a landscape she wished she could put her words into. Deep into the forest she found many yet all too many that she found them unsightly. She said ” I am my own being and what I love I desire intensely that even the universe will work to move everything as I command.”

she scribbles some lines from the myths of the living but nothing feels more condescending than writing something out of immense longing.

so the great bird sings from his own beating rendering all others in profound bitterness. The young poetess ceases from writing and thought nothing is worth knowing; worth learning since there is none that is manifesting..

her pen that is filled with yearning about to be thrown out to the wilderness but the great bird appears singing and flying and living’ circling around and proving the poetess her mistaking

Her eyes lighted; her spirit exalted by the freedom which captures her immutable desire for the arts and soul

Once, she told him songs are poems

she works with scraps of papers and words and he with scraps of sounds and making melodies and that a poem is never finished until all scraps are joined together just as where they are supposed to be.

The great bird always finds her on the ridge looking beyond the vast expanse; out of her frame and out of her two obscure lenses, he laughs and likes to say.

Now she’s working on his own poetry; a poem involving real oddities and she likes it how crazy poems can be because she can improvise a lot with the great bird as her art

putting all the scraps, the words, the songs being held down by the clouds of uncertainty and ceaseless expectation.

The great bird says ” oh you are done. You are the woman for that.”

The young poetess says ” I would never ever disagree.”