For the Birds
A handful of birdy poems
My friend JA Olson-McDonnell inked the above hooter years ago, pen & ink. Tonight I’m joining several writers & poets to give vocal support to the bird art adorning the walls of Gallery 709 on Ronan Street in Missoula. I plan on reading a few poems with birds. Birds show up in a lot of Montana poets’ poems. Go figure. I’m betting they show up in most-anywhere poets’ poems. That’s more than likely why I was told in “writing school” not to write about birds or the moon: sooooo overdone.
Well, fuck that, I thought. How or why would I want to avoid birds? Of all the animals we are most envious of, birds have got to top the list. My friend’s, “Annie’s,” owl reminded me of this bird-poem that eerily came to me a couple of years ago.
Owl Woman
The owl-man hoots mournfully
to the crooning Latina's voice
singing her blues in the dark.
She digs deep inside her broken
heart rich as meadowlark's song
wailing back her hours lost
Echoing the night across
rivers, deserts, blue mountains,
and blood-skies crying stars.
Riding the wings of owl
feathers into the shadows
of the moon, her owl eyes
Know the lies she tells herself,
see the owl-man swoop, drop
soft as melody, her heart calling
Him back from black distance,
howling to silence, no wind in
her hair, the dead air quiet again.
Only the lament of loneliness,
her hunger for him, calls owl
woman's moaning pain for love. Just in case you don’t get to go to Gallery 709 tonight, here are a couple poems I’ll share. Read them out loud and outside if you can, maybe stand on a chair or get yourself a little up in the air somehow. Today would be a great day to be a bird!
Cool Blue Dawn
Bring me the top of the mountain
at the top of the world
this dawn top of the morning
to stand in the eagle's lair, the air,
wind cool, steady, whipping
my hair, blue sky far as eye
can see, just me on this rock,
feathers ruffled, turning blue
till you arrive and that makes two,
three birds to share this view.
Bring me the backyard bluebird,
let it sing harmony with the finch
in the hedge, dance with the chickadee
hopping the spruce trunk, open for
the meadowlark's heartbreaking solo
of hope hidden in weeds—let
Miles scream a bitchy hawk whistle,
make Bird squawk camp-robber riffs,
have Monk crow and whippoorwill
(the only way to go home)
and beg Coltrane to blow coda
of mourning doves supreme.
Bring me the music of birds today,
those are the best words
of comfort for the feeling of soul,
help us learn the language
we don't know, this world, this life
we love, this light and noise
we agree exists, what we see
and don't understand, help us forget
the threat we constantly fear—
knowing we are going to disappear—
for some reason it terrifies us to be
as fragile and beautiful as birds.
Bring me the dream of wings,
of freedom aloft, that promise of
flight when fate closes and opens
the door into birdsong and joy,
fearless in the new dawn
breaking over the unknown—hearts
reborn into a new kind of blue.“Cool Blue Dawn” is from In the Weeds, 2021, Drumlummon Institute.
“At the Cabin” from Forgotten Dreams, 2012, FootHills Publishing.
I was messing around with haiku awhile back and one thing often leads to another. The first haiku led into the next, so I found myself writing a poem of haiku stanzas. Lost in the field of play. The following poem is from mostly cloudy, another FootHills book from 2020, which was set to debut on March 18th but never got off the ground. The pandemic caged us all.
Birds & Mothers
Doves flew from unclasped
coop cage-doors like tossed caps
on graduation day.
Fly little birds! Now
you're free to bungle you're own
haiku & destinies.
Mothers coo to give
peace a chance, a message men
find unrealistic.
Hawks must kill to live—
perched alone, high on a pole,
he targets to dive-bomb
the waddling mom
fluttering from the windowsill—
& feathers fall
like bouquet petals
on the carpeted floor beneath
her quiet casket.
A little sweetness to lighten the day. Leave it to Raven to entertain.
Sweetness
Raven struts
Down the sidewalk
Tasting
The air
Shakes its
Tuxedo tail
Dips to clean
The cement
Caws to another
Combing the grass
Hop-Roaming
The plaza
They dance
The Caw-ca-doodle-doo
Tango like
Dada-dandy
Blue-black
Crow sisters
Waddle bumping
Big breasts
In a hornpipe
Dead heat
For some sticky
Big Hunk
Candy
Wrapper 
It’s hard to avoid birds. They are magical beasts. Here’s one more somber song for the road. And if you can check out the birds on the walls at Gallery 709 or the one’s flitting about the microphone tonight, it would be grand to see you there. Many others will join David E. Thomas, Shaun Gant, and me to read you some birdy words!
The Mourning
dove calls its three note song
over and over atop the power pole
behind my house—I wonder
does she grieve like me
trying to remember and forget
the past—graph my life here
on the ground capturing sounds
word songs—can she know sadness
feel beyond her morning perch
in the sun sky air
intend her echoed reply—is she
waiting for death to arrive
singing through the storm
like some beacon homing device
calling all the lonely-hearted
blue crooners of noise
those tethered birds binding
the vulnerable decoys
scratch-scribbling it digs around
the stone of my chest—shadows
encroach from behind overhead
no warning of owl talon or wing
silently we listen—wait
as darkness descends