The Warbler
Ahead of me,
on the trail,
I spied a cut of yellow topaz.
But no
it was a warbler,
on its back,
legs waving wildly.
Like some avian EMT,
I rushed to the rescue,
scooped up the bird in my hand,
before some fox or owl
could get to it.
Eyes wide open,
it braced itself in my grip,
either from fear
or will to survive.
I stroked its chest feathers
in an attempt to calm the bird.
But then, it rolled a little,
revealed a wing
half-severed from the body.
Its legs kicked,
tail twitched.
Even the good wing
waved frantically.
But I was no longer a rescuer.
I was a coffin bearer.
So I put the bird back down,
in a bed of grass this time.
Mercy drained from my eyes.
Surely all it saw in me
was hopelessness.
I could go no farther down that trail.
I returned the way I had come.
Cawing crows filled the treetops.
They would eat the bird.
Their scorn for me was the appetizer.
In Search of Edgar Allan Poe
This August night, the drizzle is a kind
of sunshine, soft and reliable,
soothing cool against the face.
It softly thrums my cheekbones as I stroll
Benefit Street’s lumpen sidewalks.
I find Poe prints but no Poe.
The moon’s a thin one.
The light is sporadic and watery.
It's evening and something flies overhead.
A raven? More likely a bat.
They’re out to make a living.
I seek out kinship with the past.
Any one of these stoops
could have been Poe’s courting place.
Or the doorway
he turned away from in despair.
My imagination is bait
for any shape or sound.
Was that the crackle of Sarah Whitman’s petticoats?
Or just wind blowing last year’s leaves around?
A plaque on a wall reads 1848.
A window’s lit with candles.
A tree, old and gnarly,
is rooted in broken brick.
I find Poe prints but no Poe.
Then a mist rises up
from stark, morose masonry.
I swear it’s blowing my way.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, “Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and California Quarterly.
Ahead of me,
on the trail,
I spied a cut of yellow topaz.
But no
it was a warbler,
on its back,
legs waving wildly.
Like some avian EMT,
I rushed to the rescue,
scooped up the bird in my hand,
before some fox or owl
could get to it.
Eyes wide open,
it braced itself in my grip,
either from fear
or will to survive.
I stroked its chest feathers
in an attempt to calm the bird.
But then, it rolled a little,
revealed a wing
half-severed from the body.
Its legs kicked,
tail twitched.
Even the good wing
waved frantically.
But I was no longer a rescuer.
I was a coffin bearer.
So I put the bird back down,
in a bed of grass this time.
Mercy drained from my eyes.
Surely all it saw in me
was hopelessness.
I could go no farther down that trail.
I returned the way I had come.
Cawing crows filled the treetops.
They would eat the bird.
Their scorn for me was the appetizer.
In Search of Edgar Allan Poe
This August night, the drizzle is a kind
of sunshine, soft and reliable,
soothing cool against the face.
It softly thrums my cheekbones as I stroll
Benefit Street’s lumpen sidewalks.
I find Poe prints but no Poe.
The moon’s a thin one.
The light is sporadic and watery.
It's evening and something flies overhead.
A raven? More likely a bat.
They’re out to make a living.
I seek out kinship with the past.
Any one of these stoops
could have been Poe’s courting place.
Or the doorway
he turned away from in despair.
My imagination is bait
for any shape or sound.
Was that the crackle of Sarah Whitman’s petticoats?
Or just wind blowing last year’s leaves around?
A plaque on a wall reads 1848.
A window’s lit with candles.
A tree, old and gnarly,
is rooted in broken brick.
I find Poe prints but no Poe.
Then a mist rises up
from stark, morose masonry.
I swear it’s blowing my way.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, “Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and California Quarterly.
