I guess just throw it on the compost, this dead swan at the bottom of the road. So much larger here at my feet – a feathered cello, neck bent around to bow a low moan. It was never white, bright silver now brushed with death to mottled grey. Prisms of dew bead the wings – tasting flights of fine oil feeding mites. No prayer here. I roll like a dog in dead words.
-
Follow
Following
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
qbit 
This is brilliant.
“a dead feathered cello,
neck bent around to bow
a low moan”
“a living light,
of brushed silver”
Sheesh that’s good.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you!!
LikeLike
Amazed by the way this balances the physical & practical matter of a dead bird with a gloss of the wonder it would have had, flying. And the last stanza is one to chew over.
LikeLiked by 2 people
What you have taken from the image is spectacular Qbit! Every line draws one closer to the heart and all it’s wonders. Truly gorgeous writing here!
LikeLiked by 2 people
Your words take us on an amazing journey, Qbit. Beautiful write.
LikeLiked by 2 people
I’m rather stuck for words of praise – live ones in particular so that I do not roll over like a dead dog
a picture of pathos (the moan, the mites) coupled with an oil painting of swan feathers
“it was a living light.
Bright silver”
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you!!!
LikeLike
Delving deep, deep, deep into the image. Her face, her eyes, what adorns her. I am fascinated by the journey you took. Particularly the flights of fine oils. Cheers.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Beautiful.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, so sad the swan no longer sings…and no prayer to set it free…sigh…this pulls at the heartstrings.
LikeLiked by 1 person
She’s messed up for sure. Perhaps on bad drugs, I thought of doing a write in that vein after seeing her empty looks.
..
LikeLiked by 1 person
That second stanza knocked me off the couch. Love it. Or, as Orange Julius Sid Vicious Caeser Salad once said, “Wampum credum alpha bitsum est.”
LikeLiked by 1 person
Or Cheech and Chong: “Feeli me boni belli”, LOL!
But damn, the honking thing is huge.
I might
need
a red wheel
barrow
LikeLiked by 1 person
Nooo! Not the RED WHEELBARROW! *throws plums in your general direction^
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love this entire poem… That second stanza is such a brilliant visual.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, thank you so much!
LikeLike
Love this whole poem, especially the second stanza.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Poems about the flotsam and detritus life dumps at our feet are some of my favorites, because, after all, anyone can write about how pretty the moon is. You have aced taking the incongruous and making it sing, showing its little victories of beauty amidst the mites and death, and of course, the last lines are a howl straight to and from the cerebellum. (and you cracked me up with the red
wheelbarrow, which I know Shay loves almost as much as haiku)
LikeLiked by 1 person
So glad you took the time to go back read this. When the muse conveniently drops a dead swan by the side of the road, there really isn’t much choice what to write about, LOL! Can’t look a gift cygnet in the mouth, or such.
LikeLiked by 1 person