bird-songs.blogspot.com
Birdsongs: Archive - Early Words
http://bird-songs.blogspot.com/p/archive-early-words.html
Call it a stream of consciousness, call it free writing, call it an open journal. Call them My Songs. Archive - Early Words. I see myself through green eyes blue. And wonder what to make. What to make of this mature young girl. What to make of me? Soft red lips, so coarse and harsh. Pale drawn skin and yet roses blush her cheeks. She has small dark eyes, that light up with brightness. Small dark eyes, not green and not blue. Her eyes become more tired with every smile that she cries. Her beloved, writhes.
bird-songs.blogspot.com
Birdsongs
http://bird-songs.blogspot.com/2014/08/collaboration-if-it-hadnt-been-for-you.html
Call it a stream of consciousness, call it free writing, call it an open journal. Call them My Songs. Wednesday, 6 August 2014. If it hadn't been for you,. My mum, my inspiration. I could never have dreamed this dream. If it hadn't been for you. My dad, my bricks and mortar,. I could never have seen this through. If it hadn't been for you. My friend, my brave companion. I would never have had the guts. If it hadn't been for you. My visionary, my ear in confidence. It would never have been this good.
bird-songs.blogspot.com
Birdsongs: Archive - 2010
http://bird-songs.blogspot.com/p/archive-2010.html
Call it a stream of consciousness, call it free writing, call it an open journal. Call them My Songs. Monday night in Chicago. Sheer panic and despair. Alone surrounded by strangers. Where no-body knows my name. Straight to the bar:. Regulars with pony tails. And Snow on the ground -. A more familiar sight than usual. A strange city and a stranger feeling. The neon light in the window reminds me of the unknown. All alone and scared, not sure if I can do this. Too much yet to see. Too soon to tell. Make m...
bird-songs.blogspot.com
Birdsongs: November 2014
http://bird-songs.blogspot.com/2014_11_01_archive.html
Call it a stream of consciousness, call it free writing, call it an open journal. Call them My Songs. Friday, 28 November 2014. I came to teach you. But I'm the one who's learnt. I came to hide to hunker down. But it seems I've been seen through. Expecting nothing, finding everything,. My heart in a classroom of souls. Your eyes have brightened all of mine. Rekindled the unknown lost. I've shared in your smiles, the broadest I've known. You gave me your joy and laughter. A student, a teacher, a friend.
bird-songs.blogspot.com
Birdsongs
http://bird-songs.blogspot.com/2015/01/5-th-january-be-gone-two-dates-todread.html
Call it a stream of consciousness, call it free writing, call it an open journal. Call them My Songs. Monday, 5 January 2015. January; Be gone. Two dates to dread,. Two poems to write. Two loved ones too missed. In a world that will never be right. Too many memories lost. Too far away to remain. Numbers that will only grow. Unversaries that should never be known. Another heinous day of sadness and sorrow. That steals my happiness today and tomorrow. Oh day of pain. Please leave my heart, just let me be.
bird-songs.blogspot.com
Birdsongs: May 2014
http://bird-songs.blogspot.com/2014_05_01_archive.html
Call it a stream of consciousness, call it free writing, call it an open journal. Call them My Songs. Saturday, 24 May 2014. Four-twenty eight and one second, two. Three seconds, five, six and seven seconds gone. Four-twenty eight and ten more seconds. Beating to the drum of the nightshift blues. Four-twenty nine and daylight’s forgiven -. Absent from this prison lit with strips of glowing screen. Four-thirty am with the night shift blues. As white boxed workers hum forgotten tunes. Unauthorized use and/...
bird-songs.blogspot.com
Birdsongs: Archive - 2009
http://bird-songs.blogspot.com/p/archive-200910.html
Call it a stream of consciousness, call it free writing, call it an open journal. Call them My Songs. Happiness does not fade away. It doesn’t slip slowly through your fingers. Or disappear over the horizon like the sunset. Happiness is snatched from unsuspecting hands while they sleep,. Kidnapped in the dark of night s. O you won’t see it leave. In time you won’t remember it shape in your bed. Or its warmth on your skin,. You wont recall the strain on your mouth that laughter smiles. Lose it, keep it.
bird-songs.blogspot.com
Birdsongs
http://bird-songs.blogspot.com/2014/11/for-my-students-i-came-to-teach-you-but.html
Call it a stream of consciousness, call it free writing, call it an open journal. Call them My Songs. Friday, 28 November 2014. I came to teach you. But I'm the one who's learnt. I came to hide to hunker down. But it seems I've been seen through. Expecting nothing, finding everything,. My heart in a classroom of souls. Your eyes have brightened all of mine. Rekindled the unknown lost. I've shared in your smiles, the broadest I've known. You gave me your joy and laughter. A student, a teacher, a friend.
bird-songs.blogspot.com
Birdsongs
http://bird-songs.blogspot.com/2015/01/missing-i-really-do-miss-you-and-i-do.html
Call it a stream of consciousness, call it free writing, call it an open journal. Call them My Songs. Tuesday, 20 January 2015. 8220;I really do miss you,”. 8220;And I do too”. Words so much too said,. What it means is never read. I miss your voicemail message. And how I feel at your missed your call,. I want you to demand from me, ask too much of me. Talk about your day to me, when I didn’t ask. I miss the smell of you: miss the safety of two. The everything will be ok as long as I still have you. Missi...
bird-songs.blogspot.com
Birdsongs
http://bird-songs.blogspot.com/2014/08/another-anotheranother-eighth-of-august.html
Call it a stream of consciousness, call it free writing, call it an open journal. Call them My Songs. Friday, 8 August 2014. Another, another eighth of August. Another year, another heartbreak. This heinous date, this date of dread. The day I wish had never come. They say you’re still here, your spirit in me. They say you’d be proud, if you were here, if you could see. But the ‘if’ is the but, the if means you’re not. If means you can’t be, don’t smile, won’t see. Stroke my hair, call my phone. I am a pl...
