Dale Wilsey Jr. , 10/12

Passerine

Pallid day drags.
I am caught
between Monday’s
final hours reading
of sparrows.

None sing
in white
noise rain
but perch
on thoughts
of parks filled
with gentle
chorus.

Flitting wings turn dust,
perform foreign rituals.
Their names glow
across my mind.

Italian Sparrow gazes
upon Caravaggio
floating brush over canvas.
Sings of detailed
patience in luminous
notes.

Dead Sea Sparrow
splashes thick waters.
Navigates by nautical
compass; sings
of sailors & creaking,
rum-splashed hulls.

Shelley’s Sparrow.
I etch an image:
Shelley, porcelain girl
of eight, sat beside
glinting gold
birdcage bars
wishing
for voice.
Wings.

Wishing…

As I wish…
Passer ammodendri.
Mysterious creature.
Saxaul Sparrow.

She flies
amidst unanswered
questions.

Forms soft notes
that comfort
like memories
of birch bark
and wild
blackberries.

Sings to me
from beyond
shadows.

Builds expectation
with each
note.

Sing to me
of brighter things.

Brighter than rain
turning pavement
black under smoke
skies.

Pull me out
of endless
nights. Lost
sleep under
empty sheets.

Build your
feather nest
inside
my caged
ribs.

Give me song.

In your silence,
my breath
is scattered
through sunset
dust.

 

Dale Wilsey Jr. is a writer and poet living in Scranton, PA. His work has been published in The Boston Literary Magazine, Word Fountain, and The Young American Poet’s Blog. He is currently working on a poetry collection manuscript and continues to be an active member of the writing community in North Eastern Pennsylvania. Dale maintains a blog at manic-frustration.blogspot.com.

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