His mother told him many times
a bird most striking had appeared
in the window at his birth,
How calm she felt the last hard push
which shot him forth into the world,
as red and yellow feathers flared.
...
In the woods, the fire burnt out,
an old man left the child there
with tales of gods aflight.
The boy had felt the ashes, cold,
startled at some thrashing wings,
seen glints of color in a tree.
...
His guide was pointing to three birds,
flying through a sulfurous cloud
at craters's lip where they fell dead;
The hiker sensed a whir
and saw at vision's edge
a brilliance fleeing molten rock.
...
On his walls were pictures --
quetzal, peacock, red macaw,
golden pheasant, scarlet ibis;
His questions lay in ancient myth,
memories shimmered through his day,
his dreams at night kaleidoscopic.
...
She was above him, rouge and gold,
nuzzling hair with avian kisses,
feathers falling over him,
And sang,
"Miss you so, love you so!"
He felt her answer brush his cheek,
his last breath smiled, and then he flew.
Despair of yellow if you wish — The taint of choleric bile, Midas’ daughter, snow pee, jaundiced eyes. While Orpheus’ golden lyre went to Hell and back, sunlight echoed on dayend clouds, towheads ran on Baltic sand, dandelions colored my hand. Jacob’s stairs still ascend — presumably to Heaven — But who waters the geraniums?
My friend, the under-employed artist, sold photos to the Sunday edition of the paper. Strictly freelance, not a regular job. “Shoot anything but put three kids in the middle, in red, blue and yellow.” The formula never failed. Every Sunday, $25. It paid the rent.
Bluster & Absurdity 