Mathilda
welcomed the morning as she did each day, opening her second-floor bedroom
window to gather
in the birds perched and waiting on the painted white sill. She couldn’t
remember how she came to
be in this house, only that she was mostly happy, sharing seeds with her
feathered family,
nestling beneath wings for afternoon naps. She couldn’t remember a time when
she spoke
rather than sang, when birdsong wasn’t the only language to ease gently from
her throat, notes
settling on her tongue like pearls. After breakfast, she stood at the open
window, eager for another
breath of fresh air, peering out at the gargantuan leaves shading her tiny
swaying aviary from the
intrusive rays of the sun. Glancing down at the ground far beneath her, she
wondered, for a
fleeting moment, what it might feel like to open the front door, what it might
feel like to fly.
https://athousandshadesofgreen.com Tw/X: @floweringink
the sky our home
the air
the trees
we share them with
insects
bats
even the flying squirrels
and the monkeys that
acrobat between the
branches
you share nothing
respect no one
your hunters
your skyscrapers
kill us
you put us in cages
clip our wings
eat us
all we want is to fly
you breathe with lungs
we breathe with wings
The Gift
The craftswoman who made it
had an eye for what sells
and made the box homely
Her vision of some possibility
she might embrace
if circumstances granted
The business owner,
was mean, a bit surly
a trait his mother had done her best to temper
such are the pressures of commerce on behaviour
The delivery man had a sick daughter
he was worried about bills
when he delivered the package with care
The mother, opened the gift
feigning surprise for the children
having chosen it herself
The son, fixed the bird box to a tree
in the ideal position,
because he was the practical one
The grandmother, on her knees
tending the herbs, paused to admire
reflecting, what the seasons might bring
before spring encouraged new hope into the box
The beauty, the power, the grace of nature
almost beyond the grasp
of the finest poets, musicians or artists,
perhaps best lived, in pure wonder,
a bit like love itself
Matt Guntrip, nominated for “Male Solo” for 2024 on the New Music Generator Scene is also part of Matt Guntrip and the Roadsters UK band. His poetry appears in several publications and his poetry/music videos have been included in several GAS: Poetry, Art, Music video collections.
https://linktr.ee/matt_guntrip_music In: @matt_guntrip_music
This is your life: here is where you lived
and where you almost died. The roadblocks,
the knots you tied yourself up in, the tangled
mess you made. Here are your lost loves,
the waylaid plans, the dreams deferred—
you couldn’t untangle them even if you wanted to.
We enter this world ready to be made and unmade
like the beginning of a thread, frayed at the end,
a gathering of past lives. Somehow, we become
a friendship bracelet, braided over the long hours—
reminders of childhood, heirloom embroidery thread,
yarn from a neighbor’s prayer shawl, grandmother’s
knotted rosary, gifts that might one day become
a bluebird’s nest. Ghost light, seaweed, stardust:
We weave our lives each day from the found things.
So take what you’ve gathered, what you’ve learned
along the way. Claim it as your own. If you let it,
life will strip away at your hard exterior like salt
water on a clam’s shell. Let it. You didn’t need
that varnish anyway. Now the new life begins.
https://jenevievecarlyn.com Tw/X: coastal_poet
