Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Crows Talking...or Not... (Sonnet)

Welcome to the universe of “small,”
where black and tortured moods creep in, prevail:
We tend to talk too much, or not at all,
taut-stretched on verbal racks, and hard as nails.

I’m feeling gusts that blow the truth around,
now venturing one eye into that cave
(so desolate the light and oozing brown),
I recognize myself, but cannot save

Some meaning of this day to justify
more conversations ending in a draw.
Pointing east and west and not to fly:  
Convoluted love a rasping “Caw!”

And finally, alone.

Silent back to back on shaky bough,
we want to say, to ask, but don’t know how.

Kay Weeks

 Poem, photos: KW


Anonymous said...

Well said. " Be swift to hear, slow to speak and slow to wrath."
I'll take quiet. Harve in Hanoi

broken biro said...

Fabulous dark poem, Kay! Just having a quick shuftie at your site and this sone really 'caw't my eye.