David Castleman

bone wrath

Our songbird is neglected but for jeers
and yet sings out these holy songs all night,
and when by day the weight of duty shifts.

These songs are for the dead and the undead
and sometimes for the living, if the bird
can forgive the living for their sealed ears.

In the night the bird tumbles with our earth
pulsing amid selfless maternal stars
in a blind womb, and like a human heart.

Solely in repose may the happy seek
this human solace in rich song, and then
release the blood-songs through the brain again.

Silent is the night to those beyond night,
silent as the echoing fates of the birds.

the improbably conceited cat

Infamous is one babied feline beast
who snoozes life away o anywhere
his clump of hairy baggage lands.

                                                       His feast,
should he deign to partake and could he steer
his fawning human toward such, (and habit,)

devours fat fish and fatty fowls most rare
and marinated barbequed rabbit,
and such endeavor makes a nap most fair.

And in the night (o prime delight) his friends
and his enemies especially, sneak
from human reach and from people's houses

and the night's crossed with an unholy shriek
from a zillion beasts on feline errands,
as Infamous with his peers carouses.

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