A Poems like a Pigeon

A poem's like a pigeon, 

flaps its wings high in the sky

sometimes it is clumsy, 

with its heavy little body, 

breathing deeply it goes up,

then it sighs and so descends, 

always keen its little eye

to make amends 

cathartic art in arctic heavens,

attics in the mind,

or sandy wind -blown wastes 

like deserts, 

isolated, 

lonely,

crying out for help, 

if only we communicate 

and understand,

we've seen it all, 

we know of this and that,

watched things that others never even glimpse,

through their net curtains and their chintz.

Out there! 

Out where?

We do not know 

are tomes and tomes of words,

there drifting in the winters snow, 

and we're left in the gloom,

or over there 

we catch the sun, and spin in worlds, 

that others never know,

or care about.

We are devout and dedicated, 

always on the watch,

for new seeds of enlightenment,

so sensitive to touch.


(Just a little thought on wings)Ann