Have Landed

Rustling feathers no longer ruffled,
parting beak for contented breath,
have landed, understands sister crow
as she draws family to her breast.

Nest in order, plans followed through,
mate and nestling, with her safe
have landed with morning dew
closer, cozy, on cue.

Fancy of flight delighted frenzy
comfort of home required respite
despite wunderlust cravings
each belongs to the other each night.

As is should ever be.
Head poised high with pride
revere enough to bend knee.
Home, have landed, sweetness, my guide.

Thank you....

Sister Crow Rants...More fun than a Rave.

Who you know is often more important than what you know.
But what about who knows what about whom? Specifically, you?
Is the power of knowledge greater than that of human interaction?
The spread of information ties us to our desks.
We talk to our families by clicking squares with our finger tips.
The last person I asked for help was Jeeves.
Who was the last person you spoke to face to face?
Was the information from that conversation equal to the information you last got from Google?
People are living out their lives in a simulated reality, interaction with artificials as pertinent as interaction with other human backed avatars (hba), conversations in virtual pubs, virtual drugs, advertisements the only connection to, the only hint of, the real world where their imperfect bodies demand real food, and real oxygen. What of real human affection, touch, conflict, passion, despair?
Those who do not know, perhaps know more. Supply and demand predicates value. Information is supplied readily to any who cares to demand with the click of a mouse.
The economic value of knowledge was once power. Information was for the privileged.
Information is now available to most, depreciating the power to a nine volt surge on the tip of one's tongue.
The populace is flooded with information. The shipment of human contact is running short. With a good search, anyone could learn my name, birth date, ss#, financial standing, home town, shopping patterns, marital status, nicknames, and genealogical ancestry. From this one could deduce my likes, shoe size, medical predispositions to afflictions, dislikes and vices. But with all this information, one still cannot know me. One cannot know the depth of my compassion, the heat of my temper, the ambitions of my soul, the tingle of my touch, the trigger to my laughter, the passion of my vision. With knowledge, one could steal from me, become me, and con me. The power, however, is in knowing me. Or you.
Who do you know? Who knows you truly? Who do you hold? Who holds your leash? Who do you talk to when you have nothing to say? Whose pointless ranting would you listen to all day?
It's not so much what you know that's important. Human interaction is in short supply. Demand something real. Reality is worth living. Hugs are worth giving.

*All of this was written while sitting in front of my computer rather than talking to the one I know..... there's something to be said for taking one's own advice. This rant is over.

Landing Safe

If you are always given what you want,
you will never have what you need.

The best part about flying off the handle,
is landing safe.

When you always jump in head first without first looking down,
you never expect not to know where you've landed.

But sometimes, you can accept what's been given.
And often times, flying off the handle results in a crash.
And the last time you jump without knowing where you shall land,
you won't be alive to know you've landed at all.

Self Design

Not perfect, but perfectly designed
body soul and mind
laid out with precision.
A life planned imperceptible to most
Never dependent always the host.
Permission never asked, no need to be granted.
Ideas and thoughts original, never planted.
Automatic and impulsive.
Living just to live.
Giving just to give.
Loving just for fun.
Always on the run.

Optimistic to a fault.
Learned but not taught.
Happy just to be.
Knowing wholly all of me.

The changes were slow. The changes were slight.
Yet, they happened over night.
Goals forgotten, amended laws of right.
Accepting good enough from all else,
its all good;
No longer demanding perfection of self,
I cannot, but I could.

A stranger stares back from a mirror of revelation
bounce from horror to elation
and back again.
The edges of self worn too thin.
What was can never be
acceptance of self negates once was me.

Perfecting this stranger impossible dreams
knowing life really is only what it seems.

Living in a shadow of lust.
Giving because I must.
Loving for love; it's fun still
On the run can kill
but banality definitely will.

Pessimism my biggest fault.
Learning all I'm being taught.
Struggling just to be.
Hoping this version is a good enough me.

Watching what others observe
Calculating what I deserve
Weigh and measure.
Obey and pleasure.
Hoping for acceptance

Destroyed by one glance.
Smile because I still dance.
Thankful for my Chance.
Strong enough still to hold my stance
when not run through by self doubt's lance.

Not perfect, but perfectly designed.
The power has been realigned.

Poisoning One's Self

For pleasure it's a drink, a sniff, a smoke.
For others it's a bad joke.
For safety or immunity it's a slow, constant, pain.
For revenge it's insane.

With narcotics it's a crazy trip-- sometimes good and sometimes the best bad ever had.
With guilt it's drag on the victim and the surrounding environment.
With electricity or lethal drugs in non-lethal doses, it's pending success.
With mental turmoil it's probably better to vent.

With hormones to prevent what you want to come one day anyway,
it is painful killing easy smiles each day.
With diet pills to remove what the years have given to one's gut and thigh,
it is unhealthy, but "At least," you tell yourself, "I try."
With cigarette smoke only to give you something to do,
it is a habit you could break, but you don't want to.

With guilt, it's beyond your control.
With love, you can damage your eternal soul.
With hate, you are eating away your mental stability.
With motivation, you challenge your limited abilitiy.

With banality in life, boredom is more dangerous than strife.
With adrenaline, you could kill your own life.

We all do it;
we judge each other--hypocrit
pointing fingers at hypocrits
Wearing each shoe that fits.

Beautiful Confidence

A Beautiful Con is executed perfectly. It is enacted without a glitch or a hitch for all to see.
The confidence man (or woman) earns respect when the mark (poor fool) doesn't expect.
The ridicule cannot fall on the criminal's head; when done right he's honored instead.
Smarter than the average man, with charisma the crowd forgives ya.
And the cost of the props and profit too--tax free. A beautiful con ends precisely.
Although tempting, one must not wait for just one more dime to add to the pile.
Over is over--walk away and smile.
When the statute of limitations passes, the best criminals awe the masses
with their tales of immoral and illegal atrocities.
A confidence man knows and owns his true self complete;
He only hides his face when casting his newest feat.
A beautiful con holds more reverence than
any of nature's perfect creations can.

But a con man knows himself and owns himself.
A petty criminal who pretends to be a saint
is really just a taint
on a flawed but enamoured society.
So despicable, he tells himself he is what he ain't.

Lie to the masses. Lie to the church. Lie to the law.
Deceive your children. Deceive your wife.
But no one can deceive all
because self deception comes before one's true fall.

Shadow of One's Self

I learned much from my father. He always had something to say about life. A little lesson wrapped up in each friendly bit of conversation. His bits of wisdom, no matter their relevance (or lack there of) in reality are mixed in with the mortar that secures the stones of the foundation of the rationality that shelters my emotional self.

The piece of wisdom that has been strong in my mind in recent weeks haunts my mental serenity. "Your reputation may precede you," he told me on one occasion, "but you are only as good as what you do now. You may have been the best yesterday, but what are you today? What will you be tomorrow?"

I ask myself, "Sister Crow, what has become of the perfectionist in you? What have you accomplished lately? Do you have any goals?"

I admonish myself, "Even your reputation of exceptionality has faded to a hardly remembered ghost of a once was fleeting thought."

I encourage myself, "You can do anything."

I taunt myself, "But you have to start by doing something."

I laugh at myself, "Only a fool does not know what she wants."

And I steal my nerves; a promise made is a grand commitment. A promise to one's self is the easiest (and most disappointing) to break. I resolve to do something worthy of my past reputation. The past is gone, the future is as likely to be worse as it is to be better. The present is the only true representation of self in reality.

Healing

Time does not heal all, but sometimes it lets you forget.
The one thing love conquers is often one's good sense.
The burden of proof is often not worth the penance.
All that really matters is all that reality isn't.
The blood soaked bandage works to repair a torn confidence.
Its only flesh,
but the soul suffers within the mesh of mind, legs, organs and arms.
Life lives, loves and living often harms
and sometimes time charms
--its blessing and its curse.

Whimsy Only, Resolvedly!

All seriousness aside--
the goof chunk's on a mission, see
the work and the hunt and the upkeep
are keeping me up and
I'm tired, but not sick;
I'm due for some action
packed laughter and a small splatter
of hilarity, please.

So,
All whimsy upfront
smack, blam and chomp
the bubble gum of life,
like a slice of giggle pie
topped with a game of
hide the peek, where laughter
wins!

High browed importance has its place
under a rug, I demand to not see a trace
of business matter needing attending
until tomorrow, because this night's ending
with a snuggle and a huggle and smile and a snort;

Don't make be bring out the toes,
their the last resort-- and everyone knows
they never fail
to send all sliding down a rail of
release like a bubble going
POP!

Broken Dream On

A broken dream disables
Like a wing fractured from blunt trauma
or a once good eye injured to blindness
Like a mind imbalanced by drama
or heart whose knows no kindness

A broken dream haunts
Like a diseased egg thrown from the nest
the wake of which never does rest
Like a lost mate who did not return
memories of whom forever burn

A broken dream tires
Like a journey forced by hunger
or a lover ten years younger
Like a job thankless and demeaning
or an addiction that keeps you feining.

A broken dream cannot be healed
and can rarely be ignored
It does not disperse like seeds in a field
or evaporate like drinks over poured.

A broken dream stays on like an unwanted guest
or a friend of a friend you can't help but detest.

A broken dream cannot be cured
of this be assured
A dream broken replaced is slowly forgotten
but must be before its corpse is rotten.

So dream big and dream strong
dream hard and dream determined
dream true and dream long
but keep dreaming on.

One Bad Day

A dropped egg from the nest, a broken wing, no place to rest as screeching tires
careen past and sentry duty seems to last longer than the day could be
long gone memories of another bird's song echo in my head and the nestlings
haven't been fed. A busy mate once delivered by fate symbolizes a quickly closing
gait of a bird on land is a bit funny, like a beggar with too much money it all
makes sense in this bird's brain-- scavenged food washed down a storm
drain the frosty mug like a natural born thug who is really only just
laws written never were; a sad cat with loud purr-poseful actions
hot crossed buns loaded guns boring re-runs not enough fun
or enough funds to be--only enough to see what could have been
and then enough more for half a shot to pour
out the trouble onto another,
a friend, a lover, together but delving shallow wounds
feuds buried, then amused. A fuse too short to trust with fire
another round like a tire, or tired of sired saints of capital
there was no pride before this fall
only a summer too short to be a season , just a week or a weekend even it was
actually just one bad day.

Nest

It takes two to build a nest, sometimes more.
The outer shell must be hard, with softness at its core.
It must protect from the outside, sufficient place to grow, to hide.
It must be in the perfect location, within the family's space
where friends can visit but others find no trace.

A human home is much the same on a larger scale.
The roof must not under bashing storm fail.
The core (dare I say the mother's heart) must be the softest comfort;
and vicious as the father when left as last resort.
It must be large enough for all to grow, but small enough to keep all close.
Enough city for me, enough country for you; a cocktail mixed to perfect dose.

That is what this crow desires--what this family requires.
We could build up from the ground, or rebuild what we've found.
However we get our nest, be sure, for you, for him, for us--the best.

A little goes a long, long way.

Gripping at a past
that managed to pass
while one's mind went astray.
Whatever was lost at play
was better spent than that which is lost in other ways;
Anyways, lovers and friends get too serious in life
and even holiday is strife.

Mistaking friends for enemies because
they want to do what's best
for a full grown woman child.
No trust in her abilities.
Questioning each decision and act:

Judging her driving as unsafe,
her little mishaps as more than common place.
Mistaking her day dreams as sanity ripping at the seams.
Seeing her stress as indication of a mess
bigger than can even exist.

No faith in her abilities
a raised eyebrow if she trips or slips
or giggles in fits.
Nothing is good enough.
Weak is too weak, but don't be tough.

Tearing down her self-confidence
three grains
one complaint and two judgements
at a time
If only she would let if fall
she'd have no one to call.

But she won't even let her foes take her down
and her friends will have to force her to the ground
to take it all away.

And what's worse is she knows the love is there
and that they do really care
but they are hurting when they try to improve

She wonders if she'll have to move.
Confidence in self is secure
but the other didn't endure
even a little bump

it's like they waited to jump
at something, anything to fixate upon
and all her credibility with him was gone.

She wants back her biggest fan,
who wouldn't question if she shot a man
Who knew that the scissors in her hand
could only do good.

Maybe she's not quite the woman she had been,
but that's life;
we're torn down and build ourselves back and then
life goes on until it does not
but each other is what we've got.


She wants things to be as they should.
Perhaps somethings do not ever heal
like confidence in others; and perceptions' unreal
consequence. Suddenly it all makes sense.

Excepting Control

Having perfected the entity, not a feather out of place;
The countless hours of effort forgotten;
Permitting no reality to alter personality.
Monitored existence, automatic expression, erupting happiness, time.

The excitement of careening across the solid double line that separated
self from other id;
Accepting negative spaces in positive places;
Somehow excepting control.

The forgotten hours of effort, like da Vinci with his paint;
the ceiling of creation crumbled, and this artist wears the taint.
Once done can be undone, destroyed and redone again.
Countless hours of forgotten effort waisted, and for what?

Mingled souls, a solid chance, empty goals, a desperate call.
No longer can the personality perfect the self,
as its sum equates others who must equal all.

Perfecting the entity, not a personality out of place
nurturing each soul
Permitting no reality to alter family
Never Excepting Control

Getting Back

Captured in a breath or gasp
released in a sigh or crash
Amazed by a drop of dew
perplexed by precarious you.

Tortured by self failings
amused by the tortured's flailings
Flailing to amuse the crowd
Failing and remaining proud

Designs on life inspire strife
designing death with a metaphorical knife
Scrambling to get back to once when were
who was if I could then again purr

Confusing, you say, to me
I grin
Being the lost one free
again
except to perfect and just be

And the crow laughs

I smile, because not everyone can
laugh with me.

Symbolic Reality

Symbols have always held a special pull whether manufactured and imposed
or evident and naturally grown--spontaneously existing in cold hard reality.
They scream dream on, and mean it without malice.
Symbols warn of success and promise hopeful danger.
Being only things that bode faith in happiness
and predict common failure.
Symbols bring us closer together when physically apart.
Each could represent all that means anything;
even anything that means nothing at all.
A wooden figure of a relative thing that means more than religiosity.
A carv'ed cross of metallic merit that represents agnostic views.
How you represent I; The way I represents you:
Just one chance to create perfection in life.

What the Crow? Doesn't know.

A crow laughs at a cackling hag
whose vision faded long before
she learned to see. The hag’s
human nature shows
right through to
Brother Crow:

She’s humored by comic
justice with sordid finale.
High above a city ally
the crow takes flight,
laughing at the kids below,
grown for thirty years,
tricksters themselves, no where to go—
manifestations of one another’s fears.

In a forgotten , over-grown field
the crow touches ground;
memories of another life,
too big for a bird’s brain,
--longing in a too small heart--
and no memory of the change.

The crow laughs about what he knows:
for the mistake he chose
with the ones who show
at those he loathes.

Brother Crow laughs to ease the pain
of memories he cannot comprehend;
he laughs, trying to stay sane
since the choice became a
mistake, unknown and undefined
the difference realized after
the unremembered changed.

Calculated time—each minute
measured became countless
moments all spread together.
The familiar faces matured
then dreadfully aged….
He saw each lain down
in manicured fields
then into the ground each
disappeared.

Brother Crow flies alone—
Not akin to other birds,
no longer human
--and all alone.