Trying to Move, but Birds are in the Way

The Muses Plucking the Wings of the Sirens, by Rupert Bunny c. 1922 (photo Shakko)

Not changing towns, just rooms inside my home.

Changing externals to change my mind

and heart. To strengthen my spirit.  And health.

The dining area will rejoin the living room.

The study will return to the deck side of home,

starting with sorting, dusting and thinning books.

Feminist theory narrows down to classics—

one or two are keepers, but most only

brush memories around with so much dust.

I toss the gnawed bones of theatre, as well—

religion, mystery and travel, too.  I toss

what will no longer soar with me astride.

I spare science fiction and poetry

whose wings strengthen from nutritious insight.

And paper.  Keeping all the blank paper.

My twin cats are going crazy.  They call,

then run to find hiding places.  I call,

coaxing them out with birdlike feather wands.

They fear change, but I relish it.  I feel

I’m shoveling my way out from ruins,

useless habits of thought, even a grave.

I say I’ll start writing again, but know

this might be procrastination in more

complex forms than watching television.

I don’t remember accumulating

so many things—countless knickknacks, hundreds

of stained and faded journals with photos.

Intriguing, this history of a life.

It wants to smother me, but I resist

as I’ve done with the demands of  others.

But birds, birds! I've opened the window

and thrown out the dead.  Now you must leave, too.

I’m cleaning out the nest, longing to fly.

My blog poems are rough drafts. 

Please respect my copyright. 

© 2018 Susan L. Chast