Stephanie Online

Wings of Song

Now, all alone in Eden,
ashamed to claim his creation,
he climbs the grey, wilted trees and weeps
for everything so soon
gone wrong.
He gathers all not dead around him,
the half-wilted remnants
of unequaled beauty --
a violet still blue
a brook not yet dry
as its stone banks crumble
under the weight of his tears.
And from someplace
out and beyond destruction
a bird flies, dandelion yellow,
black-throated and full of song,
perches above him, clasping the branch
with perfect, silver-clawed toes.
This tiny songbird surely
is too sweet to be from invention's hands,
wasn't created this wild from his clay.
It perches on one finger outstretched
and calls for beauty to live and not flee.
The creator speaks softly, rustles the leaves.
"You were right all along.
I give you the world, yellow singbird,
for I couldn't have written your song."

Old Man

Old Man, look in the mirror.
See the life time has shaken
to its knees,
see the deaths you have taken
quietly,
and every line of cobweb
will be with you now forever.
You'd give more than your life to erase
the marks in your body and soul,
no longer perfect
or whole.
Stare out the window
from grey eyes
through grey panes,
smoky skies,
not as blue as yesterday
or a million years ago.
The pavement below
is of crushed bones,
sand and stone,
blue, gasping blood,
eons of mud.
And yet a yellow bird still sings
on window sills, in old men,
sings still of beauty
from morning skies,
oblivious to loneliness
and God's great lies.

Message for You

Message for you,
leader of the tribe.
Message for you,
ring of thin warriors.
Put down your spears;
the enemy can't feel them,
and you've lost at last.
Close your eyes.
Slash your backs with surrender.
Throw your young boys
off the bleak mountain
as a sacrifice to defeat.
Carve in your caves
with fingernails, in blood,
flesh worn away to bone,
with fingerbones careve
the story of your battle
you wretchedly lost.
Eat the grey stones.
Drink the grey dust
and stand not before
your conquerors, yelling,
begging to know what became
of your savior,
for I bring you news.
See what I hold?
This grey bird, eyes
blankly glazed,
feet still searching
but without a song.
Brush the dust with your fingers,
blow the dirt off these precious wings.
Yellow.
Gold like the sun.
This is the bird of Eden.
And look to the sky,
shade your face,
muffle your cry,
we are alone,
for, without the music,
God froze to stone.