PHILLIP MATTHEW ROBERTS

PHILLIP MATTHEW ROBERTS

ODE NO. 11: REVERENCE FOR THE MORNING

Listen to birds at black predawn

when the last constellations fade

into soft pale blue--these meditative

hours when long ago I trained

as an athlete; my pulse ascending

with the same ceaseless rhythm

heard now as my penned fist

disappears into this white purity.

My avian friends flown from heaven

trill throated songs joyously pleasant

--their natural ease borders on parody

compared to my cautious phrases

balanced at the hilt of my will

honed into an unapologetic weapon.

Concealed behind draped windows

I patiently observe the sun

wander its seasons as if one

returning to a burnished throne.

These soft and quiet hours alone

with the words--my wildly entangled,

unkempt hair thicker than plumage.

Hidden in my secret small corridor

buttressed within my cloistered nest

against man's undesirable realm

I write minuet passages; queer

songs cradled in a silence

untouched by human noise…

My tiny voice precariously

astir upon a window sill

where return my solemn echoes

--peacock, hawk or eagle

(only in wishes unfulfilled)--

I remain undeniably

flightless though I soar

beyond all I've mourned.

PHILLIP