The nest grown silent
absent the sound of beats
recently grown irregular,
I sensed the pact broken and
flew into freedom
leaving the old drunk dead
the decay already beginning.
Where does a bluebird go
when on the wing?
What song does she sing
when the silence is over;
the pity prison of a beaten boy,
ugly, gloomy and rudely reserved,
his gated heart at last flown open.
I flew high into the sky
in search of that first sweet song
I’d wished to sing all along, but no.
There was no soft song within me.
I and the old poet were both victims
of a lifelong delirium.
The sounds that flew forth
were not soft and sweet on the ear
but hard notes written to even a score,
screeches in search of some meaning.
To that purpose they served the
music of both our souls all the better
and gave the world songs in poems
that sought to be more true than sweet.
‘See my little wing quiver so
as I lie here atop the snow!
Water is surely free I think.
I only wanted a tiny drink.
Something is broke within I know.
I can not lift and rise to go.
So happy was I on the brink
eager at a dawn’s sky of pink;
very frightened left alone,
lamenting others who have flown-
fled they so high into a sky
never more into will I fly’.
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell
E.D. Ridgell is a versitile artist. He has BFA and MFA degrees from MICA (Maryland Institute College of Art) with a minor in Art History.
Ed is published and is currently one of the moderators at The Peaceful Pub http://thepeacefulpub.yuku.com/directory. His site is