Gyre

to heaven & back,

to the deep swell 

this merging brown with deep blue waters & winds

oh the depth of these transparencies

how many seas dwell with the confines of the ocean?

what strange imperceptible lines have been drawn

scratched out in wave & weed, a ridge

of flotsam & fog

I sway, a dream

so blue, so blue

Salve of Storms

It is a salve of storms I come with—the songs of hail & wind & wild monstrosities from within the blackened pits of soul & heart from whence I grew. What is spawned is spun. 

I will give what it is I have to offer, I am compelled, tho my generosity, may be a curse. 

This salve, it has a sting, and if it is curing or poison, you must be of endurance to know. Each suffers inside, pouring out the festering & writhing & vomiting, & are you purged or are you pained? 

Indeed, I have a salve of storms & until you live the deep green eye of it, emerging the other side, who am I to say if you’re healed or if you’ve been torn & torn & torn, apart. Apart. 

Forest Raven 

I’m coated in this whiteness

It has a scent of ancient & 

A sharpness of stone blades, hand-hewn & aching

What wilderness can keep hungering

Like this winter white, it’s climbing

Rung to rung up me, its wrapped itself

About me, consuming the soft folding Morning Glories, 

It is all bright wind & howling night inside my chest,

I am the Forest Raven, screaming to feast upon the small dead things littered upon these floors, your discarded scraps & angry bones

I wish to swim across these silver gilded skies, 

I rise & rise, folding breath with the wingbeats, 

The blackness of Nevermore shall never pass from me 

You will find me, gazing black-eyed & free

The Wren II

I see, the nest, sprung with

quiet folded petals, each as a small 

fragrant pause of poetry—

a little blush on the purity 

never quite folded open, just

a hush of hint in the billowing wind

the subtly has all the passion of 

love & life & journey

& misery & death & a scarred void

where echoes swim into the deep 

beyond beyond & beyond 

The Wren, softly left, the swaying branch, her nest, something white, warm & welcoming, nearly unnoticed, to all, but those within. 

The Wren I

this warm rising

like breath could ever be cold

the song wren, wings outstretched 

bursting like blossoms—I had forgotten

not everywhere is covered 

in a white veil of death & drear

I listen, to all these morning songs, they are a sweet dream, waking

dawn punctures the fog’s lazy lung

the hiss of mist & slow dreams—

Coming off the quiet, this lovely soft light, 

All is haze & touch
The wren, settling on the orange tree, as all things burst & sing & dream. 

Itziar Verría’s Birds—2017

the silence of winter—
the common loon

dreams of summer’s lush lakes,

rushing rivers, it’s an ache

obvious in the eye
the silence of winter—

caught up in that arctic loon’s throat

that faint, ascending whistle,

touching the edge of night
the silence of winter—

my red-throat gulping salt

& flotsam, I tilt skyward, 

with not a song, nor a dream,

only this sash, this blooded scream

Itziar Verría’s Birds —2017

she was 

the black-throated blue warbler—

pondering the staggered vacancies

the soft mist 

where Appalachian meet sky

where the pine, stops off

and the mountain grows high

the snow, dusts in on an 

over-night howl

the gasping gape of the wide-eyed owl

how hunger has a flavour all its own

the wind of winter is fully grown
it lets loose its downy hair

to bloom out, to spring,

to rise from earth to air
but for she, that little bird, 

she sits & ponders

unknown, unheard