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Blackbirds
by Aaron BlairThe blackbirds gather,
cutting a line across the sky,
dividing it in half, marking time.
The fields are full of yellow flowers
that the rain has helped escape the plow,
but it will come for them, still,
to press their headless bodies
into the ground beneath the wheels.
Through it all, the highway runs.
It could be a road to anywhere.
Instead, it beats the path to my mother's door,
the awful cushion of the familiar.
This is the life that we lead,
on this blue globe spinning in the black,
tied down to the earth, then severed from it. 05/18/2011 Posted on 05/18/2011
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 05/19/11 at 12:59 AM ...well chosen idea, and translated well. i like the movement of this, sardonia knocking but not dismally. |
| Posted by Linda Fuller on 05/19/11 at 01:53 AM Striking poem - the last four lines are killer. |
| Posted by Ariane Scott on 06/04/11 at 02:45 AM This is very, very strong. A complex idea that is so well articulated via powerful imagery and good craft-- I especially like how you connected the yellow flowers cut off by the plow to the last line. |
| Posted by Kristine Briese on 07/31/11 at 03:17 AM It may be the drugs, but the lines toward the end seem to rotate, perhaps to revivify. |
| Posted by Steven Kenworthy on 10/11/11 at 12:04 PM definitely some of the best writing i've seen on this site in the past 2-3 years. i must dig my fingernails in and scrape for more! |
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