Paper Dolls

Paper dolls-
tossed on the floor,
once real in the child's world,
but now no more.

Bunnies and bears and a pogo-stick-
shiny new presents
given for Christmas.

Forgotten on the floor
are all the paper dolls;
trampled and trod on
but allowed to watch it all.

Then comes night when the other toys
are all locked away
and the child is lonely and
does not know what to play;
once again he picks up the paper doll
and makes it real until
the Velveteen Rabbits return.

Then once again it is cast upon the floor;
a paper doll- now, always,
and nevermore.


~Anahbird~
September 21, 2005

Perception

What is correct?
When history is nothing more
Than five people’s stories of an event,
Each different from the others;
Some overlapping, but none the same.

Where is this clarity of truth
The absolute truth in any matter?

Perception changing by time and bitterness;
Hindsight molding the folding tales;
Friends adding opinions to the pool of consciousness-

All blended into a new history; a new truth.

Five different stories
And which one is the absolute truth?
To each, their own is-
But to the others?
What of the rest of the
world trying to see THE truth?

Perhaps all are truth.
Perhaps none are truth.

~Anahbird~
September 21, 2005

Thought of After Sight

Words swirl around:

like a ballerina

twirling on the back of the spider

as it weaves away below her-

displaying her new dress;

for the whole world to see.

Each spin-

a new day, a new path;

another road emerges through

the swirling chaos

upon looking

back through the fog.

They spin and spin but never escape;

eloquence always the wit of afterthought-

Spin-

Turn around

and around

and around again.

Each day

a new way

lost again

and again

and again

in the fog.

Twirl round ballerina-

twirl round

at the touch of the weaver’s webs;

stumbling crashing bumping falling

instead of

the dance seen in the weaver's head.

Rainy Afternoon

The rain drizzles down, a slow steady mist,
Like the veil of an Avalonian autumn before winter.
A chill creeps through the air and into your skin;
Climbing up your hands like a pair of gloves made of ice.
Thoughts fill your head-
Thoughts of a warm fire; a warm bed; hot soup; a good book.
On days like this the imagination is not
Far removed from the realm of reality;
Like the swirling mist in the chilling wind, sometime
Just sometimes on days like this they blend into one and the same.
Your eyes slowly wander between the realms of daydream and dreamland;
Realms where reality is just as farfetched as imagination.
A unicorn proudly walks out of the mist,
Bearing upon his back an elder of the elven kingdom,
Wrapped all in furs, his nose abnormally red from the cold air.
In his lap, he holds a hare which is dressed in little clothes
Like those young British school boys wear to class each days.
The traveler dismounts and asks if he could trouble you for a cup of tea,
So there in the garden, in the rain- though not a drop touches your skin-
You sit and drink warm tea with the traveler and his hare
And laugh at the stories of their travels, while the unicorn stands watch.
“It is not dawn nor night, nor any other time” says the elf to you.
“It is all time, all existence, everywhere, but you must know how to see,
fore there are many who can see the thing itself
but not the reality within the reality.
All stands before you, but you must remove the blinders to see it;
-to see the Peace all around you as well as everything else,”
he explained to you as the reason for his journey.
When the tea and laughter had filled your bodies with warmth,
The elven visitor stood to leave and bowed goodbye,
And suddenly you are back in your chair,
With the wind blowing rain against the window outside, and
The soft music that had previously been playing on the radio
Is now replaced by a loud booming voice that
Seems to be under the impression that
If he can wake the dead, you will buy one of his cars;
And that your money can truly buy him happiness and peace.


~Anahbird~
September 14, 2005

The Condemned

Three women stand in a line facing the prisoner;
Waiting to take vengeance upon him,
Ready to get their retribution for his cruelties against them.

The third is like a lioness; growls rumbling from her throat, claws slashing at the ground;
The people around her holding her back, being the only reason
Her teeth and claws have not yet torn apart her target.

The second is like a mouse; quiet and nimble-
Certain of her actions when the time comes to act.
She knows she will get her justice, and she is content to wait and watch the suffering.

The first is a mere child, standing shoulders shorted than the others;
But like them she has been wronged by the prisoner,
And she likewise has been given this chance for vengeance.

“Point your finger at the one you hate,” the guards say.
Sarcasms drips from their words; to insult both the prisoner and his victims-
But none seem to notice, or perhaps just the haggard prisoner himself;
too beaten to care.

Without a moment’s delay, the third unleashes all of her rage into
The condemning finger she points directly at the prisoner;
The finger carrying the vengeful wrath of her claws; invisibly slashing unseen virtues.

The first tries to mimic the actions of the third.
This child knows a bitterness unlike the others;
A bitterness that can only come from innocence.

But I stand behind the child, like a guardian watching over her;
Invisible to all but perhaps the child herself.
And though the child struggles to point her condemning finger,
I grab her hands and hold her back.
She struggles; squirming and crying out;
Desperately wanting to condemn the prisoner to his just punishment;
Desperately wanting to have her vengeance like the third;
Desperately thinking that vengeance will cure the pain.
But the child is innocent.
She cannot see that she is equally as guilty as the prisoner;
That each of the women shares a common guilt with the accused.

As the child struggles in my grasp, the second woman points her sharp finger,
Not at the prisoner as everyone expected, but at the spectator on the wall,
A man who has been leaning there the whole time, watching it all gleefully-
Vengeance sparkling in his eyes.


~Anahbird~
September 9, 2005