For the Eyes of God and Birds

A free verse promise — I will write a poem.

Christina Ward 💗
Oct 23 · 3 min read
Image by AD_Images from Pixabay

Listen to the soundcloud recording while you read for background sounds and a reading of the poem:

If tomorrow my words
get swallowed up in darkness
become swept away, sucked under
dismantled, disarrayed —
I will still, write a poem.

If no eyes bend side to side
scan, absorb, and envision
my metaphor, paint within
a fluid scene, and linger there —
I will still write a poem.

If I woke up tomorrow
with sand beneath my face,
the gentle nudging of white-lipped waves
pushing and pulling at my feet,
if I didn’t know who I was or how I got there
or how I’d ever get out
of that deserted, tropical place
I’d have to find some kind of way
to write a poem —

Perhaps I could scratch it out in the sand
for the eyes of God and birds
pull the long fingers of a palm frond together
and trace out the lettering
words upon words to settle
with the currents of wind
to be taken with the tide
one dissolved thought after another —

Even in the washing away of them
I’d still write poems

Let trees rise from my words.
Let mountains rise and puncture
the sky, a gentle nod to earth.

Let the dust of these words lift
and disperse, carry on into measures
of songs to be sung,
of heartbeats to be drummed
of the breathing in and out
of seasons upon seasons

eternal, these births of poetry
I am the womb
that they be born
the matter at hand

whether they swim
racing into currents,
riding the backs of greens
loggerheads, or twist themselves
back into conchs (from whence
they likely came)
or whether they burrow into minds
and disrupt synapses
twist into memory —
it is no matter to me.

Whether of seahorses (genus Hippocampus)
adrift in seaweed hideaways
spurning young, gathering plankton
futures tied to the life
of coral beds, bleaching death-white
Or whether of mind matters (also, Hippocampus)
adrift in coffee conversations
between humans interacting
with humans, their predilections
just behind the pursing of lips

it is no matter to me
a poem is birthed, nonetheless
where it goes afterward
is on the whims of wind

the un-birthed poem reaches out to me
and asks to be given voice

not eyes,
not destination
not purpose, necessarily —

The fetus poem kicks and claws
for birth, squirms and
rages and screams and sings and begs
for life —
not eyes, not eyes,
but voice

Without the scanning of eyes
across the horizon of words
it is of no consequence to me

I will write a poem —

I’ll release it to the sea.
Let the breath of conchs devour
their own.


Christina Ward is a poet and nature writer from North Carolina. She is the admin of a Facebook Group named Poets on Medium (POM), the editor of seven publications, and a Top Writer in seven tags. You may follow her work or become a fan here: Fiddleheads & Floss Poetry

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Christina Ward 💗

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Follow for poetry, articles on writing, parenting, mental health, humor, and encouragement. She/her 💗POM-admin!💗Kofi@ https://ko-fi.com/christinaward

Fiddleheads & Floss Poetry

Poetry * Prose * Life