Crows And Other Things
They lurk in the eye of a mosquito
clinging to a wall as it considers
its next victim, or float in the air,
like suspended drops of water liberating
light's imprisoned spectrum. They will scatter off
a humming bird's wing, shimmering
blue and green, or skim across
a placid lake's glassen surface. They are found
wedged between a flower's uneven petals.
They can be drifting along side
the odors rising over the life-like corpses
in a fish market. You can barely
make them out at the snaking edge
of the fresh, flowing blood
of a slaughtered sheep.
They ride the low lying clouds
crowning the distant peak
of a majestic mountain.
They linger, smoke-encrusted,
reflecting the neon light shining into
a flop house room. They are written
all over the soulless faces in the morgues,
where all the toes try to point
in the right direction. They're the echo
behind the sharp cawing of a crowd of crows
heading into the trees. They bounce off
a woman's luscious, swaying hips
as she crosses a darkened street.
Sometimes they seem to come
together just when I happen to look
their way and my heart will skip
a beat because it's as if
I was being offered a gift,
a gift that words can only give,
a poem, ready made, made from everything.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Crows And Other Things by Mike Acker )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
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