{"id":13434,"date":"2021-03-12T19:54:15","date_gmt":"2021-03-12T17:54:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/egophobia.ro\/?p=13434"},"modified":"2021-03-14T19:56:04","modified_gmt":"2021-03-14T17:56:04","slug":"poems-by-jennifer-cahill","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/?p=13434","title":{"rendered":"poems by Jennifer Cahill"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Warble<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The warble,<\/p>\n

round like the earth and its sky,<\/p>\n

land colors<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

of flour-<\/p>\n

soft feathers, sits with its peers.<\/p>\n

The blue hills,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a sea-tinted<\/p>\n

elliptic shape against Spring’s<\/p>\n

sun-lit edge<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

is a harbor<\/p>\n

for the winged creatures, amongst<\/p>\n

a budding<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

tree, windy<\/p>\n

caress of grass, the sandy<\/p>\n

dirt of foot-<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

prints. A stream<\/p>\n

gushes downwards, its silver drops<\/p>\n

crest like waves,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the multi-<\/p>\n

tinctures of the stones under<\/p>\n

the silken<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

glassiness<\/p>\n

are a congregation. The bird<\/p>\n

flies away.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Submerged<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A bottle slightly submerged in the Sea<\/p>\n

has within its light glass a scrap of paper-<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

on which are the words<\/p>\n

“Do you know me?”<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

“I am on other shores, perhaps<\/p>\n

exactly opposite Yours.”<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The orange deep red-brown<\/p>\n

of the hovering sun color the ripples-<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

like the wrinkles of a silk slip-<\/p>\n

a dusky effulgence of an evening.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The sun’s searing white-yellow<\/p>\n

seen through the glass is a slightly<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

undercooked yolk, seeping<\/p>\n

and spreading through the enveloping visceral<\/p>\n

white-<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the solitary thin cloud passing the Sun’s<\/p>\n

fire. The sunlight is the gleam on the vessel,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

under a Mayan Sky..<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

flushed with their Belief. Faith…of an ocean<\/p>\n

that covers the entire Earth; tranquil,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

at peace for eons; before the Mayan “Heart of Sky” that drapes Earth’s mottled tints,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

creates the creatures- crawling, rising<\/p>\n

to stand, walk on the newly born lands.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

An Upright Piano <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The aging piano sits upright.<\/p>\n

A rocking chair is broken while being built.<\/p>\n

But the cherry wood rocker is untarnished,<\/p>\n

and the song lessons, exercises, are played.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The tenements’ trims are freshly painted, every Summer. Blue, but not the new blue<\/p>\n

pigment just developed, in a Lab. An Isle of Capri color, perhaps, bled from the elements, particles.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The speed and splitting of photons.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Perhaps a cloudless Autumn sky,<\/p>\n

or the hue of a Robin’s egg; a light blue carnation, so light the expectation<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

of the Spring-Dance will spread wings,<\/p>\n

perhaps UNCLIP the WINGS of the CAGED BIRD.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This tree, adjacent to the balcony reaches its arms towards the heavens..maybe to the top layer that needs a fire to penetrate, to view a<\/p>\n

blue Earth like we see the moon, the Earth a little darker than cold Uranus.<\/p>\n

\n

In Winter, the fingers of the tree bear dried wrinkled berries, picked in futility by the sparrow. The sparrows’ brown wings are the color of a long ago restful brook,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

from which a bent night -colored stick rose up against the bank:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

this missal tinted alligator- he spares bi-ped shades of dusk.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Winter’s chaste, air, that breathes inspiration.. maybe to pull on a sweater. Or turn up the heat. It’s 76 degrees in the pale yellow- green painted room, with a rug the fertile shade of soil.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A 5 month old kitten’s vomit is the same colors. And her toys, they warm the room,<\/p>\n

they boast of activity. They, with the kitten,<\/p>\n

are the missing sunshine.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All year, except in early Summer when the evening will sift the sun through the branches to splash the living room wall with a brighter gold-dandelion hues- there is no sunshine in the apartment.<\/p>\n

\n

THIS evening, the light of another apartment almost mirrors the buttercup clouds that are smudged against a January edge. The light of the home is darker, like an egg yolk’s hue is deeper than the Sunlight.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The shoelaces untie,<\/p>\n

and they’ve been caught by the kitten’s eye.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She touches, hesitantly, with her paw,<\/p>\n

the lace that rests long on the slope, raw,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to the cool breeze of Mid-January;<\/p>\n

next to a window that reveals a sanctuary.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The sun dresses the top limbs of a tree; its lower bare curves are the hue of a cocktail skirt, with a ripped seam,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

that is halfway in the woven bamboo hamper;<\/p>\n

that was worn by the church- less Cantor..<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and the pine needles<\/p>\n

that poke the evening..<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

they, in sun-light, had the tint of the Sea.<\/p>\n

The splashed rocks with moss, pear green;<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

an inanimate congregation,<\/p>\n

that watch with a quiet contemplation<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a late Sunday Shore.<\/p>\n

Now, within Her ROOM there is more..<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the clutter of a confident craziness<\/p>\n

on a wooden scratched glossiness,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

upon which belligerently rest, near the kitten’s maw,<\/p>\n

the chewed 1% spandex blouse, and rubicund bra-<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

they are a tossed sunset over the edge. Of Mayan Skies..<\/p>\n

mountainous thrusts; Dusk’s sleepy eyes.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The books that have begun to be read,<\/p>\n

are upon the charcoal foam of a bed.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This portrait is etched within the walls the hue of yellow skin,<\/p>\n

exhaustively painted again and again, and again.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Warble   The warble, round like the earth and its sky, land colors<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1452,77],"tags":[1453,1123,1482],"class_list":["post-13434","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-egophobia-66","category-english","tag-egophobia-66","tag-english","tag-jennifer-cahill"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6DakB-3uG","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13434","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=13434"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13434\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":13435,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13434\/revisions\/13435"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=13434"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=13434"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=13434"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}