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Flying V Productions, Los Angeles
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Through the Glass A Few Poems, By T.L. Verley
(c) all rights reserved
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This one was inspired by the intro at the beginning of the book The Thornbirds:
All the Other Birds
So true it is that people can be like thornbirds
pushing themselves forward into something
even if it causes them a painful death
and the enjoyment nonexistant
putting their hands into the fire
becoming addicted to the heat
so unrationally torturing themselves and each other
It must be a pitiful sight from the heavens
or as I can't judge nor imagine the sight of God
I shall say that the thornbirds
may drive themselves into a painful death
copying us
or perhaps the misery they derive from us
drives them to it
Maybe instead of backing off
progressive entrapment or justification of effort
pushes them forward despite the pain
Passion may play a role
Perhaps thornal suicide fully engulfs all their senses
Maybe it is all they are good at
Maybe they don't know what else to do
Perhaps in a world where people kill themselves
and each other, and pump poison into themselves,
and the Earth, and with all of the disease, death,
hunger, pain, sorrow, and misery,
it is fitting that a bird should flutter into a spike,
and perhaps people are not like thornbirds,
but instead thornbirds are like people,
who fly so close to flowers
only to embrace the thorns
Maybe if a thornbird could talk
it may speak of a great rush
or of chivalry, or ideologies
or maybe it would say that that is simply how it has always been
or "Hey, all the other birds are doing it."
Here is one on Passion:
Passion
In a fit of delusion,
I grasped the illusion.
I embraced the smell, color, softness, and beauty.
I hung on not noticing the thorns,
As the blood ran down my hands,
And onto the ground,
Until the roots sucked it up,
And it was no longer feeding off of some unknown source,
But instead it was feeding on me.
This next one kind of explains itself:
Sweet but Sour Wine
A toast to no one to:
A rose
that opened and closed
without
anyone noticing
A sunrise
that painted the sky
on Sunday
while everyone slept
A horse without a rider
A car without a driver
A grand solo performance
with no audience
A drop of rain on concrete
which fed not one blade of grass
A tree
with shade for no one
An ocean
with no fish
A puppy
never petted
A chair on which no one sits
Such is life at times it seems
but the show it never quits
Hope you liked them. .... Tony.
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