When Doves Cry

In Hollywood, pigeons eek out hard-scrabble lives in the shade.
They fling their wings, well-worn where movies are made.
Privileged doves are let go at the occasional funeral parade.
Otherwise they stay cooped up in roosts while other plans are laid.

“Where shall we go next?” they cry.  “Where shall we sleep tonight?”
“Will we have some bread today?” and, “Why is he so white?”
These are the pure ones, which seem so elusive, so high.
Symbols of the Holy Spirit with the power to soar the sky above, And conquer gravity with ease, as a prayer for love and peace.

Of course, the Owl is always wise; he’ll remind us to close our eyes
To foul weather, bones, and feathers; shell accounts and tax-free havens.
Cardinals trump the cranes and loons; hawks mind the crows and ravens.
But double eagles are twice the fun as banded roadrunners, on the run...

Life is for the birds!  Swallows and swifts, finches and twits.
Every egret regrets every day it sits; every albatross carries the weight of its cross.
Every sparrow is beholden to the golden sun, and each eye of the peacock has seen loss.
The blue jay, the robin, the night-jar; the thrush; the hummingbird and the starling,
Who would have thought that this purple bird would be gone so soon, my darling?

All the pointed guns stood out like old words, oiled by the anointed ones now flush with fool’s gold.
Is it a stool pigeon that feigns a broken flight?  Or a homing pigeon that always returns at night?
Should we pigeon-hole an institution as infallible or gullible?  Shall we stand, flamingo-like, on one leg?  Should we bury our heads in the sand and stand, days on end, stunned by the sun, like some ostrich egg friend?  No!  Let us glide like eagles upon the new horizon, free to fly as high as the Sun. 

Wrtten on 4-20-2016
JJG 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Can You Hear Me Now??

Spentagon