Archive for Death

The Secret Language of Birds?

We have a barred owl. Every night, as we settle in for sleep, it greets us with the unmistakable call, “Who cooks for you?” You can hear and see it here. It’s quite delightful to experience. I’m even smiling as I write this. I’m so grateful it’s chosen to light for awhile in our wooded yard and serenade us most evenings.

Lots of birds visit our yard, actually. During one of the warmer afternoons last week, I went outside to get some Vitamin D, and was overwhelmed by the decibel level of their multiple conversations. So much was being said!

This got me thinking: “What are they really saying?” So I did some research, and found that they really do have a lot to say! Check out all of the possibilities here.

It also lead me to write a little poem. It’s a series of haikus, and I hope you enjoy it.

You Talkin’ To Me?

The featherweights fly
High in the intricate lace
Of the wintertime.

They chase and land and
Sometimes they peck, until they
Chase and land again.

What is their message
For those of us who are bound
To earth for life and

Death that surely comes?
What have they to say about
How we spend our time,

Mostly chasing and
Sometimes pecking but hardly
Landing? Rest, maybe?

 

©2014 Laura Overstreet Biering

Poetry and the Olympics: Remembering Papa

I missed writing yesterday – it just slipped my mind – does that ever happen to you?

So today, there’ll be two posts!  The first of which is in memory of my father.  Papa was never an athlete.  He was, nevertheless, a big fan.  And he loved the Olympics.  He was especially proud of the athletes from Auburn University where he taught, and most especially proud of those who had been his students, including Rowdy Gaines.  So naturally, I am remembering Papa, his last months, in particular…

I Remain

Six years since we heard the word,
Over five since you’ve been gone.
It took you fast,
It took you slow-
Ly. There was no pain
And then only
Pain.
I remain
Thankful

For the unpronouncably-named medications,
The couch in your bedroom
On three legs and a brick,
The place I supposedly slept,
And from which I listened to each gurgling breath,
Wondering, worrying, hoping, feeling
Guilty as hell.
I remain
Thankful

That there were cousins,
Some of them not-even-really
Cousins, bringing bread pudding,
Sharing in your care,
Nursing you in ways I could not, would not.
Thankful that you’d splurged
On the electronically-bending bed,
Purchased for pleasure, not knowing at the time
The need around the bend.
I remain
Not thankful

At all
For hospice
Not helpful
At all
In the end.

Damn them.

 

Laura Overstreet Biering, Copyright March, 2011