Day
23 of the NaPoWriMo challenge at www.napowrimo.net.
Prompt: Humans
might be the only species to compose music, but we’re quite famously not the
only ones to make it. Birdsong is all around us – even in cities, there are
sparrows chirping, starlings making a racket. And it’s hardly surprising that
birdsong has inspired poets. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your
own poem that focuses on birdsong.
The bird
He thought
he couldn’t live without her,
after she
left, without a murmur.
It was
three o’clock in the afternoon,
the sun
was high, and he somehow knew
she was
gone before he looked about,
before he
found her scribbled note.
She
accused him of being ‘bloody boring’,
not caring,
not noticing, just not being.
And that
was that, his Ruth was gone,
but
outside that putrid sun still shone.
A soft
breeze blew through the open window
and down
the sidewalk he heard the people go,
gliding, their
endless chatter a rising stream.
The day
suddenly seemed an empty dream.
It was a necessary
clearance, he decided later,
when weeks
had passed and he called the realter,
but reconsidered
it – this was still his home.
It wasn’t
like him to just sit still and moan,
but he
could not endure this silence unheard,
so he went
out and bought a brand-new bird,
an emerald
budgie, the first pet he’d ever owned,
and to him
his heart this little bird loaned.
He made
sure to keep the cage door wide,
so Fred
could fly free, and roam and hide,
taking the
apartment in strong, swift laps,
landing on
the heads of any visiting chaps,
so he
could ruffle their greying hair and sway
back and forth
in his own endearing way.
Fred was
far less bother than a wife.
He never
nagged, contradicted or caused strife.
Fred never
said he was wearing the wrong tie,
saying a stupid
word or just being the wrong guy.
A budgerigar
won’t ever embroider the truth,
not like
the porkies drawn up by Ruth.
She lied many
a time about the delivery driver,
giving him
a much bigger tip than the usual fiver.
“Don’t
forget to wipe your feet,” Ruth would shout.
“Don’t
forget to breathe,” he’d whisper about.
If he was
in a happy mood, Fred knew.
He’d wing
it. Round and around he flew.
If he was feeling
that life got colder,
Fred would
perch upon his shoulder.
If he was feeling
a bit waylaid,
Fred would
nod at everything he said.
Unlike his
wife who had too much to say,
moaned at
everything and called it a day,
Fred would
never screech, demand to be fed.
Even when the
bird pooed on his bed,
he knew it
was nothing personal.
If his
wife saw that, he’d take the fall,
because she
blamed him for everything.
Now, any
criticism was just water off his wing.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, April 23, 2025