Poetry, Prose, & Peonies

Hope is a thing with feathers

at least according to The Great

I can’t sit and fathom

why feathers are hopeful in

the wake of atrocity. Why is

flying away quite so appealing?

Hope takes shape in many forms

but mostly as an act to run away

from the tormented realities we

sit and face everyday. Something

wicked this way stepped, passed

the open cavity of my chest,

ripped my heart out and what

is left? Hope that the monster

walked back to its nest.

Hope is a thing with feathers,

ruffled and plucked and peaked.

Hope is longing for life without

pain, sorrow, suffering, loss

it’s how we escape. We fly like

the birds from their homes to gather

sticks and stones that we throw into

our own, and hope binds it all

together.

Hope is a spark, a dangerous one

in a way. Something quite necessary

something we all need in our sway

but why, oh, why is hope symbolized

in running away? The thought isolated

like water dripping from an open faucet

like a bird pecking the window over again

tap, tap, tap.

Hope is a thing with feathers, something that

can pick up and leave. Hope is abandonment

of horrid realities. Hope lasts as long as the

bearer gains sight of their yearning for

a simpler, less painful life. I cannot say I’m

a nihilist nor I play games of ruse within myself

quite the opposite finds itself as my truth.

I’m often accused of idealism because my hopes

remain true, that we see one another as human

and for some, that is the impossible ruse.

We climb and scratch and claw our way out

to the top of the hill and then place barrels

down the noses of those who wish to join us.

What is hope without follow through? What

is joy without hardship? What are feathers

without a bird nestled beneath them singing

songs for all the world to hear?

Emptiness and vastness sucked in chorus tunes

muddled beneath feathers plucked for a pillow

or two. I have hope for humanity, and perhaps

I’m the rube. Nothing spurs hope like the sound

of hollow shoes.

Hope is a thing with feathers

But those feathers cannot grow themselves

I pray that hope finds its fetters, for the

prisoners know it well.

Photo by eberhard 🖐 grossgasteiger on Unsplash