Hi there. Often, I get lost in these poems; it's as if I'm singing to a crowd the whole time I'm working on them. Time flies by, and I don't even realize it. That's the case today. I love that feeling, that place, that art zone. I love the solitude, and the meditative aspect of the process. I started going to that place when I was very little -- I was always a seeker of all things imagination-based. Maybe I was searching for peace or god, I dunno. Once I learned how to write, I started sinking deeply into that artist zone. I used to feel it when I edited movies at school too. I'd be in that editing room for days and not even realize it. Man, that building was haunted too, ha. I loved it.
I've always craved to have that same artistic depth with another person, a partner, but so far, it comes to me solo. I dream about the shared possibility sometimes. And inside these words, I can say all of the things I always wanted to say. Hope you like the piece. C.A.
Migration
You, like a pale, striking, strange
hawk, live on the wind; You bring
home the flawless glide. You leave
in a rapid, reckless climb. For miles,
the vision is clear; you see the wild,
furious drive. Alone, air and sky
keep you alive. You swallow all
distant shapes -- the crawlers,
and the motionless -- like a raging
wild fire. You are quick to dive.
Most days, you are nearly silent,
but for the tree calls. With weather,
there comes a sudden, hidden
message – You are safe, I imagine.
Maybe you’re nesting, looking
backwards in the secret, mother
pine. Almost human now. Organic,
black licorice and dark chocolate.
Walking close, I step on the heels
of your shoes. Hurry, up above,
I spy an angry rain. Just in time,
we’re back. I look to you for wheat
pancakes.
C.A. MacConnell
