Four Poems| Katrenia Busch
The Oracle of Birds
For air is to peace
Earth is to war
This here I now release
Whether close or from afar
Division found at my feet
Different at the ground
Congealed at my head, the clouds throne, their seat
Where the air itself is found
For war is awakened in each step I take
Divided, different, loosened, twain
Peace atop the body to overtake
By holding balance to maintain
Lest birds are found to unite the two
That is, the earth and the air
As Zeus himself was found to do
With a very distinguished pair
The Music of Pandora’s Box
Hope was found singing
Things—shall begin to improve
A feeling— that was left—remaining
When all other promises had been removed
Hope was spotted perching
On that soul— that was dismayed
There is was— avenging
Saying, please don’t be afraid
Hope was observed attesting
When fear approached my thoughts
As it began confiding—
Evils fled, but hope was all but— lost
The music of Pandora’s box musing
Hidden trust and expectations
That the outcome and last feeling
Is hope that never abandons
Pinnacle of Darkness
Senses be heightened
Reflexes of this here state
One that is questioned
Whether one is asleep or awake?
For when the eyes drift
And the moon lights thine heart
Libras scales of balance do shift
As the stars then depart
Half thy life be found
Beneath these darkened skies
Thine other self— bound
To only awake at moon-rise
Frenzied in a darkened state
The madness lingers so
As you now lie awake
Being one with your own shadow
The mirror reversed what a pinnacle reached
The order be inverted, may madness be found
Now these steps be backwards, now they be breached
As the highest order was established and the rest can only go down
A Stone that’s Washed Ashore
For with one stone and two birds
Found, through clever throwing motion
Spheres that tumble downwards
Piercing eyes congealed towards this devotion
Feathers gathered to soar and fly
Fiery beneath the earth
Lest navigation rather be earth than sky!
And we now find re-birth
For some are privy to these words
Others not so keen
Hear them now, as these devilish birds
Serve as an omen of what’s foreseen
Winds of time we gather
Under these here wings
Between the sun and moon, a feather
That glides through understanding
The father and the three make four
Quadrants of these things
The birds are found to here adore
These fiery flying tidings
Rumbling from the earth below
Division navigated afore
Be stumbling, lest we throw
A stone that’s washed ashore
Photo by Boston Public Library on Unsplash
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