Ode To A Common Bird

Who, Who.
I woke listening to the birds.
Laid there, wishing I sang my victory.
Could surf those invisible waves.
Floating up, and then circling down.

No need for mortgages, cars that hobble
Weekly. Grind in The A.M.. Family
Disasters in the P.M..
Those waddles, those type A.
No more heartbreak.

Then the melodious voices,
Woke me again. Rather be in a forest primeval,
Singing my own song.
Arms wide I fly.
Now an acrobat of the sky.
Balanced, alive, awake.

Oddly I met John Keats grand nephew in the early seventies. I was working on my Masters on John Keats and realized I would rather write than be a critic, and gave up school. I was working at Real Foods, at the register, when checking the drivers license for a signature, it said John Keats. Having known that John Keats brother went to live in the USA, I asked if he was related. Great Grand Nephew. I wondered what brought me to John Keats. Why write on Keats. After reading his biography I understood. His family died of tuberculosis. other accidents. His mother, his father and his brother are gone. There is a sadness in his works. A yearning for other worlds, happiness. Keats took comfort in creating .A comfort in words. Don't we all.