Fox and Wren Poetry

The Bee in the Bell

by The Fox

Wherein the bell of
bronze
buzzes a bee who has
tarried long;
and within this
cavern metal, he makes a song
akin to a billion
of his fuzzy fellows.

Oh hear and see that inside this belfry eroded—
ivy-coated
and fungi-loaded—
there abides a bee in the bell,
and all across
the country,
is heard the humming swell.

The Hazelnut of Dreams

by The Fox

A hazelnut floats upon a stream—
bobbing with
buoyancy, and
rocking as it
dreams.

While the enwrapping
water lapping,
polishes
its sheen, and shines
the silky shell,
to a russet-golden gleam.

Though it wonders
where it goes
(and brings wisdom
where it wanders),
its most sonorous secrets are those
that only a hazelnut
knows.

Myadestes

by The Wren

The thrush needs the forest for its melody
and the hills which build depth on its sound, opening
hidden entrances in the fabricky web
of spacetime — Indra's jewelled net —
leading simultaneously home and into a wide grove
where complex boundaries wind around centers of gravity
and we are reminded: we are not ever only our worst selves,
Flat and naked and empty; we, too,
can trace the lines of lyrics which unfold —
multidimensional — like fiddleheads or silk lanterns.
Sure, a supple heart
can be filtered through thin space
or a glass screen; behind veils
has charm always been
subjugated to modesty
and to at-times brutal compression
reducing rich, analog waves,
recorded on duendes' magnetic tape,
to stilted or clipped binary impressions. But:
the thrush needs the forest
the-thrush-needs-the-forest
the-thrush-needs-the-forest for its-trickling
trill-to-ring
trill-to-ring
out in echoes that resound,
coherently legible within
the polyphonic language of enkindled being.

The Voices in the Garden

by The Fox

Faeries flit
amongst my garden's flowers,
sniggering,
and giggling,
aglow by moonlit
showers.

Through the dark they
flicker, like
floating jewels
a-glimmer,
cherry reds and almandines,
fluorescent hues of
faultless opaline.

Tiny voices mingle,
tones of ice-clean pristine
bells a-twinkle.

'We will show thee magic,' whisper the faeries wee,
'in cardamom bees and twisted keys, and in glass spun by silken symmetries.'
'But thou must understand, that all our secrets lie:
in concentric circles
of silvered sand,
softly sea-foamed,
on the shores of distant lands.'

Shells

by The Wren

When we find seashells on the shore
We cannot see the lives that wore
such intricately-fashioned carapaces.
In their place emptiness now resides, a void
and we bear witness only to the silent traces
of what once made sense within its own complex.
Now we collect — not quite the creature, rather
what its frame suggests
a moment where the flesh-worn past is polished
by our mind's gleaming.
So inspired by our found treasures, we
enclasp them to the chest tightly
Refilling them with snails, with molluscs,
or perhaps a nautilus
born of the Cambrian explosion of our dreaming.

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