Poetic Collections

The Catalese White Cockle bird is rare, found only in the hottest jungles

Thought once extinct when I heard it sighted, I believed it merely a trope.

found in Northern Europe, I've come to seek this living fossil;

Cocytus Gaye is my name, a bird biologist who lives for adventurous scope.

I became obsessed with Love and nature as I wandered freely

Burdened by the monotone, I turned to birds to cope

And when I behold the bird's rare beauty I shall somehow come to know me

But as I now face the jagged jungle I walk a difficult journey.

It is not an especially bright bird, the Catalese White Cockle bird

And often mistakes its mate for flora or bugs or stones

It can even mistake it for people, and other things absurd

But the beauty of the Catalese White Cockle bird is especially well known

I traced it's tracks across the trees and at each trail I muttered

A 'this' or a 'that' about the birds, as I penned my path to page and word 

"Males of the Catalese species" I wrote, "were once noted for how their feathers fluttered

 They would wear their plush plumage tufted and fly with their rainbow plumes colored."

"The males will attempt to attract a mate" I said, "using their many tricks and traps

A variety of dances or bird songs to catch the recipient's attention. 

Sadly though, the bird is oft rejected, as it tries to mate with hats or cats or bottle caps

And fails to recognize a mate of its own, the reason needs no further mention…"

As I penned this my fingers trembled, terribly enthused

Such a rare circus pet which I sought to capture as it naps

They'd make for me the most beautiful spectacle, nevermind if they're bemused

What's most important is that he'll bring me humor and leave me terribly amused.

Many don't know that the Catalese birds are eerily perceptive.

Observations say that they can feel our thoughts and sometimes talk like people

They can even express identity or inquiry; a talent quite deceptive

But aside from their sense of humanish heart, they're otherwise rather feeble.

No need to think them like us, they're just a passing bird

Just let them hear your birdcall and they'll be quite receptive.

Last they were seen in 1291, on December 23rd.

And since that day and never till now, have their beautiful voices been heard.

But as I sat pondering and weird, I heard a song so calm and serene

That it left me feeling quaint or queer. 

I looked above and there it was, pink and jasper; lazuli and tangerine

The many-colored coat of the Catalese White Cockle sat above me, and it sang a tad austere 

I watch it dance from branch to branch and knoll to knoll

It sung its song so deeply sweet, as evermore it got near

And in its mouth the words it spoke left in me a hole

Parted its beak and bequeathed to me, "tell me the shape of my Soul"

Spying with my camera, watching as it flew

It's silver wings and black beak chanting in my ears.

I watched the Catalese White Cockle bird, and listened to it spew

The same phrase again and again and found it rather queer.

I found it rather quaint and queer to listen to it sing its song

I found it rather quaint and queer to listen and to hear

The sound of words that men would speak from a bird appearing wrong

The constant query became a nuisance; its human voice did not belong.

"Shut up—!" I said with fury and with fear

"Must you spew your silly words, you're just a bird I say!?"

But the dazzling Catalese White Cockle bird, if truly it could hear

Then it ignored me callously, and its song continued to play

"You're but a man," it sang, "who spurned society to find your goal

A simple man who spurned society or so it would appear.

I will not be your fancy or muse, a mere forgotten scroll

For you to unravel and decrypt and discard; just tell me the shape of my Soul!"

Now I have seen and kept and caged of many an exotic bird

But never before did any bird chirp or speak to me of reason

A voice which asks such ponderous questions never had I heard.

I love the birds, I truly do. I love a new one every season

"Would you not like a cage of gold," I inquired and cajoled

"Or a fine seed and warm bed? Please, to love a bird is no treason!"

But again that bland and boring bird, repeated like a toll

It stared at me and simply said, "Tell me the shape of my Soul!"

"Tell me the shape of my Soul I say

Tell me what I am!

I do not need your gold or seed, I'm plenty happy, plenty gay;

I need not your changing love, nor your lovely scam!

I ask not vanity, only to be whole

A simple mate who peers at me, and my heart they'll never play.

I'll not grovel for gold or seed, no material thing shall I extoll

My wish is rather modest really: just tell me the shape of my Soul.

Oh please I beg you, just tell me the shape of my Soul!"

Never before had there been a bird who sings of Love and Souls

So appalled I was to hear the song that I stumbled and I ran

He's a bird I say, an unruly bird and nothing great or whole

I swear I don't need such a bird, nor such a tedious man

But as they say, there's plenty of fish and plenty more of birds

If it's not to be this one, then it's the next, or another I'll control

Why settle for one, why settle for less, why not take the whole herd?

With so many birds and so much to choose from, who cares about the Soul?

I'll not ever need or want from a bird who dares to be so bold

I'll not ever need or want from one who says to me…

 "Tell me the shape of my Soul!!!"