Clio

A bird settled on the rail

She turned her head and fluffed her wings

And gazed at me awhile

Then was off, leaving me alone

But she left her shadow, the silly thing!

It’s not black or gray, but the purest white

It blinks and quivers with snowy feathers

And it whistles a jolly tune

So light and so airy, and full of utter joy

Of which I could not help but write

Not in treble clefts or notes, but words

Lovely, poetic words wreathed around me

Some so sad and some so sweet

Light as the moon’s silver and dark as the sun’s shadow

There was so much that had to be said

I could scarcely write it all!

She was talkative that precious little bird

And I laughed and smiled, before turning back to the shadow

Alas! She was gone!

But I knew she would come back.

After all, who could abandon a good story?

Baha here comes more Sarah Commentary, sorry you have to suffer through it. Alright, Clio is one of the seven Muses, who are somekindofGreekthing. She was the Muse of History. But that doesn't attain to this at all, so I'll move on. I get my inspiration from a lot of different places; nature, people, music, other people's writing (not authors surprisingly enough, but like from friends and family; I hear about stuff their writing and get all inspired, it's kinda cool), animals (which I suppose could be put in the nature part), etc etc. This poem was inspired by, you guessed it! A little bird landing on my balcony rail when I was upstairs writing one day that I just so happened to glance at when I got stuck on a part of some story or other I was fighting against. And lo! I got all inspired by that little mockingbird and continued on, and then later wrote this poem about that little bird who I subsequently named Clio because I like fancy, ornate Greekthings. And the Muses are kinda cool. Anyway I'm on a tangent again, I'll stop now :).

Sun Under the Water

I remember when the woods were at our fingertips dears

They whispered so many tales

Of legends of valor, falling so gently on our ears.

Treading softly in the vales

“Onwards!” they would laugh at us as we ran among shadows

Through the paths we’d wend our ways

Down in ancient, olden haunts where the wind would dance below

Across the rocks, moss would laze

All that mattered was how long the sun would shine in the sky

And that lying was a sin

I can’t remember when we knew we would never die

Everything was simple then

Oh how the golden light would bless our innocent displays!

Those lost times have yet been found

And I can’t help but mourn that you will never see that phase…

Many a year has unwound

Since how we used to wile away hour after hour

In streambeds deep, trees high and low

Playing whether it was sunshine or clouds, ice or shower

Yes, I know when our world was so

Alright the title of this is seemingly unrelated to the poem yes? Well sorta; in context yes they are unrelated, but that was kind of what I was going for. This poem is extremely nostalgic for me as it pretty much sums up the degree of wonder of my childhood. And maybe it's even a little nostalgic for other people too, at any rate I'm prattling. Like everyone in the world gets nostalgic about something at some point, and I imagine I'm not the only one who feels this great bubbly kind of ache when I get like that. What I'm trying to get at is that I don't remember all of my childhood, heck I probably don't even remember half of it. But I regard it as a whole with a hazy kind of golden fog over it. Sort of how sunlight looks when you're looking up at it through water. Catch my drift? It's warm and pure and so, so bright and scattered. I hope I'm not the only one who thinks that, and if I am and this whole commentary doesn't make a lick of sense to you? Well I've always said I'm kinda weird :). Anyway I'm done rambling, sorry I'm a bit verbose sometimes.