Birds of a feather are different birds

Maybe not such a brilliant title for a poem which if you look at closely does not quite underpin any differences between a team of birds. Yet my somewhat listless mind settles on “Birds of a feather are different birds”. Talk me into changing it if you can (ha!). A writer friends saw the title and thought “oh but Nana, it doesn’t even make sense”. Making Sense! god I am too stressed to beck a debate. “ok!” was all the energy in me could come back with. Not making sense is only a peaceful protest of a warring mind. And I think Artists are birds of a feather yet we are different. We thrive on diversity.

When I use my senses to reach the different tastes, feels, moans, smell of beauty, I worry less about making sense. Anybody who know me also knows I like people who disagree with me…;-).

Multifariousness is what is left to conform to. Trying to do ten million things at a time is not what I mean, that is what is causing my stress in the first place. Depression is not a good friend but it is faithful, it will stick by you, until you make some sunny changes. Don’t ever bump into Depression; it might fall in love with you! (everlastingly!)

Writing for me is home, and sometimes we just need to get away from home. My writer friend says “Writing is too serious, someone can point out your mistakes you need to find another way to unwind, learn to play an instrument, paint or something”. So, feel lucky that you are not my neighbor, when I hit into my drum, xylophone and most recently my guitar, it is not pretty! Don’t worry I won’t record any of my music session, I love you that much...;-). But I can inflict my painting on you as I have. Thank god for cameras! I wonder what my friend would have said if I were a painter or a musician who needed to leave home? I guess then writing won’t be that serious. Art is so fat you can’t sew pants for her!

Birds of a feather are different birds

I stare up high at birds
in my dreams
I fly
when I do
I ‘m not sure
if
I leave
or go
home
sometimes
I try
not
to sing
or scratch my beak
to earth
but I am a bird
I lose feathers
on trees and rivers
I travel
without bags
sing ocean songs
walk mountains
into beds I nest
I am bird
with in-grown wings