A Bird In A Tree Shit On My Heart

One of my first attempts at something real. With jokes. I enjoy the telling of bitter-sweet tales.


A Bird In A Tree Shit On My Heart

The prettiest bird
I’ll ever see
Landed on a nearby limb

It took me for
A pitiable man
And thought, “I’ll chirp love into him.”

It calmed my soul
With the first golden song
The melody shall haunt me, all my life-long

I fed the bird
A piece of bread
From the freshest loaf I had

Slowly enough
It picked at the crumbs
But my manna had gone bad

I petted the head
Offered water, and bath
But I’d sickened the thing, I’d suffer the wrath

It’d given me love with wings
My love’d made it sick
I spoke in lilting tones to sooth it

The bird was made ill
That was nauseous at the start
A bird in a tree shit on my heart

I gave it a worm
To stay in her grace
To earn the song which shines on my grateful, dirty face

But it had been startled
And guessed me as a foe
The error stained on my heart, for all the world to know

I tried to pet the feathers
And felt my own heart swell
At touching the perfection of the only bird who sings so well

No nightingale, or robin
No blue jay, or meadowlark
Will ever sing a melody as gorgeous as the bird who owns my heart

I gave it each worm
I could dig up
The writhing trinkets only mean so much

I tried to bake my heart
Into fresh, new loaves of bread
The little bird may never eat my meager crumbs again

Outstretched towards her branch
Is my heart in my hand
Dripping with shit from my own moldy bread

The bird sings much softer
And I strain my ears
To that perfect, golden song, the only sound I long to hear

The bird has not
Yet flown away
If she’d did, I’d go and get her

Though it was my food
That poisoned us
I will learn to feed her better

The fault is my own
The bird is not all mine
I will sit beside her in that tree, until it is no longer my time

Precious still, is every note
Voice is weak in straining throat
Yet a song as sweet as angels could’ve wrote

I fear to stroke the feathers
And bring water to the beak
The song-bird is a wonder, and I, the flawed and meek

The little bird
That once was ready
To perch upon my finger

Has given me
My favorite song
Every note, forever lingers

For the return to
That glorious place
All the love on Earth I’ll bring her

The beautiful wings and tiny feet
Briefly held inside my hand
The plans of mice and men are even less, next to those of a bird and a man

To hear her singing
Loud again
The only purpose for which I have fervour

To the bird I am a hunter now
Though I’ll always hold her dear
She and I are nervous now, though we sit so near

She will sing again for me
Until it is so, I’ll never rest
For what use are my ears, if not to hear the song I love the best

The song she sings is softer now
I strain my heart, my soul, my ears
To listen to the only perfect bird, sing the last golden song I’ll ever hear



Sonny Giordano, Valentine Media(c), 2010