what the birds know.

 

There is no greater purpose than

this right here,

this right now,

 

existing within a pocket

of warm air and birdsong,

so many little voices

singing their praises of life.

 

This moment when

the sun’s rosy kisses

make the horizon blush

contains within it

the answers that

men die for —

that men kill for.

 

If only we would

silence the madness

for a brief moment

and listen with our hearts

to the meaning of bird’s songs,

 

perhaps we might sense the

humbling magnitude

of life itself —

the gift that is every sunrise,

the gift that is every spring,

the gift that is this opportunity

to exist within such boundless beauty.

 

If only for a moment

we would choose

to set aside

our convictions,

our trauma,

our tragedy,

 

we might begin feeling

what inspires birds to sing,

 

we might comprehend

life without condition,

 

we might truly know

what it is to love.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2017

 

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the waiting place.

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We all have our moments

where we can’t think

through the sadness.

 

The moments where

minutes become years

and years swell

with the vacancy of

what was stolen or

left carelessly behind,

 

where we’re lost in

a bitter cycle of

hyper-critical doubt,

 

where the words are

etched into raw flesh

and ink flows fiercely

from bloodless veins,

 

where hopes dissolve

into the breath filling

some other’s lungs

and dreams collapse

into shadows haunting

the recesses hidden

within longing hearts –

 

and these are the

everything moments.

 

This is where you

are the burned forest,

the exploding star,

the dry season,

the decomposing flesh

slowly offering its carbon

back to the land and

into the beating heart

of some newborn thing

whose mother ate the cow

who ate the grass

that fed upon the nutrients

and grew within the carbon

that you left behind.

 

This is where you are rebirth,

where you are possibility,

where you are life proving

its relentless will to live.

 

This is where you

are empty, alone, and

existing without cause

or intellectual use –

an inactive passenger

peering through the

clouded lens of regret,

 

wishing you would’ve

loved your leaves more,

wishing you’d said

goodbye and good luck

to departing photons,

wishing you’d thanked

the water for filling

your barren plains,

wishing you’d been kinder

to your body when it

carried you through life.

 

We all have moments

where we can’t think

through the sadness,

and these are the

moments of beginning.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2015

 

carefully chosen notes.

Surreal Birds, by Alexandria Baker
Surreal Birds, by Alexandria Baker

 

As day rolls into night

and night into day,

the shaman sparrow

sings his lilting song

of secret, sacred notes

performed for a

slumbering Spring.

 

Slicing through the

bitter silence of

frozen twilight skies,

each note is a

brilliant reminder

of what once was

and again will be,

 

inspiring a breathy answer

for the beating hearts

of everyone awake to hear:

 

“Soon, sweet sparrow. Soon.”

 

Would the sparrow travel

to warmer skies

if he knew how closely

they existed?

 

Just through the fabric

of here and now,

a short trip to

Somewhere Spring,

 

does the sparrow

seek this eternal paradise

of chartreuse rebirth,

 

or does he patiently sing

his hopeful song

to icicles decorating

barren trees,

 

appreciating each

arctic moment

for its glittering beauty,

 

mindfully aware

of rewards revealed

to those who wait?

 

As the sun rises

in numbing cold,

so does it set

in humid haze,

blanketing each realm

and all in between

with a conscious reminder

that love is patience.

 

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Right Reserved

Copyright 2015

the blindness of busy.

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It’s walking

down a road

stunned by

the beauty

only to realize

you’ve driven it

hundreds of times.

 

We miss so much

when we hurry.

 

It’s the golden finch,

the baby mantis,

the fuchsia wildflowers

nestled amongst

thorny weeds,

delicate,

gorgeous,

and hidden from

hurried faces.

 

Rushing past

the loves of our lives

to make the bus,

catch the light,

get to work,

blindly chasing

the empty dream,

finishing gold-plated

in this heated race

toward death,

 

rushing past the love of your life,

 

past walks and drinks,

past hands held shyly,

past nervous lips

meeting beneath

flickering street lamps,

past quiet conversations

draped in dawn’s

blue light,

 

rushing past

what songs

and poems

 

and lives

are made of.

 

Rushing past inspiration,

we are driven by the

constant fear

of slowing down

for long enough

to look it all

in the eyes

and see the truth

that proves

this madness

wrong.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

the quiet push and pull.

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Your weight descends

upon the top of my head,

reaching into mind and brain

with luminous tendrils

of motherly love

and celestial command

in dizzying

orbital pirouettes,

 

a balloon riding

waves of solar wind

barely tethered to

a body or identity,

you push and pull

on our oceans

and minds high

in this early

summer heat,

 

quietly promising

to keep life churning,

keeping us company

without saying or

doing anything

but simply

being yourself,

 

teaching us all

a thing or two

about love.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

manifest destiny

'Betrayal' by Mario Sanchez Nevado
‘Betrayal’ by Mario Sanchez Nevado

 

The river muddy and deep

is somewhat welcoming

and even warm looking

as I ponder the farther distance

of walking the bridge

over swimming the waters.

 

Just an angry current or two,

a shorter distance

for the price of

a few hundred calories

and a swift gray undertow.

 

(Just my clothes and phone

to sacrifice to

the trash and filth.

Just me and the river.)

 

The sun shines hot

on my back

for the first time

in always and never

as the striking

primitive valley

reminds me

with it’s velvety hills

and garish billboards

that we’ve squandered

genuine beauty

for the sake of

hideous vanity.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

when the weather wants to talk.

lightning_strike

 

The storm nudged me

through the window,

through the world

as I sat on the couch

just waiting

for something

to happen.

 

Through the window.

Through the woods.

Over the hill

strange lights

made crazy

in the clouds,

drawing me out

toward the park

on the mount,

 

through the woods

and toward the light

the hill crested

revealing the sky’s

silent inferno,

a hellish orange

miles away,

 

slow bolts of

skeletal lightning

cut through the

cream soup air

toward dehydrated ground,

 

reading it like braille

and drawing me into

the heart of the storm,

an alive thing

with a secret to share:

 

“Don’t be afraid of complexity:

I am a ghost of change.

You smelled me coming,

am I not welcoming?”

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014