a holy choir of trees lines
rows of white folding chairs
like a song with no music

a child shoos a fluttering of magpies while
a red-winged blackbird screeches circles around the bride
her wedding dress covered in hand-stitched crystal rhinestones and pearls
the bullet flies back into the barrel of the gun
as crows march down Main Street

stopping to peck at horse manure from yesterday’s wedding march parade

~bwarren 23

The day 2 prompt birthed this one.

That Crow

Hold that image—
fast, before it fades
to fog, to
dreams not remembered.

For many days
if a crow caws, its
dreams nudge her, the roll of a
die that makes
life feel fragile, maybe it
is fragile, like that image,

a crow
broken-winged, strutting across an old stone wall, a
bird that swallowed her whole
that crow from her dreams, that crow that

~bw 22

Day Six prompted us to write a variation of an acrostic poem.  The first word of each line in this piece is from the first stanza of Dreams by Langston Hughes. This one didn’t come easy, but it is my sixth.


From towering gables to lofty pines
congregated murders capture our collapse,
cawing a cacophony.

Black lustered feathers blink blue
between barren deciduous branches.

They watch us.

And they wait.

Brenda Warren 2020


Caw! Caw! Caw!

Like a crow without wings,
I fall toward syllables
exploring the dark
searching for light
recording caws climbing up from cracks in my soul.

Brenda Warren 2016

The first line of this poem is adapted from a line in Linda Hogan’s poem “Skin.” Her line is “like crows without wings.” For our final poem of April, Elizabeth suggested that we write a piece to anchor our work this month.

A big thank you to Elizabeth, whose suggestions have driven and inspired a large number of my poems this month. She created the badge below to honor our achievement… 30 poems in 30 days! Caw! Caw! Caw!



Echoing Hope

Ancient grains of hope, stories survive
within the hollow bones of crows.

Legends splinter, escaping through cracks
as caws collapse against night.

Did you hear that?

Old crows caw history’s quilt, stitching stars to clay
somewhere between marrow and loft
where hearts crawl open
echoing grains of hope.

Brenda Warren 2015


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The Angel in the Box

The angel in the box lies in wait.

Sound’s empty waves obscure the face of her moon,
as turbulence flutters through her feathers
in a space simple and compact
like Earth’s confined clay.

She imagines the snatches of humanity
who imprisoned her, immobile and apart,
locked inside this simple angel trap.

Oh, how she longs for music,
like a junkie with a fix,
a mix of minor-stringed No Crows, some harp,
and a little folk in her range to help cover time.

The angel prays that the blundering pair who trapped her here
will lift the lid before her wings lose their luster
and there is no need for her balm.

Brenda Warren 2013

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