And so, Lady Songbird has flown the nest . . .

After five or so years, I have chosen to leave Xanga, where I was know as Lady_Songbird, or LSB to my friends. I realize I had a little bit of a following there and I hope those readers will forgive me, and follow me here, to my new (newish) home.

I will post small works of fiction, essays, photographs and artwork as the spirit moves and time allows, just as always. I invite comment and conversation. Please be civil and polite. I do not have time or patients for meanness. Remember, I am a real human being, and do not take kindly to being called names or bullied.

As a reminder, I think I shall start this new life with a poem I wrote a few years ago, and drag out every so often as a reminder to be kind to those you meet along the road, even if they do not keep the same pace that you set, or choose a different path than the one you would. (Much love to Jesse Coffey for saving this for me!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You kneel on cushions, droning endless strings of rote syllables, emotionless,
Hearing only the sound of your own voice, and not the message in the words you chant.
And you call yourself pious.

I dance and sing out joyfully to my creator in thanksgiving for the wind and the rain,
Rejoicing at the miracle of each rising sun, and each breath that brings me life.
And you call me heathen.

You place your dollar in the plate, grudgingly, not caring where it is to go,
Yet being careful to record it for the accountant to mark . . .
And you call yourself charitable.

I cry out for the sick, and the old, and for those who have no voice, that they are in need of that dollar you care so little for, yet refuse to offer . . .
And you call me a bleeding heart.

You measure your worth by your portfolio, and you hold your mirror against others in judgment, dismissing those who do not conform to your standard.
And you call yourself successful.

I live day to day, awash in the smiles of children, reveling in muddy hugs and kisses, watching each bloom and grow into his own beautiful soul.
And you call me unmotivated.

You look on me and scoff at the bright colors I wear, and the length of my hair,
You ruefully tell me I am a failure, a burden on society, an assumption born of prejudice.
And you call yourself educated.

I look on you and mourn the life you have squandered for the sake of your pride,
I offer my hand in friendship, and you turn your back, laughing at my impudence.
And you call me ignorant.

You sit, surrounded by the muted tones and elegant vestments of your station,
Alone with only the indifference of the plunder of your corporate pillaging . . .
And you call me . . .


And I answer . . .