I Hear the Call of the Mockingbird

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

I hear the call of the mockingbird. It penetrates the morning solitude, and portends the beginning of another day. Its loud and sharp rasps, scolds and trills, conflicting with the quiet slumber of fatigue and simple tiredness of living. It is an intrusion into the realm of dreams and visions that flood my resting mind. I hear the call of the mockingbird. And now I am awake again to cope with the ordeal of living yet another day.

I HEAR THE CALL OF THE MOCKINGBIRD

By Al Garcia

I hear the call of the mockingbird.  It penetrates the morning solitude, and portends the beginning of another day.  Its loud and sharp rasps, scolds and trills, conflicting with the quiet slumber of fatigue and simple tiredness of living.  It is an intrusion into the realm of dreams and visions that flood my resting mind.  I hear the call of the mockingbird.  And now I am awake again to cope with the ordeal of living yet another day.  Just a dream.  Just a memory of the sound of normalcy and serenity that once defined the world around me. 

I hear the call of the mockingbird, and envy its persistence and tenacity.  Its life an unassuming gesture of creation.  Its beauty an illustration of the complexity of nature.  Its insistent call, the sound of the reawakening of the world around me.  It is the reflection of all that is, and how it all should be.  Acceptance and simplicity.

And yet, I feel the burden and bear the pain, of having walked away without a scratch while others just seemed to fade away.  It is a tragedy to be led to war to kill and wound and maim.  It is a travesty to walk away without being told why we fought or why so many died.  And I hear the call of the mockingbird, and feel the reassurance of nature’s womb.  More times than not, the remembered sounds within my mind of thundering jets and exploding bombs drown out the call of the mockingbird that keeps my hope alive.  I cloak myself beneath the mendacities of national pride and superiority, both protective and shielding of the callousness of man, whose brutal and merciless conquests over all creatures great and small, diminish the beauty and the sound of the call of the mockingbird. 

To see the worst of man at war, is to look into the depth of the human soul and find nothing.  For war exhausts the hopes and dreams that line our souls.  We become the enemy of our enemy, and eventually of ourselves.  We unwittingly become the ally to devastation and eventual obliteration.  We become that which we had hoped to impede, and instead supersede the debacle to the point beyond the consciousness of man. 

To hear the call of the mockingbird ignites a fury and a passion within me.  Why, I ask myself, if a mockingbird can sing, and a bluebird fly, and an eagle soar, why can’t we leave war behind and simply enjoy the singing of the mockingbird, the beauty of a bluebird as it flies away, or the grace of an eagle as it soars toward the heavens above?  Why can’t we live like the creatures that surround us and enchant and entrance us, with their beauty and tranquility?  They embrace the wind and the sky.  They clinch and grip the substance on the trees and on the land, and they survive, and they thrive, while mortal man calculates, evaluates and analyzes ways to exterminate, eradicate and obliterate, our perceived enemies and ourselves.  It seems to be the human way, and only way.

After the bombs fall.  After the explosions rock and scar the mountains and the river’s edge.  After the human toll is quietly placed into a lair beneath the cold and bloodstained soil.  After the clouds of smoke and toxic chemicals fall upon the forests and the plants below.  That is when I will hear again the call of the of the mockingbird.  Its loud and sharp rasps, scolds and trills, conflicting with the quiet slumber of fatigue, and simple tiredness of living.  It is an intrusion into the realm of dreams and visions that flood my restless mind, that time has neglected to mend.  It is an intrusion into the forgotten lives of those that lie beneath the man-made tombs that stand before me, as far as the eye can see, in a field of fallen dreams. 

I hear the call of the mockingbird.  It wakes me and revives within me, the sound of lives that no longer share a place or time with me.  So, if I think, therefore I am.  And if they were, then why are they no more?  And once again, I listen to the call of the mockingbird, and I wonder why them and not me?


Submitted: June 18, 2021

© Copyright 2021 A.Garcia. All rights reserved.

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LE. Berry

Beautifully expressed in composition and comparison A, But to me what you've written is much more of a short story composed in the style of poetry.

Fri, June 18th, 2021 7:17pm

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