Crowns only tuck

Severed, and green,

‘neathe prostrate plumes

of Imperial Blue seen

where the eye, of each, stares

when of romance, clean,

But Verily, they jump, for a female’s glean!

 

This is the Song, whose notes concern

the glowing, sweet bosom of a bird, one learns,

calls loud, but still sweet, for a heart that burns

to tell a tall tale, of that face, who yearns

to fly to the right, and then to the left,

Attention, and sight, to meet danger with flight!

 

But wise, not only, meets risk with speed,

Yes, playful alike, is this one’s creed!

Silly, the head, seems its own, so curious,

as it jolts to and fro, for what man finds spurious!

 

Yet crowned is its head, while man keeps hair

that in vain threads, ceaseless, he tries to care

for follicles that fall, and hearts that wane

when God so calls, to make sin our bane!

 

And unlike the call of an Imperial Blue cock,

the voice of man beckons, often only to lock

the possible fates of a still, sweet sound

in cellars of souls, where spite so abounds

 

For, this is the speech, quite loud but untold

in the annals of innocence and spiritual gold,

that wheresoever the tongue rolls, vanity unfolds

but never where the Imperial Blue remains bold

to remind us of beauty, in gems only sold

 

where

 

Crowns only tuck,

Severed, and green,

In feathers that rise

like a fan with a breeze

that knows no demise

and not a prospect of ‘please,’

but merely contrives

to paint a beauty, not ceased!

 

And, this is the symbol, for which mosaics, Roman,

sang of this Bird, in paint here spoken

where the Imperial Blue is Life Eternal,

where Saints know joy, of the Holiest Circle

 

And of, likewise, the movements, of this bird, I sang

as if only the cuteness, I meant to construct,

but not only the tender, and commonly rung

bells, are those I sounded, and so hung

well,

 

rather,

 

I mean to stress, what mystery lies

betwixt little eyes, black, and a long surprise:

this neck so bright, in Imperial Blue

has much to say, men cannot construe

since shining, the hue, the sun so knew

how to strike dear eyes, of our own soul too

with all that we need, to forsake what’s dark,

and cast out, now, what would miss the mark

 

These speechless groanings, such beauty provokes

to teach us well, what one can make of life’s rote:

Let not the complex, build all of our boats,

rather embrace much less, and see how we float

when Imperial Blue shall, Majestic, connote

the things of Heaven, hearts innocent wrote

when dried the paper, of meaning cloaked,

until wet, we made it, to protect, with a moat,

 

what

 

Crowns only tuck,

Severed, and green:

the Secret of Life

in God’s bountiful seams,

or those between feathers

of Imperial Blue letters

where Art so

Triumphs as

​

a Peacock!

 

How, better?

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “An Imperial Blue”, 06-02-25

 

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith