Category Archives: Poetry

Cold Crow, a song by David Noftsinger

Cold Crow
(from The Corvid Chronicles)
David Noftsinger
Songwriting

Editor’s note: Whitefish Review experimented with a call to songwriters for issue #24 (Awakenings & Our Teachers).

Listen to Cold Crow – David Noftsinger here.

I

Cold call of the cold crow
On a cold, dark winter’s morning
Fresh tracks in the fallen snow
And I wonder where they’re going.

To the muskrat in her burrow
To the fox warm in his den
Back to my cozy cabin
To my coffee and my pen.

Where I write down what comes to me
Sometimes nothing, no, nothing comes at all
Across the blank page, through the silence
Comes the cold crow and his call.

II

I took a ride right down the slide
Through the devil’s corkscrew
When I got my footing, I started looking
For some ice water, some mischief, and a clue.

Despite the heat, a quaint retreat
Who knew hell would be a pleasure garden
It was so damn good. The devil stood
Up; he granted me pardon.

I thought that was pretty cool . . .

III

I began to fly up to the sky
I found god! – doing particle physics
She said, “Get your head out of the clouds.”
“The view up here is exquisite.”

I found little faith, a lot more outer space
The universe adding up to
Love and light—oh, sheer delight
And the plight we daily make our ways through.

IV

Then a voice said, Live your life with all your might.
Right then, my thoughts they drifted back to . . .

To the muskrat her burrow
To the fox warm in his den
To my cozy cabin
To my coffee and my pen.

Where I write down what comes to me
Sometimes nothing, no, nothing comes at all
Across this here page, through the silence
Comes the cold crow and his call.

From here to hell to outer space
The cold crow and his call
Gonna leave this place without a trace
Now I think I’ve heard it all.

From here to heaven to outer space
The cold crow and his call
Gonna leave this place without a trace
Now I think I’ve heard it all.

Yeah, you think you’ve heard it all
Till you’ve heard the cold crow and his call.
Till you’ve heard the cold crow and his call.

Tashlich by Kim Roberts

Screen Shot 2017-02-21 at 10.11.04 AM

Originally published in Issue #13. June 2013

 

I like to read horoscopes,
fortune cookies. My grandmother told me
never say a baby’s beautiful:
the
evil eye might snatch her.
Bridegrooms should walk backwards.
For protection, spit three times.
Driving down Wise Road
I chant, E=mc 2, any two points determine a line.
The road leads to Rock Creek
where once a year I empty my pockets,
to watch my sins flow toward the depths of the sea.
I wish on stars and birthday candles.
I knock on wood. I need all the help
I can get. Little prayers climb stairs,
jump off rooftops, try to fly.