National Poetry Month--Day 30--Questad Poem plus spare

On this last day of April and the last day of the poetry challenge, I'm doing a Questad poem. And yes, I was just as confused as you are about it. I thought it had something to do with a quest...which it doesn't. Learn about them here.

It's been a pleasure writing poetry and stretching myself to do something creative. (Actually I'm probably going to go add bits of broken mirror to my broken glass chandelier so that ticks another creative box.) I hope you've enjoyed my often freakish sense of humor. Thanks for reading these and leaving the occasional comment. They make me feel like someone actually comes here and this isn't all a colossal wasteland where words go to die alone and unwanted.
I give you Windchimes:

WINDCHIMES

by H. Linn Murphy

Chimes dance as the world's breath blows them

Singing lovelier notes than a hundred doves (not hard if you've ever heard doves, by the way, but it sounds good on paper)

Making magical, mystical morning music 

Ting. Ting. Tinginging away

A message from the wind

Like a rippling stream

Filling my life with traceries of lacy love from the One who set it all in motion.

You are loved, they say.

And while I'm on the subject of doves....

Doves

The world loves doves, 

Mascot of peace

Chosen to lift wedding wishes

To the heavens

In a cloud of feathers rising.

Not me.

Because

In reality doves are

Idiot birds, denser

Than a bag of wet toilet paper

They lay nests 

In ridiculous places

(The ladder, a hanging planter, 

Palm trees, cupboards you use all the time, etc)

So their children fall

Paralyzed to the ground.

They freak out if you go near

Their nest, which they

Build next to your

Front door or on top of your car

And if you move that object

On which they park their butt

They abandon 

That nest and their eggs,

Choosing instead to sit somewhere close

And Who Who Who WHO WHO at you.

Plus they sing one monotonous note.

Just one.

Who. Who. Who. Who. Who. Who.

Over.

And over.

And over again

Sending me to beg

For fingernails on a chalkboard

To rid my ears of incessancy.

All of this is true. 

So why do I try to rescue 

Those poor ugly babies?

© 2018 by H. Linn Murphy