Looking Up Poem by Bernard Kennedy

As if little birds with beaks,
poised for the worm,
we look, upwards,
for the words,
to uplift and jizz our world.
to be excited and thrilled?
To be entertained,
from outside.
At a concert, a lecture,
a listening out, looking up.

The Tree upward goes,
the salmon upstream,
the riverrun around the
blocking stone will
onward gush flows.

we are lulled and dulled as human
thought stops listening in
and hearing.

The within has the oil of balm,
the plant cure of essence.
And yet
Madame Tussaud has weaved her spell
and wax like,
with beaks poised for the worm
and infantilised we wait,
and buy, droned.