FireBird
23.04.202503:28
19.04.202506:25
19.04.202506:14
19.04.202506:08
17.04.202518:41
20.04.202507:50
Awakening
Poet: Margaret Elizabeth Munson Sangster
Never yet was a spring-time,
Late though lingered the snow,
That the sap stirred not at the whisper
Of the south wind, sweet and low;
Never yet was a spring-time
When the buds forgot to blow.
Ever the wings of the summer
Are folded under the mould;
Life, that has known no dying,
Is Love's, to have and to hold,
Till sudden, the bourgeoning Easter!
The song! the green and the gold!
Photo by Andréa Villiers
t.me/newfirebird 🔥🪽
Poet: Margaret Elizabeth Munson Sangster
Never yet was a spring-time,
Late though lingered the snow,
That the sap stirred not at the whisper
Of the south wind, sweet and low;
Never yet was a spring-time
When the buds forgot to blow.
Ever the wings of the summer
Are folded under the mould;
Life, that has known no dying,
Is Love's, to have and to hold,
Till sudden, the bourgeoning Easter!
The song! the green and the gold!
Photo by Andréa Villiers
t.me/newfirebird 🔥🪽
19.04.202506:44
✨11:44✨
You are so Beautiful
You are so Beautiful
19.04.202506:37
19.04.202506:23
19.04.202506:11
✨11:11✨
Expect Miracles
Expect Miracles
19.04.202506:04
17.04.202518:29
19.04.202506:41
19.04.202506:37
If music can be passed on
like brown eyes or a strong
left hook, this melody
is my inheritance, lineage traced
through a title track,
displayed on an album cover
that you pin to the wall
as art, oral history taught
on a record player, the lessons
sealed into the grooves like fact.
This is the only myth I know.
I sit on the hardwood
floors of a damp November,
my brother dealing cards
from an incomplete deck,
and I don’t realize that this
moment is the definition
of family, collective memory
cut in rough-textured tones,
the voice of a horn so familiar
I don’t know I’m listening,
Don’t know I’m singing,
a child’s improvisation
of Giant Steps or Impressions
songs without lyrics
can still be sung.
In six months, when my mother
is 2,000 miles away, deciding
if she wants to come home,
I will have forgotten
this moment, the security
of her footsteps, the warmth
of a radiator on my back and you
present in the sound of typing
your own accompaniment,
multiphonics disguised as chords
in a distant room, speakers set
on high to fill the whole house
with your spirit, your call
as a declaration of love.
But the music will remain.
The timeless notes of jazz
too personal to play out loud,
stay locked in the rhythm
of my childhood, memories fading
like the words of a lullaby,
come to life in a saxophone’s blow.
They lie when they say
music is universal—this is my song,
the notes like fingerprints
as delicate as breath.
I will not share this air
with anyone
but you.
~ Rachel Harper
t.me/newfirebird 🔥🪽
like brown eyes or a strong
left hook, this melody
is my inheritance, lineage traced
through a title track,
displayed on an album cover
that you pin to the wall
as art, oral history taught
on a record player, the lessons
sealed into the grooves like fact.
This is the only myth I know.
I sit on the hardwood
floors of a damp November,
my brother dealing cards
from an incomplete deck,
and I don’t realize that this
moment is the definition
of family, collective memory
cut in rough-textured tones,
the voice of a horn so familiar
I don’t know I’m listening,
Don’t know I’m singing,
a child’s improvisation
of Giant Steps or Impressions
songs without lyrics
can still be sung.
In six months, when my mother
is 2,000 miles away, deciding
if she wants to come home,
I will have forgotten
this moment, the security
of her footsteps, the warmth
of a radiator on my back and you
present in the sound of typing
your own accompaniment,
multiphonics disguised as chords
in a distant room, speakers set
on high to fill the whole house
with your spirit, your call
as a declaration of love.
But the music will remain.
The timeless notes of jazz
too personal to play out loud,
stay locked in the rhythm
of my childhood, memories fading
like the words of a lullaby,
come to life in a saxophone’s blow.
They lie when they say
music is universal—this is my song,
the notes like fingerprints
as delicate as breath.
I will not share this air
with anyone
but you.
~ Rachel Harper
t.me/newfirebird 🔥🪽
19.04.202506:23
I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
~ Elizabeth Bishop
Photo by Kateryna Hliznitsova
t.me/newfirebird 🔥🪽
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
~ Elizabeth Bishop
Photo by Kateryna Hliznitsova
t.me/newfirebird 🔥🪽
17.04.202523:16
Dear Subscribers,
Pardon my lack of posting, I am currently getting ready to move so my attention is on packing and getting ready ☺️✨🎶✨
I will continue to post off and on when I am free to do so.
Wishing everyone a stunning Easter Weekend full of Peace, Joy and Happiness 🦋🌸🪻💕
Much Love,
FireBird 🔥🪽
Pardon my lack of posting, I am currently getting ready to move so my attention is on packing and getting ready ☺️✨🎶✨
I will continue to post off and on when I am free to do so.
Wishing everyone a stunning Easter Weekend full of Peace, Joy and Happiness 🦋🌸🪻💕
Much Love,
FireBird 🔥🪽
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