Free
might not be all it’s cracked up to be.
If where you are, you’re unhappy
what improvements do you foresee?
What will you change inside you?
Because here’s something true
unless something within is new
Your baggage’s just dragging after you!
You’re just bringing the same self you knew
The next adventure
awaits the sunrise.
Have faith it’ll be better
than you surmise.
Here I’ll write a nice poem
a sweet poem
a gentle poem.
Here I’ll write a subtle poem
a quite poem
a funny poem.
Here I’ll write a love poem
a trust poem
a now poem
Here I’ll write a safe poem
a kind poem
a faith poem.
But there,
There I’ll write a hard poem
a sharp poem
a spinning poem.
There I’ll write a challenging poem
a forceful poem
an inflammatory poem.
There I’ll write a true poem
a so poem
a go poem.
Here and there
a growth poem
a sustenance poem
our lives poem.
.
.
.
.
When I write for the blog, I have a slightly different style than when I’m submitting to literary journals. Tongue in cheek, I reflect the tone of their journal. Style is a malleable thing. Message is what’s important. Here, I don’t take myself very seriously, but there literary style requires more gravity. The pathos amuses me.
The sea
rocks tiny feet,
caresses small hands,
steals breath and rests
tiny bodies on the shore
where they’re at peace,
but out of reach
of their father’s desperate grasp.
The sea
rocks small boats,
of dubious sanctuary
and with each wave it tosses on the beach,
points foaming fingers at those
who turn faces from the tragedy.
.
.
I decided not to attach the iconic photo of Alan Kurdi to this poem out of respect. Instead, here is an interview with his father describing the tragedy.
http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/syria-migrants-canada-drowned-migrants-1.3213772
Beneath the dusty cover,
these pages are a brown tinged
crinkly time machine.
The sun is shining,
but in the distance I hear rumbling.
Trouble is coming.
Four lanes of traffic gush past
the single stunted sunflower
stretching through a cleft in the pavement,
blooming in adversity.
Your disapproval simmers,
irritation bursting in exclamatory bubbles,
mutter, mutter, mutter
like a lid bouncing on a pot.
rippling waves
sparkling with emerald, peridot, citrine
storm tossed tree.
The power crept quietly
on a satisfied sigh
on a grin of delight
on a curl of contentment
on a determined advance
on an astonished completion
on undeniable accomplishment,
success of a dream.
Shawn L. Bird 