Down the hall, I hear
the soft woofing of a dreaming dog,
but no dogs are here.
.
Is someone gleefully
chasing dream rabbits
at our B and B?
.
True story. (Thin walls).
poem-in praise of grey clouds
You’re overcast again,
a nearly perennial state,
but I have a colourful umbrella
for contingencies,
and I’m safe from sunburn.
Blue sky is beautiful, of course,
but the texture of tangled
shades of grey offering drama
has some appeal,
in small doses, at least.
poem-perhaps it is March 25, 2016
Perhaps it is
some sort of survivor’s guilt
that the fractured fragments
the twisted tableaux of warped memories
those bêtes noires barely contained within your brain,
burst in sullen silence, tremulous terror, or
most disturbing, that zombie calm
of a human automaton.
Perhaps it is
just chemistry asserting its superiority:
neuro-biology exposing itself
as a short-circuiting electric conduit
for daily conduct.
Perhaps it is
an allegory for transformation
or
perhaps it is
futility that demonstrates fallibility
and ultimately, profound humility.
poem-hollow March 24, 2016
There are so many hollow places
that feel the lack of you.
I want you like water,
fill me up,
make me a waterfall,
creating hollow places in my travels.
poem-questions and answers March 23, 2016
Long drive
side by side
time to ask the big questions
muse on what was and what will be.
Long drive
side by side
time to hear the answers
pull you and me back into we.
poem-shorn March 21, 2016
Each year, the mighty willow
on the corner, trunk three feet around,
or more,
hums with the buzzing saws that
trim it to the trunk.
Supple yellow switches, eager for naughty backsides
or basket making pile on either side of the fence,
gathered for scrap not utility,
and a giant stands naked again.
poem-fingers March 20, 2016
Your fingers are dancing
across the keyboard and your
melodies waltz through the air
tickling me to wakefulness.
poem-blackbird tree March 19, 2016
The tree is heavy with red-winged blackbirds
like early black fruit,
strangely silent gathering
before the territorial grumblings begin.
poem- (almost) free March 18, 2016
The bell rings for two weeks of freedom.
Free of schedules.
Free of expectations.
Free of responsibilities.
Except those embraced
freely.
Shawn L. Bird 