A titter
a giggle
a chuckle
a guffaw
a chortle
What a joke.
poem-sloshing January 30, 2016
My blood is sloshing past my ears
like water through a sluice box,
I’m waiting for gold,
to catch on the riffles,
blood born riches,
pounding past yesterday.
.
.
A little vocabulary support. In small claim gold mining (aka PLACER mining), the miners commonly make sluice boxes, which are chutes to pour water/dirt/mud to capture the fine gold. It’s more efficient than panning (which is basically swooshing water/dirt/mud in a bowl). Here’s a site that shows sluices and how they work. There are slats along the run of the sluice to capture the rocks and gold; these are the riffles. Gold is heavy, so it (and magnetite) will always catch in the riffles, then it’s a matter of separating the gold and magnetite. We had friends who were placer miners in northern BC. They used machinery and sluices to work through tons of gravel and a bountiful summer’s hard labour was about a cup of gold, much of it no more that powdery flakes.
poem- rockery January 29, 2016
We played in the rockery
and you always skinned your knees
because adventure was so much better than caution,
and my mother wasn’t likely to smack you
for disturbing the hen and chicks blooming
in the crevices.
poem-lasting January 28, 2016
Don’t be a rose,
be a carnation.
Roses have thorns and
are wilting within a day.
Carnations have character
and they stick around for weeks.
There’s no pomp about carnations
they’re happily frilly and fun.
Rose are high maintenance
and will make you bleed.
poem-scent January 27, 2016
Your sweater is here
and if I breathe deeply enough
I’m in the scent of your embrace.
poem-sweet January 26, 2016
It’s unexpected moments
that honey drip from yesterday
crystalizing through today
and crunching in cubes tomorrow.
Sometimes bitter,
mostly sweet.
poem-anniversaries January 25, 2016
Another anniversary
Half way through the first year of your absence.
You smile out from your photo
and my memory.
poem-differences January 24, 2016
An invitation is made when the bosom
appears bulging into the neckline,
his gaze is grabbed and as she walks away
she pulls him to his feet to trail after her,
eager for the game.
.
Her instigation is subtle.
He appears at the stair,
tips his head toward the bedroom and waits.
If he’s ignored, he offers another tip.
And if she decides to follow him,
she will do so with a sense of irritation
that he doesn’t offer invitations
so much as commands,
and she’s pretty sure she didn’t actually
promise to obey.
poem-ready January 23, 2016
You’re ready to go,
bouncing on that bed,
tired of physio, doctors, bad food,
and a four bed room.
You want the quiet privacy of home
and worked hard to earn it.
You’re ready.
poem-old dog January 22, 2016
Old dog,
your putrid breath
reminds us of the decay of death.
Unsteady legs rise with effort
as your old eyes lock your foggy gaze
on me.
Old dog, some day I will have to make
a hard decision, unless your nightly
snores and sighs
(that sound like burglars in the garage,
and scare me when I’m alone)
should give way to silence,
that will tear my heart apart.
Shawn L. Bird 