In the day
they brush past one another,
utter essential words,
questions,
instruction.
But at night,
they brush against one another,
whisper non-essential words,
passions,
exhortation.
poem-ginger snap January 17, 2015
The fiery flame of your hair
declares you.
You flash with fury and
unleash lashes of your tongue.
Light catches
in the disapproving flips
of your flickering locks,
We witness your scorching glare.
Viewed from a distance,
a bonfire is a beautiful thing
and I occasionally enjoy ginger snaps
while watching the fire.
.
.
Ah, it’s a stereotype, I know, but sometimes folks walk right into their cliché and live there.
poem-hard January 16, 2015
He relies on the strength
of her heart strings.
She winds them around him
to hold him together
when he might rattle apart
in the shaking, quaking times.
When she is weak and broken,
when she can not stretch her arms,
wide enough
to wrap heart strings around him,
he trembles and crumbles
apart.
When she is weak and broken,
he does not consider
that he could pretend
to be strong.
He could hold her heart strings,
and spin into her.
poem- dark January 15, 2015
“A man like Matthew never frees himself of the shadows completely, but perhaps it is necessary to embrace the darkness in order to love him.”
~Deb Harkness in Shadow of Night
.
.
He thinks that he is so hard to love
he polishes his prickles
scours his scowls
brushes those glowering brows
as if this gruff front will keep his heart whole,
and impervious to the heat of a warm embrace.
But she wears fireproof gloves,
confronts him with frankness,
and forces him to face his fears.
She wraps his arms around her and
shows him his image in the mirror of her love.
Poem- Once January 14, 2015
Once upon a time
when someone was laid up
visitors would send cards
friends would deliver flowers
your buddies brought balloons
until the sick room was transformed
into a jolly place, papered in good wishes.
Now,
the wishes are all virtual
and the distraction is digital.
If only the pain was, too.
poem-sliced January 12, 2015
I was broken.
You sliced me,
knife blade deep,
peeling back skin,
excavating muscle,
exposing bone.
Then you
wound in screws,
stitched me together,
wrapped me in glass
and left a slash of
pulsing agony
to remember you by.
.
.
(Dedicated to Dr. Parfitt my orthopædic surgeon. 🙂 Sounds so much better as a metaphor; unfortunately he did all this literally!) 😉
poem- symphony of agony January 11, 2015
This pain is a discordant symphony.
Percussion throbs a bass in the bone.
Piccolo dances of sensation up and down the leg.
Trumpet blasts explode out from the ankle.
Bassoon wails all along the incision site.
Kettle drum beats defiantly deep in the ankle bone. Dum. Dum. Dum.
Oboe whines a strident screech, vibrating muscle.
Cello squeezes, squeezes, squeezes low notes of agony.
Oh pain, go away; return my body to harmony.
poem-chemically adored? January 10, 2015
Every hour on the hour
the baby wakes you up
and in a stupor you stagger
to diaper it, feed it, and cuddle it.
every hour on the hour
the incision wakes me up
and in a stupor I reach for drugs
to temper it, relieve it, and smother it.
It is like having a new baby
without the benefit of oxytocin
to make me love the torturer.
poem- Jenga January 9, 2015
Our lives are Jenga towers:
intricate stacks of circumstance
that in a moment can
collapse around us.
.
Shawn L. Bird 