From the rail siding
in Carrera I see
Michaelangelo’s
cold white mountain
sliced block by block.
What once created
La Pieta and David
now reduced to
slices of counter tops.
.
.
.
poem-window salvage August 20, 2014
The iridescent cellophane
of dragonfly wings
would make excellent
windows in an
insect cathedral.
The colony queen
could sip nectar
from the jeweled flagon
of dragonfly body
and make a benediction
to beauty and sacrifice.
poem-night light
All evening
the hills have been
illuminated by a
laser light show,
and now
the skies are
streaming;
white mist
hides the hills,
enfolding us
as the heavens
flash and crash
above.
poem-wading August 19, 2014
Wading through
trash
in search of gems.
Letters from you
lost in the
dump
since Yahoo
decided everything from
WordPress is spam.
I’m journeying
into a black
Carpal tunnel.
poem-lake music August 17, 2014
A Salmon Arm Roots & Blues Festival poem
.
They’re dancing at the main stage
Melodies entwining in their hair
Pulses beating with the rhythm
of the musicians everywhere.
Bookbinding: Skills a Poet Needs
I love handmade books.
Hello Readers,
Sorry I have been a little absent. My dear friend started a literary journal where I am an editor and I started a new job at the reference desk at my library (yay adulthood!). In other words, like all of you out there in internet land, I don’t know where the time goes, but it must be lost in the couch, with the spare change from my jean pockets and all the good intentions I had of being more productive.
I had the pleasure of celebrating the fiftieth birthday of a former art teacher this past week and was wracked with what to get her. What do you make the person who first inspired you to be an artist? Well, you give her some art.
That’s what everyone else did. She got paintings and photos and sculptures. Her party was a painting party where we all made a…
View original post 711 more words
poem-jaundiced August 16, 2014
Your photo
sends me back thirty years.
In your place,
I see your old man:
his suspicious eye
pot belly
and bald head.
He was nearly eighty
and always angry.
You hardly look younger
with your belly and baldness,
and you’re wearing
his discontent
like an inherited suit.
It’s ageing you more
than your years are.
poem- drop August 14, 2014
The dogs collapse
in hot heaps.
Summer’s simmering
settles into evening
breeze, but
the sun drops
ever earlier,
and autumn calls.
Shawn L. Bird 