We sat down in an Italian restaurant tonight, and I looked up at a photograph of the view from our apartment in Vernazza. This led to reminiscing about the lovely town.
.
Vernazza:
I dream Italian nights
above your breakwater
and the good-night chimes
of the church bells.
.
(Here’s a sample posted to Youtube. I loved listening to the 9 p.m. bells. Not so much the morning bells! lol Such a beautiful place).
.
Thanks for the compliment,
but I’m not interested.
.
You seem like a nice guy,
and some girl will be lucky
to have you,
but I’m not interested.
.
Look,
it’s like this,
to be honest,
I’m kind of repelled by you,
your breath is rank,
you have an unpleasant body odor
that is not masked by that cologne,
(which, by the way, I think
I’m allergic to)
your hair hasn’t been washed
in way too long
and the pustules erupting on your
forehead and your emaciated form,
do nothing to attract me.
The state of your clothing
suggests a negative cash flow.
So you see, I’m not interested.
I don’t need a Chippendale
or a millionaire,
but a little effort on your part
would help your cause.
.
I’m not a bitch, buddy,
I’m just not interested.
He said
his mother was dead,
because the gulf
between them
was wide with guilt
and jumping it
was beyond
their capability.
She said
her son was lost
because his choices
marooned him
on an island of his own making
and would not let
anyone in.
They said
their journeys
were in opposite directions
but eventually,
on the other side of the world,
they’re bound to intersect.
She sits
above the sky
silently watching
sun on shore
sliding to the horizon
dropping
slowly
beyond the sea.
The great orb rises
into a molten sky
above endless red dust
Lunar landscape
miles upon miles
of dust,
red rocks,
and sky
stretching wider than a sky has business stretching
then a surprise:
startlingly blue lake
reflects cloudless blue sky
and London Bridge.
How odd.
.
.
.
Lake Havasu City, Arizona, is set beside the lake formed by Parker Dam on the Colorado River. The city is accessed via historic Route 66.
The
lampposts
.
.
are
invisible
.
.
in
this mist
.
.
and
so the
.
.
haloed
bulbs,
.
.
floating,
glow:
.
.
UFOs
above
.
.
the
road.
.
.
.
Oh beautious fire
Seeking to break
from the TV screen
and to devour
the drapes forever
out of reach.
I feel your pseudo-warmth
and hear your rich
crackling call.
Festive fire
Turned and fed
by the flannel
garbed arm,
you will not harm,
shoot cinders far,
force risk by axe
splitting logs, or
lugging them inside.
My floors are clean
but lack the lingering
scent of cold pine.
Yet still, you remind me
of fires from Christmases past
and fires yet to be.
You are quite festive enough
for me.
(This poem appeared in Runo Päivässä ~ Poem a Day. Turenki, Finland: Kantarelli Publishing. 2014)
crack in the routine
split from the every day
divided from ordinary
time for a break
Your fingers grow
twisted like mangled branches.
Your hands grow knobbly like old roots.
You groan and stretch, astonished at the youth
of your mind and agonized at the aging of your body.
But I see the same man whose brain enthrals
like a tall, dependable
trunk.
whose
body
captivates
like a
canopy
of new
green.
I played among branches and roots as a child,
and I still love climbing trees.
Shawn L. Bird 