Gathering evil intentions
Hell hath no fury
for
what will people say
behind your back?
Consent.
Safe words.
He said.
She said.
You’re high on a pedestal
Scorned lovers
can be vicious,
Even if they’re crazy.
It’s not the falling off
the tall pillar that hurts,
it’s the sudden stop
at the
end.
Here’s a Moxy Früvous performance for those spouses whose loved ones always have a nose between pages…
.
.
Dirty clothes piled in the bath room,
Plates and projects in the living room
Books piled in the dining room
Clean laundry 4 feet high in the dressing room.
Everywhere there’s work to do
and I just want to cuddle you.
A re-post from 2011 when we thought my dad was going to die. Saturday, Oct 25 he is 100 years old. Which isn’t particularly relevant to re-posting this, except you might wonder if you think the post is current. But it’s not. 🙂
I’ve been thinking about memory. That’s Mnemosyne’s area of responsibility. My father is in hospital and when we visit, he is spending a lot of time with her. Stories are told and re-told. Stories of youth. Of working days. Of love. Of betrayal. It’s our stories that reveal what is important about us.
Mnemosyne saves the certain moments for us. Why? Do you sometimes savour a moment, specifically for the purpose of holding it? Do you look at a gathering of loved ones, and feel yourself snapping a mental picture that you know will remain with you forever? It becomes a picture that only you have. It will alter, too. You’ll colour it, crumple it, re-imagine it, until the image serves a purpose you want it for.
Is it a catalyst? A purpose? A dream? An anchor?
Mnemosyne wraps us in the security of our past, and at her best…
View original post 44 more words
An Argyll and Sutherland Highlander’s
simple service:
honour guard,
in respectful silence, stand proud
beneath a towering arch,
the bronze visages of
the nation’s memorial to those
fallen in foreign wars,
Keeping faith at the tomb
of the unknown soldier,
Clad in kilt and jacket,
green as the fields of France,
red and white stockings over
shining white spats,
bronze warriors towering above
wept
as one of Princess Louise’s Highlanders
fell.
.
.
.
This poem references the powerful political cartoon by Bruce MacKinnon drawn in the aftermath of the shooting of Corporal Nathan Cirillo (a reservist with the Argylls and Sutherland Highlanders) on Parliament Hill in Ottawa, October 22, 2014:
Here is Corp Cirillo guarding the national war memorial:
The Argylls and Sutherland Highlanders of Canada on parade.
(I thought I was just posting links to original sites, but the images are showing up. Copyright remains with original sources).
Communication is so easy
Facebook, Twitter, text, phone
a million ways to message instantly:
No excuses for
your silence.
.
.
(I could also have entitled this, “Call Your Mother!”) 😉
They can not see beyond the fog
that is all they seek.
Escape.
They fall altered into pharmaceutical
reality.
Mist like creeping mustard gas
poisons their future
stealing their hopes
ruining their dreams.
They fill their days
seeking nebulous security
altered beyond
recognition.
.
.
For those kids and their families battling with addiction who most need education and school supports to develop health and security.
The ancient alchemists
would stand in awe
of forests transformed
into gold.
They speak of gifts
from former lovers:
vases
or black eyes,
rings
or babies.
They carry
former intimacies:
horrors and tragedies
traumas and ecstasies.
I have no
former lover,
I carry only
years with you;
no horrors mar our history,
just monogamous longevity–
our effort at ontogeny.
.
.
Shawn L. Bird 
