It weaves around the sky
like jet streams tying ribbons
of air,
entangled trust
entwining wishes,
entrusting time
twisting you and me
into a braid
of mist.
poem-listening October 12, 2014
Last night,
screeching tires,
spinning in the intersection
racing engines roaring up
and down our hill
Luckily no catastrophe
except the community
mailbox.
.
.
(an irony- post 1-666 about local hellions!)
poem- small October 11, 2014
You were so very small
pulling your limbs inside yourself
wearing a vacant scowl,
trying to turn yourself inside out
to avoid notice,
when we were all there
for you.
So much trauma to hide from.
so many layers of armour.
Will we ever see you drop the ballast
so you can fly?
.
.
Probably a few too many metaphors here, but the sentiments hold true. May have to work on this one a bit more.
poem-orb October 9, 2014
A huge silver orb is
suspended in the mist
and glistens on the lake.
it was all hazy, and the sun was a huge silver orb hanging in mist. I should start carrying my camera again.
poem-searches
WordPress says, seekers came to my blog wondering
‘how tall is Sam Heughan?’
They were looking for ‘Sam heughan butt’
‘Sam Heughan’
and ‘Outlander vocabulary.’
Sam is 6’3″
His butt is not here.
He is not here either
But I once passed him on the highway
and didn’t pick him up.
He was stranded four hours.
I’ll bet he used some colourful
Outlander vocabulary then!
.
.
.
Seriously, I have written a popular poem about Sam, back when he was first cast as Jamie Fraser in the Outlander series. You may enjoy it! Diana did when she read it.
I also have a frequently visited blog post about Diana’s vocabulary in the Outlander series.
While Sam definitely has a very nice butt, there are no visuals here, but you may find some relief in assorted Outlander poems and other writings.
About the passing him on the highway, that’s true, too! August 2013 Sam came to BC to visit a relative near where I live. Read the details here.
poem- droning October 8, 2014
Through distant waves of consciousness,
I could hear the bagpipes.
I strained to identify the tune:
Something familiar, but not quite
recognizable.
When Malcolm was five,
he longed to play the pipes,
and listened blissfully to recordings
of pipe and drum corps.
At twenty-five, it seems doubtful
he’s returned to this youthful passion.
And still I hear the droning buzz
through bleary wakening,
until with a click,
he turns his razor off.
.
.
(true story)
poem-censored October 7, 2014
My daughter
prefaces every story with,
“You can’t put this
on your blog.”
Sigh.
poem- rumbling
She arrives home exhausted.
“Ooh,” he says, nose curled.
“Those pants are terrible.”
She stares at him, deposits groceries on the counter,
heads down the hall,
and collapses into bed, too tired
to discuss appropriate comments,
respect, and positive encouragement.
She sleeps.
Hours later, she awakens, hungry,
makes some toast.
He comes upstairs. “The kid is out,” he says,
heading to the bedroom.
Ah, she thinks. That’s code for ‘Apology sex.’
Wise of him.
She bathes, listening to him preparing
in the other bathroom.
She climbs into bed,
to find him snoring.
She wishes she had eaten beans,
cauliflower
and cabbage for dinner.
She ponders delivering a two footed
kick to his backside, propelling him out of bed,
and into the wall.
(An easy task, since now she probably outweighs him).
Instead, she rolls over,
and sleeps.
poem- journeys October 6, 2014
Like a stone on the beach
she picked him up,
and took him home.
He filled her with new life,
and they held companionable
hands, two became four.
Beneath the bubble,
Poisons devoured him in relentless nibbles,
and the doctor said his only hope
was a healing journey
to a new way of life.
But toward,
is also away,
and children waved good-bye
to their skipping stone,
who crossed an ocean and
disappeared into time.
poem-fathers October 5, 2014
I grew up
a pampered princess
a late life arrival, long desired.
I felt my father’s
fondness every day-
a travelling salesman
who never missed a moment
of my active life.
But you
lost your father
along the way, lost sight
of him over the barriers
your mother built between you.
What was it like to find him
as he was dying, knowing
he had never stopped
loving you, though you
were equally lost to him?
Once you found him,
he slipped into eternity.
As I watch you, so
polished at your work,
on this career high,
I wonder,
Are you still a lost boy?
Or did the chance to embrace him
at the end of his life,
to know how proud he was of you,
help ease the sorrow
as you set him free to fly?
I forgive you
for not meeting me for tea
And I wonder,
what kind of father
will you let yourself be?
.
.
(For S&D)
Shawn L. Bird 