Night breathes
its peace in
shimmering air
dusted with winter.
.
Night breathes
its silence in
rustling wishes
between sheets.
.
Night breathes
an invitation in
a lingering look
over the shoulder.
.
Night breathes
a promise in
peace,
silence,
invitation.
Wafting on the cool wind
as I plow through the snow to the car
comes the heavy scent of roses.
I look for the source without success
as the air is saturated with summer
in frosty winter:
Perfumed paradox.
In response to a poetheme prompt on Twitter, a micropoem:
.
To a tiny toddling boy
you exclaimed his father’s stupidity
and explained to the
confused face that he was
mommy’s best friend.
No pressure
for his future wife,
that.
The world is white on the outside
but she is black.
The core of her is burnt and raw,
bubbling flesh like molten lava.
The yard is sugar coated and bright
but she is dark.
The soul of her is encrusted and festering
rotting organs like gangrenous limbs.
The world is playfully building snowmen
but she is deconstructing herself.
Laughing children throw snowballs from
behind fortress walls that will melt.
Her fortress is firmly constructed;
joy will not reach her
until it bleeds away like winter.
.
.
.
.
Today’s composition explores contrast. I’m trying to be a bit Plath-like here, though it’d be hard to capture the depths of her misery without living the pathos, perhaps?
The world is white
but my path was cleared
by a shovel wielding
snowman.
.
.
Some mornings I grumble as I’m awakened by the scraping of the snow shovel in the driveway, but then I have a moment of thankfulness, from the comfort of my warm bed, that hubby faithfully does it, so that I don’t have to on mornings like this, when there has been a heavy snowfall overnight. I just get to admire the beauty of it on my way to work, without bearing the weight of it on the end of a shovel. 😉
You
are ancient honey,
immutable in memory.
.
Floating on your laughter
I could touch stars.
.
The world was rose pink
with my yearning.
.
A sunrise through spectacles,
song rising on dawn,
desire enfolded in dream,
I wore innocence.
.
Your sweet kisses
colour my cheeks
in memory.
What wasn’t
When she opened her eyes
Was what she’d wished for
For so long
That wishing was all she had.
What was
When she opened her eyes
Was what she’d been blind to
For so long
That wishing was all she’d had.
Inferno fills sky,
flames roil like crashing sea,
cremating the sun.
“We’re not going to a show,”
he said. “They’re too expensive.”
“Oh,” she said, nodding sagely. “Right.”
They’d travelled all that way
to a sleepless city of lights.
Shows every night.
Wild crazy sights.
She’d packed for a night out.
“I get it,” she said,
smirking to herself.
She waited for his
inevitable surprise,
as he took her for
long walks in daylight
until her beautifully shod feet ached.
Then he napped.
She smiled at his
preparation for a late night
and she practiced her
astonished expression.
First night.
Second night.
Last night.
She gaped at him,
heading to an early bed.
Surprise!
There really is
no surprise.
Shawn L. Bird 