Whatever is tied up in this gift
unwrap it joyfully.
Pull out difficulty, challenge, and struggle;
laugh at the lessons you’re learning.
Celebrate what has been and what will be
Celebrate what is now and what will be
Celebrate you.
Celebrate me.
Celebrate
what
will
be.
Each day is a gift
New for you to
Celebrate.
She’s reached the end of her rope
and she’s swinging hard,
pumping her legs for maximum height,
fury fueling her flight.
She’s aiming for the edge
she’s leaping into space
and she’s grabbing on the way down.
When she lands,
she’s crushing injustice beneath her feet.
and throwing up her hands,
in victory.
.
.
Been editing tonight. Just getting to the end of the story, when the downtrodden heroine seizes power… 😉
In time
oft heard
silent memories
mingle in the mist
In time
oft mentioned
mysteries dance
upon your tongue.
In time
oft discovered
dreams twist destinies
toward truth.
In time
oft wished
entwined desires
develop into twin
devastations.
This morning unfurling itself
I have awoken surly.
The low clouds match my mood
The sky is surly, too.
.
Inside the house,
the Christmas mess mocks
in its surly aftermath.
.
The snow plow
dragging itself through the city
scrapes with surly determination.
.
My surly swirl of grumpiness
has me in good company,
it seems.
Oh creepy garage door,
Opening and closing by yourself at midnight
When I’ve been reading Buffy the Vampire Slayer,
That is not funny.
Thankfully I have a hero at home
who is ready to wake up and defend me
and locks.
It’s not small.
It overwhelms.
Unending paper piles
proliferate in the night.
A day’s work
becomes a week’s.
Somewhere under there
is order,
but it will take more
excavation.
.
.
.
I’ve been cleaning and re-organizing my office space. Made some progress after a week, but it’s not there yet. Arg.
What task do you have that seems to expand when you’re not looking?
Quiet crept
through rustling leaves,
soft snowfall.
Quiet crept
through murmurs heard
under our hearts.
Quiet crept
through gentle touches
sweet sighs.
Quiet crept
through me
to you.
I wake to
the gentle snores
and the warm back
of my canine companion,
whose black eyes blink
and sleepy tail thumps once
as I caress his white wooly side.
The poetry is loud tonight,
smashing and crashing through
synapses of my neocortex,
drowning the bovine bellows
of my bedmate.
Short stories are shouting.
Poetry is proclaiming itself.
Words are wailing.
They are insistent
in the seams between sleep,
and will not quieten
until I write them down.
.
.
(This is post 1717 on the blog. It was very loudly proclaiming itself when I tried to go to bed last night, and would not stop until I got out my little book kept beside the bed, turned on the little book light, and wrote down the essentials). Do you have this problem, too?
They cluster about
like vampires,
smiling sycophants,
their eyes glowing
with delight,
basking in your presence.
Their good intentions
would suck you dry,
if you gave them half
a chance.
.
You smile,
all charm and pleasantries,
while internally, you mock
their saccharin sweetness
and puerile pandering.
You accept their homage,
nod nobly
and never let it seep
into your psyche.
Shawn L. Bird 