They lie
across my lids
stuck like caterpillars
Coyly magnifying
each magnificent blink,
each flirtatious flutter,
adding power to each
sultry glower,
Prepare prey
to be ensnared,
enter and be
rendered helpless,
as I flash
these false
eyelashes.
.
Today is hubby’s birthday, and I managed to get these lashes back on (last worn on my birthday, see photo above). They’re fun, but they sure feel weird! 😉
She is full
of dark visions.
She wears
prickly armour,
of protruding spikes .
She shows a
black expression
daring you to come closer
but you step
into her darkness,
with a candle of consideration
share her visions
and show her
what kindness looks like.
.
.
(For Robin, just one of my many amazing teacher colleagues).
The lake
is a puddle of pink paint
reflecting clouds glistening Klimt gold
in a sky fixated on fuchsia.
Mist drifts on snowy mountains,
slash piles burning:
molten eyes in a ghostly face
glowing above us
Through the blackness
glow scarlet gashes on the mountain
Drivers on the winding highway
sniff the smoke , entranced
by danger dancing above
.
.
It’s hard to keep your eyes on the road when the hills above you are blazing!
It’s also nerve-wracking for an asmatic to be anywhere near burning, controlled or not. (and we think this was controlled).
If he loved her,
….she thinks
he would greet her every day
with a heart heating hug
with a spine kindling kiss
with glowing eyes.
If he loved her,
….she thinks
he would bid her sleeping form farewell
with grieving eyes
with cuddling kiss
with a heart felt hug
longing to remain.
If he loved her,
….she thinks
he would harness his white horse
unsheath his sword,
charge down her demons,
She doesn’t see,
that he is her champion,
if he sees who she is
and stays to fight for her
when she’s not looking.
She doesn’t see,
that he loves her.
Kill the critic:
let him drown in the
flow of your words.
Kill the critic:
let him sear in the
molten eruption
from the core of you.
Kill the critic:
let him smother
gasping against the tide
of your creativity,
.grasping at the emptiness
that was your insecurities.
Kill the critic:
be free.
.
.
NB: I do not advocate murder of anything but the inner voice that tells you that you’re inadequate. Your inner critic has no business in your writing head-space. You can’t edit a blank page.
Adrian, muscles rippling
and glistening from summer sun,
as the girls grip
their nails in their fists, wishing.
Adrian, head emerging from car engine
wringing greasy hands,
and grinning a greeting,
reaching for his shirt,
as the girls glide in, sniffing;
whiffing at pheromones
that hint of moaning, groaning
atonement.
Good girls watching as
Adrian gets ready
for Bible study.
While water washes shore
on a moon misted morning,
summer surrenders
to golden kisses
and scarlet sighs.
.
.
(I am finding my commute above Shuswap Lake to be very inspiring! At some point I will have to stop to take some photos for you. It is positively GLORIOUS! In the meantime, this photo in words will have to do).
Shawn L. Bird 