You’re right,
of course.
The girl’s got skills.
She works a room with flare,
engages crowds confidently.
You want her in your corner,
unless of course,
she reveals your inadequacies,
tramples your manly ideas,
and overwhelms.
The public thinks she’s wonderful.
The contrast between you
crackles. Can you let her go?
Or should you hold her close?
.
.
A poem for a character, as I’m working on Lydian Mode today. Lydia the artist is too capable by half. Poor Dustin. She is not making his world easy.
Wistful
Wishful
A tank of fish full:
silver darting
Red Sea parting.
Make a way;
say your say.
Wistful
wish.
Full.
The Lord of All Knowledge,
Gatekeeper of Truth,
says the poem means this.
Generations of readers bow
before this wisdom,
even though they don’t see it,
can’t believe it,
they just accept it.
When the poet reads
the critic’s piece,
she laughs and laughs
at the irony of such arrogant
assumptions!
Oh, student!
Good reader!
There are no errors
of interpretation in poetry!
Your experiences show you a meaning,
and if you can find lines to support,
your responses are just as valid as any critic’s.
(So the famous poet said to me,
and he should know).
This way is ungated.
No barrier.
Crawl along hedgerows
wade through wheat fields.
The cows don’t care to cross the cattle guard.
Continue along the way,
eventually, I’ll come to you.
This poem is ungated,
too.
This gripping agony
squeezes me thoroughly.
All that exists are those few
square inches,
shrieking at me.
I see the ripples of this pain
on my brows, crossing vision.
The world has shrunk into a tiny piece
of me.
Indeed,
there is a moment
when hushed memories sneak,
creeping behind you.
You hear the creak, and turn
to find those lost
those missed,
those grieved.
They’re whispers caught
on remembered phrases,
favourite songs;
you’re sure you hear their voices.
Indeed, there are moments
when ghosts hover;
in memories
their love remains.
That is you.
I know it.
You thought it was a secret,
clung to it,
revelled in the glory of it.
Joy to the world.
Right?
Trust it’s not the only thing.
Naturally.
Oh, baby blues sparkle.
You see the darkness,
and turn your back.
No slackers here.
No secrets sneaking from those cracks.
Oh, I know.
That’s you.
I see
how every word crashes into you,
threatens to capsize you,
flaps at your mainsail,
sends your boom flying across a bow,
leaving your cowering on the deck,
begging for the storm to pass.
Aim for port, where words
are bulwarked by the breakwater,
and tides are tempered.
We’ll tie up in safety;
see?
Mercy!
arm twisting brother menacing.
Mercy!
sexually charged boyfriend pressuring.
Mercy!
power hungry supervisor pushing.
Mercy!
posturing presidents endangering.
Mercy!
infuriated people demanding.
Eventually
Reality has to intervene.
You’re not destined for the NHL
Or the corps de ballet
Your voice will not sell
A million records.
Simon sends you packing.
Reality can suck.
But if playing hockey
Brings you happiness
Why stop just because you’ll never hoist the Stanley Cup?
Dance like nobody’s watching
Sing until you’re smiling.
Don’t let reality rob you of the joy
Of the activity itself.
The rush of a beautiful pass and goal.
The beauty of a perfectly formed pirouette.
The harmony than hums in your ear.
Celebrate those moments for ten thousand hours.
They say ten thousand hours yields excellence.
Perhaps you’ll need twenty.
Or thirty.
Embrace the joy.
Share in a community of like minds.
Perhaps after forty thousand hours
Your reality will change
And if it doesn’t,
At least you’ll nurture your soul.
Like reality,
Success has many faces.
Shawn L. Bird 