Streaks of white flash past my windshield
like I’m entering hyper-space,
hoping not to be hit by space debris
(or other cars)
’cause that’d end my trip real quick, wouldn’t it?
No one really likes driving the highway home
through a snowstorm.
Where’s Han Solo when you need him?
Belly and breasts cascade
over ample hips.
The glass reflects
Jabba the Hutt lying in state
in my living room.
That is unexpected.
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.
If you think
the new guy
loves you for you
perhaps it’s just that
he hasn’t noticed yet,
who you really are?
Have you sliced him yet
with those word daggers,
eviscerating his affections,
hacking out his heart,
and bleeding out
years of devotion?
Have you belittled him
in front of family,
friends, and children,
torn him into pieces,
crushed his spirit,
and pushed him to despair?
Not yet?
We’ll give it time.
Eventually
he’ll know you
for the daggers
in your smile.
.
.
.
.
“Where we are, There’s daggers in men’s smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody.”
MacBeth II.iii.
When you crunch
into that apple
eyes twinkling,
cheek dimpling.
I am Eve,
and that smile,
glistening with juice,
is paradise
to go.
The mahogany marbling
of my arms betrays
my desire to remain indoors,
out of the burning glare.
Strange times, when
we are forced under sun.
Instead supervising exams
we direct lost tourists
to the Info Centre
(Google, your map is wrong,
like this government).
So many metaphors
and all day in the sun
to appreciate them.
.
There is a gentleness
and a comfort you’re wearing now,
so unlike the anger
and anguish that was your shield.
We’ve seen you change
from besieged warrior to
confident ruler of your world.
We have seen
and we are glad.
The Canada Geese
have taken up penthouse accommodations
in the osprey platforms.
Two lady geese on two platforms
watch the cars pass on the highway
enjoying the view,
liking this nest.
They’re distant neighbours
proud to be moving on up.
I wonder how that will go
when the ospreys return?
.
.
(Ospreys are raptor type birds that like to live beside lakes and rivers where they are avid fishers, are partial to building their huge nests on the T-bars of power poles. The hydro company and/or local naturalists, build platforms beside tempting poles to relocate them to safer premises. The ospreys will return to these nesting sites year after year. Apparently, the geese like them, as well! This video is from the other side of the country, back in 2011)
It’s not about writer’s block
It’s about writer’s inertia
An object at rest, stays at rest;
A writer not writing, remains not writing.
Something must get it moving.
An object in motion, stays in motion;
A writer writing, remains writing,
Unless an outside force acts upon it.
Seek the energy to start the motion
And stay in motion
So the book gets written.
.
.
Diana Gabaldon once said that she tries to write every day, because if she doesn’t, an inertia develops and it’s hard to get to it. I have found this true! Since the frenzy of drafting two novels in November, it’s been hard to do more than outline recently. I know that if I just get into the rhythm of the writing, it will propel itself, but the novel writing rhythm is proving elusive these days. I’ve been having no trouble keeping up the blog though, providing a poem for your daily reading. That’s better than nothing!
At The Cracked Pot
three crack pots,
(story pouring
word winders)
read.
Audience fights
coffee makers,
straining ears
to hear,
relaxes with smiles
at trials below amid the coal,
at parking problems,
at teen trouble.
The writers who read have only words
with which to weave a moment
to give a gift, to share
with those gracious ears
filling the chairs.
.
.
Allusion to The Cracked Pot Coffee Emporium in Vernon, which hosted writers Patricia Donahue, Howard Brown, and me this afternoon. A packed house strained their ears, and it was a lovely time!
Shawn L. Bird 