If the broken pieces
didn’t blind him,
cripple him,
impale him,
perhaps he’d be free
to see her pain.
And seeing, to embrace it,
tame it, and more–
for her to show him
what she knows,
that slivers can be pulled,
that slats can be hammered,
that broken pieces can grow into crutches,
that the cracks of fractures
can be patched into a quilt
for a bed of nails.
Oh, he is broken, but
Comfort is where you find it.
We are all made of star dust
but some of us
are less star
than dust.
Star people cause ripples
in our complacency
raise our eyes
to skies.
The swish of skirt swirling
in desert winds, beneath stars
that breathe her name,
captures your ear, and
urges you to hear murmurs
from heaven.
.
.
(Reading Jerry Spinelli’s Stargirl in class)
It’s hard to love you
when you shred me,
slice my skin on the sharp tips
of those needle teeth.
It’s hard to love you
when you track mud,
make puddles, and leave
stinking pellets behind you.
It’s hard to love you
but your eyes twinkle,
and your tail wags
and you keep trying to climb into my lap
It’s hard to love you
but the hard things are worthwhile.
I’m building a love story
with training and time.
Such quick fixes
stick with us.
Duct tape, while great,
for emergency execution
cannot create lasting
solutions.
Tears appear;
truth pools in her eyes.
She looks out the window, scenery unseen,
one droplet, breaking free, tracks a slow progress across
cheek,
chin,
neck.
Another makes the parallel journey.
She turns her face, while she waits, wishes,
then slowly grows the knowledge
that what is
will be.
She weeps out the weakness.
While there may be grief,
acceptance brings resilience.
Resilience
is the power of belief
and relief.
I’m sure the vulture sitting there beside the deer
is eager to devour his meal,
launch red head first into the feast,
but he’s just sitting beside the prize,
to shy to dine ‘neath
prying eyes flying by on the highway,
hoping with futility for privacy to eat his meat.
.
.
This was the first vulture we’ve ever seen in the wild. It looked like this one.
Oh, her longings are loud
and she seizes opportunities,
reads the mysteries and leaps.
.
Oh, her caution curls her
into weeping domesticity,
because she never neglects responsibilities.
.
Oh, love leaps from the river
like a dolphin and tangles in
fishermen’s nets
and bridal veils.
.
.
A little homage to the theatrical presentation of the Brazilian folk tale The River Bride by Marisela Treviño Orta, enjoying its world premier at Oregon Shakespeare Festival at the moment (2016 season). We thoroughly enjoyed the complex tale with its stunning set and lighting!
Perhaps it is
some sort of survivor’s guilt
that the fractured fragments
the twisted tableaux of warped memories
those bêtes noires barely contained within your brain,
burst in sullen silence, tremulous terror, or
most disturbing, that zombie calm
of a human automaton.
Perhaps it is
just chemistry asserting its superiority:
neuro-biology exposing itself
as a short-circuiting electric conduit
for daily conduct.
Perhaps it is
an allegory for transformation
or
perhaps it is
futility that demonstrates fallibility
and ultimately, profound humility.
My nostrils are bitten
by the brisk scent of pine,
invigorating, enervating in the rain.
I follow my nose
to two freshly felled stumps
and marvel that death can smell
so very much alive.
Shawn L. Bird 