Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, they say
and all around me is grey.
The hills are obscured by haze
the acrid scent of it bites my nostrils
creates an ache in my throat, until
I want to go anywhere but here, where
there is fear of fires leaping valleys
razing the city. July in BC, seems to mean
burning bushes, without any sign of divinity.
The weight of my thoughts of you
compresses my chest into aching,
takes my heart and makes it pulp
crates the hope with
crushing waits.
.
(just a little play with words).
It can’t be comfortable
in that convoluted position
but since you assume it more and more often
I can only presume that normalcy
is more painful than contortion.
Oh sir, your manure pile is deep!
Dung beetles are digging, they scurry and creep.
Oh sir, please stop expecting that we’re venerating
the stench that you’re generating!
Bombousity and pompousity do not disguise
what is wise, you realize? The stench will rise
in quivering waves to the skies!
While you quip and you gloat, we see that the source
is not sheep, goat or horse; the muck’s clearly emenating
from your posterior aspect, and while some might declare
that’s your superior asset, I’m estimating the affair could use
less regulating and speculating so I’m delegating!
I’m calling the villagers, we’re gathering shovels
Enough with this sir! Stop slathering troubles
you’ve made with this crap pile; stop being so hostile
quit wallowing in this manure of your making
and swallow this brown pie that you’ve been baking.
Enough with this hideous idiocy!
Grab a shovel and clean up.
Be part of the team.
Put a cork in the hole.
Don’t try grabbing control.
Accept your strong role:
Help us all meet our goal!
.
.
(We all know someone like this, don’t we? Or several someones?) 😉
What does it mean
that you wander through those hills,
hide between the rocks and burrow under roots?
What does it mean
that you listen to the birds,
head cocked in concentration for their words?
What does it mean
when your eyes turn to the peaks,
houses and humanity left behind your mind?
What does it mean
that spaces stretch to pain,
hubris becomes agony and no one is the same?
I’m stringing together words
connecting us like beads
winding threads
capturing beauty that flashes in the light
I’m stringing us tightly together
knotting now so we can
recreate this moment
when we fear we are unravelling.
The idea
like a shy child
peeks from around a corner
hoping you will notice it.
If you’re too busy to pay attention
it fades away and you are left
trying to find the picture you can’t
quite bring to mind.
.
.
.
Twice this morning, while busy with something else, an idea fluttered up. Twice I thought, “Oh! That’s good. I must remember that!” and twice it disappeared into the ether. Darn. Darn.
Moon glow through our window
illuminates you, bestowing silver
ribbons upon your hills and valleys,
inviting me to stroll their glassy paths.
The moon insists on marking you
with her lunar kisses, and I will humour her,
for she is envious I share your pillow,
while she can only hold you from afar.
The bouquet of irises
is dessicated;
brown paper shells devoid of scent,
death displayed in a vase.
The purple blooms,
dripped inky streaks down the walls
and puddles onto the floor.
The stains leave a memory of floral glory
for tomorrow.
Shawn L. Bird 