The layers
speak of neglect
and distraction,
of time passing.
Traces of us
settle on ledges
and I am loath
to find a cloth
and wipe us off.
poem-mother January 27, 2015
Grade eight.
Horror.
Mother is her substitute teacher today.
“Do not
acknowledge
that you know me!” she hissed.
But when her name was called for
attendance, and teacher-mother
looked around for
whichever student would raise her hand,
she glowered,
unhappy
with anonymity.
poem-voyageur January 26, 2015
So you packed your canoe,
left a good man,
gave away that puppy,
you’d given to
those good boys,
those sweet little boys,
and rowed off to find yourself
on a river of their tears.
I hope the discovery
proves worth it
in the end.
poem- weight January 24, 2015
Grey weight
drags me down
velcro-ed to cement
hobbled like a donkey
held together
by hope.
poem-ginger snap January 17, 2015
The fiery flame of your hair
declares you.
You flash with fury and
unleash lashes of your tongue.
Light catches
in the disapproving flips
of your flickering locks,
We witness your scorching glare.
Viewed from a distance,
a bonfire is a beautiful thing
and I occasionally enjoy ginger snaps
while watching the fire.
.
.
Ah, it’s a stereotype, I know, but sometimes folks walk right into their cliché and live there.
poem-hard January 16, 2015
He relies on the strength
of her heart strings.
She winds them around him
to hold him together
when he might rattle apart
in the shaking, quaking times.
When she is weak and broken,
when she can not stretch her arms,
wide enough
to wrap heart strings around him,
he trembles and crumbles
apart.
When she is weak and broken,
he does not consider
that he could pretend
to be strong.
He could hold her heart strings,
and spin into her.
poem- dark January 15, 2015
“A man like Matthew never frees himself of the shadows completely, but perhaps it is necessary to embrace the darkness in order to love him.”
~Deb Harkness in Shadow of Night
.
.
He thinks that he is so hard to love
he polishes his prickles
scours his scowls
brushes those glowering brows
as if this gruff front will keep his heart whole,
and impervious to the heat of a warm embrace.
But she wears fireproof gloves,
confronts him with frankness,
and forces him to face his fears.
She wraps his arms around her and
shows him his image in the mirror of her love.
poem- symphony of agony January 11, 2015
This pain is a discordant symphony.
Percussion throbs a bass in the bone.
Piccolo dances of sensation up and down the leg.
Trumpet blasts explode out from the ankle.
Bassoon wails all along the incision site.
Kettle drum beats defiantly deep in the ankle bone. Dum. Dum. Dum.
Oboe whines a strident screech, vibrating muscle.
Cello squeezes, squeezes, squeezes low notes of agony.
Oh pain, go away; return my body to harmony.
poem-ready December 31, 2014
She’s reached the end of her rope
and she’s swinging hard,
pumping her legs for maximum height,
fury fueling her flight.
She’s aiming for the edge
she’s leaping into space
and she’s grabbing on the way down.
When she lands,
she’s crushing injustice beneath her feet.
and throwing up her hands,
in victory.
.
.
Been editing tonight. Just getting to the end of the story, when the downtrodden heroine seizes power… 😉
poem- travels December 29, 2014
Anew
you are printed,
packaged
addressed,
journeying to a distant place
unfolding before distant eyes
to be judged
and found worthy
or not.
In time,
you may find
a measure of fame
or fortune between
the pages of some book
but for now
you are just
another manuscript
off in the mail.
.
.
(Sending off a short story to a local ‘prestigious’ writing contest. The story was short listed a couple of months ago in a contest worth twice the prize money, so who knows? These things are so subjective.)
Shawn L. Bird 