Who knew
when love first entangled
that rapture yields both
blessing and anguish?
Anticipated joy
dashed by disability,
disease, dread,
death.
Watching beloved baby
suffer
and the love that begat
all the suffering
lies so tangled
in anguish
that it’s difficult to
find it at all.
I lost a poem today
It came to me, a shy friend
and whispered in my ear
such beautiful words.
I savoured them
and rolled them on my tongue
but before I could make a
penned permanence
of friendship
it flitted away,
leaving loss
and longing
in its place.
Winter creek
whispering secrets
slipping beneath snow banks
sibilant susuration promises
“spring, spring, spring.”
I wanna be
that person who is fit and trim
so I buy the health magazines and plan to get a gym membership.
I wanna be
that person who is literate and up to date with the latest trends
so I buy the literary journals and plan to read them.
I wanna be
that person who travels the world
so I buy the suitcase and send for the passport.
I wanna be
that person with the spotless house
so I buy cleaning products and sign up for email de-cluttering reminders.
I wanna be
that person
but until I actually take real action,
no purchase or plan can create the identity
I wanna be.
.
.
.
(Some of these are true desires, some of wishful thinking, and some are part of my real life. I’ll leave it to you to figure out which!) 😉
Writing a novel is like baking a birthday cake.
First, you figure out what kind it is
chocolate, vanilla, spice, angel?
historical? horror? teen? romance?
What is your audience?
Three toddlers? Fifty seniors?
Then you add the ingredients in some order
flour, eggs, milk, sugar
protagonist, conflict, plot, setting
Then you mix them all together and add some heat
from an oven
an editor or first readers
It cooks, changing from ingredients into cake.
It’s edited from a manuscript to a book.
When it tests as being done,
it has to sit a bit to cool
Then it is shared with a small group, or a huge crowd
People celebrate with candles, smiles and songs
A cake lasts a moment, but the memory can linger.
A book lasts longer, but the memory of the first moment lingers.
Night breathes
its peace in
shimmering air
dusted with winter.
.
Night breathes
its silence in
rustling wishes
between sheets.
.
Night breathes
an invitation in
a lingering look
over the shoulder.
.
Night breathes
a promise in
peace,
silence,
invitation.
Wafting on the cool wind
as I plow through the snow to the car
comes the heavy scent of roses.
I look for the source without success
as the air is saturated with summer
in frosty winter:
Perfumed paradox.
To a tiny toddling boy
you exclaimed his father’s stupidity
and explained to the
confused face that he was
mommy’s best friend.
No pressure
for his future wife,
that.
The world is white on the outside
but she is black.
The core of her is burnt and raw,
bubbling flesh like molten lava.
The yard is sugar coated and bright
but she is dark.
The soul of her is encrusted and festering
rotting organs like gangrenous limbs.
The world is playfully building snowmen
but she is deconstructing herself.
Laughing children throw snowballs from
behind fortress walls that will melt.
Her fortress is firmly constructed;
joy will not reach her
until it bleeds away like winter.
.
.
.
.
Today’s composition explores contrast. I’m trying to be a bit Plath-like here, though it’d be hard to capture the depths of her misery without living the pathos, perhaps?
The world is white
but my path was cleared
by a shovel wielding
snowman.
.
.
Some mornings I grumble as I’m awakened by the scraping of the snow shovel in the driveway, but then I have a moment of thankfulness, from the comfort of my warm bed, that hubby faithfully does it, so that I don’t have to on mornings like this, when there has been a heavy snowfall overnight. I just get to admire the beauty of it on my way to work, without bearing the weight of it on the end of a shovel. 😉
Shawn L. Bird 