She shouldn’t care more about you
than you do yourself.
Your success should be on your shoulders
not on hers.
She can guide, support, aid,
but you must do the work,
think the thoughts, stretch your brain,
believe you can.
There is no easy way.
You need to care enough to be your best,
trust the tools and safe venue for risk,
let her cheer from the side,
as she watches you ride
away into your future.
You need to trust, this isn’t a place
to stay.
…in my easy button.
.
Confident red circle
sits
in its isolation
on the desk
proclaims,
“That was easy!”
.
We hear the outbursts
amused from a distance,
that it appreciates
ataraxia.
.
Our brains may ache
with the effort
of learning,
.
but that red button
assures us
It wasn’t difficult
at all.
The light of you
twinkles on your skin
sends shooting stars crackling from the top of your head.
The light of you
glows blue green like phosphorescence
attracting, inviting.
You are bio-luminescence
shimmering on an ocean,
trails flowing after you like an evening gown.
I reach to dip my hand into the water and watch the light
die in my palm.
I long to live in your light,
bathe in the beauty,
float in the flotilla of the mesmerized, microscopic worshipers
flowing after you.
But you go your way
and I go home.
I gaze after you, and wonder if you’ve shared enough of you,
for me to generate light
of my own.
.
.
.
(for Sheri-D)
It’s always a let down at the end of a conference to leave the like minds of other writers, and return home to quotidian life. This was a particularly good conference for me, with lots of messages from the universe (or rather one that just kept coming up over and over). I am hopeful the words will be off on interesting journeys as a result of the learning.
They say
you can’t get blood from a stone,
but there you are
grinding
and bleeding from the effort.
There you are
releasing your hard heart
and weeping change.
Oh sure,
it hurts to be stoned
It’ll kill you, if the impact
hits the right place,
but a bloody stone
is only a reminder
of your strength.
Stones were once mountains
Worn by time and pressure
your mountain has become a stone,
and from your tight grip
drips
blood.
I heard the rumble of
my grumblings
and wished
and wished
and wished
for what was glorious and joyful
what was fun and focused
what was
ah
what was.
This is uncomfortable
unsettling
unsatisfying
unbearable.
I heard murmuring
everywhere.
Everyone
grumbling
wishing
wanting
longing
for what was,
what no longer can be,
looking
for change again.
Everyone
and
me.
This is not where I expected to be,
but they were right when they said
if you don’t plan where you’re going
you may not like where you end up.
So I am not staying.
The view is crushing.
The map is out, and every step of this journey
is planned. Tour guide at the ready,
ready to keep me going in the right direction.
I know the next destination, and I’m setting off
on a pilgrimage of sacrifice,
to atone for foolish wanderings,
and find the self I lost along the way.
Life is risky.
If we dare to try,
we may fail.
If we ride out onto new roads,
we may crash,
If we set sail on new waters,
we may drown,
but
If we hide beneath a rock,
we’re in danger of being crushed.
Moving is better,
than standing still.
With respect to the fashion he loves to capture on New York streets photographer Bill Cunningham said,
.
.
How often have I heard this?
I love your shoes,
but I could never wear something like that.
Oh, I love your hair!
I wish I had the guts to do that.
Your outfits are always so great,
how do you come up with these ensembles?
That car is so cute!
I could never do that.
I’ve started about a dozen books,
but I never finish them.
Just do it. You have the power to decide.
I wonder some days, if I’ve gone over the deep end
into Crazy Old Lady Land
but what the hell. We live one time.
There are no secrets here.
Every day, make choices that make you feel
sublime.
I can! I will!
Independent spirit meets reality.
Baking after the brain injury
the cinnamon buns are tasty commas
rolling spirals a surprising impossibility.
Perhaps everything is
not
as it was.
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.
Shawn L. Bird 