We walk the trails
and I hear the trees talk
creaking screeches
from beneath the bark.
Their sap song
celebrates spring.
We hear, wondering
what stories creaking sap sings
and wishing we grasped more meaning,
while thankful that at least
we sense their flowing feelings
about spring.
Once again
you come by dream
to spend some time with me.
This visit you brought your wife
and gave me wildly inappropriate gifts
that I accepted graciously,
thankful her choices were not mine.
And yet my heart
still stirred at your smile.
How strange, though parted by
time, miles, and reality,
in youthful memory, you still
do this to me.
At the neighbour’s, there are twenty-one robins
purposefully flittering and twittering.
Above, the sky is baby blue;
little cloud puffs waft across, like running tykes,
(hear their giggles?)
On trees, green buds peek from each branch.
Breathe in these beginnings.
I believe, this peaceful day
is what hope looks like.
Here is a summer poem,
Lit by late light
a crackling bonfire poem
paddling in water sparkling with
laughter.
We could just call them nocturnal birds
The same bouncing soaring as swallows:
Dips,
Dives,
Digesting insects to equal their body weight.
Sleep away the day, just hanging out
Waiting for their night flight,
hand-sized chihuahuas in hang-gliders
amazing mosquito munching moves
Utility belts unnecessary to such cute, useful beasts.
Moon dancers wending wings
rising through summer skies.
This poem is wishful
. .wistful
Whistle fears into the dark
Spark hope
Scope out the dreams
that mean the most
Mark out those goals
Be wishful, even when wistful
and whistle whatever
brings joy into being
Sing hope
Be peace
Achieve what we need
Believe wholly
in hope.
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I was leafing through my draft poetry notebook and found this one written in the fall. It seems a very appropriate poem for the first day of spring!
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That was way too much
. cheesecake, Valentine.
This queasy belly surges
. with regret.
We may love chocolate, but
. a little is better than
. a lot.
Your love is sweet enough,
. perhaps.
Whispers through the pines make
promises of tomorrow
Rings inside fallen trees reveal
long history
This place, firmly locked in now, hints
of a future.
Inhale it all.
.
We are forest.
What is yet to come reaches
to the light,
Every year closer to the sky.
.
We also reach
time takes our bodies
earth bound,
embraced by roots,
part of the trees,
stretching for heavens,
becoming sweet air
on the breeze.
In my hand
. a tiny precision instrument
. words form on the page
I am part of history
. pen wielder
. word maker
. story spinner
Here in my hand the power
. to change the world
. through words.
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.
.
Just added a Kaweco Liliput fountain pen to my collection. Tiny precision writing instrument in weighty stainless steel. It feels powerful despite its small size. What magic might it perform with me?
So many criteria
for a deceptively simple task.
Light weight
. useful
. fun
. full to over-flowing with love
Small tokens are all I can
pack in a bag
Only miniscule metaphors for my
immeasurable gratitude.
What gift is enough?
Oh, what can
I bring?
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This spring I’m off to do a couple of writing retreats and visiting friends and family from my times as a exchange student, yay those many years ago. Since I only travel with a carry-on, regardless of the length of the stay, I have limited room for all the gifts I want to bring. >>sigh<< I’m hoping my trip to the Fabric store will meet assorted needs. Wish me luck!
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Shawn L. Bird 