She remembers long ago
when she’d catch his glances like butterflies,
flitting, fleeting, flickering glimpses,
darting from above a smile
of surreptitious wistfulness.
She’d swallow his longing
so the fluttering was within her,
and gaze back,
captivated, until they
trembled together
in the net.
You are landscape:
hills curled around valleys,
shoulder arced over head
thighs a rounded panorama.
You are pushed up against darkness,
it puddles beneath your breasts,
but waken, beauty.
Light lingers on your glistening skin;
dawn caresses your body,
an invitation to fall in love with day.
.
.
I’m admiring the art on my wall again. This poem is written about this drawing: https://shawnbird.com/2015/02/21/poem-the-light-returns/ How thankful I am for Elaine’s skills. The artist in me greets the artist in thee! Namaste.
There was something.
There was something in that bombastic laugh
that set a tingle up my spine,
something not quite right that climbed out from behind your eyes,
incised the benefit of the doubt.
There was something that kept me holding back
long before your strange attack.
Perhaps my intuition,
just knew it wasn’t safe to trust?
Your jar of pickled poems–
cheek puckering poetry,
sour smiles behind glass–
makes me laugh.
.
.
.
My students handed in their poetry collections today. Among them is a jar with poems written on green pickle shaped papers. 🙂 Bethany wins cutest poetry project. Too bad it wasn’t a contest. (Hmm. Maybe next year?!)
When you wrapped me in that warm embrace
fireworks exploded in my brain
red and purple stars shot from my head and lit the room.
Incandescent memories are the after image
of our fragmentary connection.
.
.
.
A couple of days ago, I wrote about another lost poem. I’m happy to say that poem was found! This is it! A glance at a picture sparked the memory, and it came back! It’s not quite as it was, since the 3rd/final line of the original didn’t return, but I am satisfied with the cinquain it became. 🙂
Hush.
The evening chorus:
Frogs throat singing
with susurrating trees
Summer serenade.
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.
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?) 😉
Shawn L. Bird 