You rode your high horse
to water, but you couldn’t make it drink.
You beat that horse
until its flesh was pulverized
and the putrid rot rose in a stench,
repulsing people you wanted to impress.
Still you keep beating
that equine cadaver,
imagining the rattle of its rib bones
is dressage music
for your one trick pony.
She slashed him.
.
Pain scratched and yowled around his brain,
longing for palliation.
He saw compassion and affection in your eyes
wrapped his hands across your neck and
in the explosion of agonized ecstasy,
you choked down his hurt.
.
She twitched her fingers.
.
With his backward gaze,
he saw anguish curling lithely behind your eyes.
You saw his pitying relief, even as his pain
purred so loudly in your head
it blocked the words
he should have said.
.
.
.
This one is for Amber
It begins
in awe
a stunned staring
with a grin that expands
from mouth to feet
’til even toes are smiling
with delight.
It grows
in time
as kindly sharing
expands experience
from then to now
’til familiarity leads
to comfort.
It rests
in fondness
warm embraces
transcending miles and
knowing paths will cross
again.
You gather me into you
Entangling limbs and
Tickling kisses on the neck.
.
Your breath tangles in my hair
Escaping through quivering tendrils
Trembling into the night.
.
Your heartbeats drum against my back
Exquisite timpani.
Time stops.
The birch trees
are splattered with new green.
Buds like pretty envelopes, unfold
to reveal letters greeting
summer.
Tonight
walking to the mailbox
I am stalked by mist
The lights blink through
the neighbours trees:
stars above,
down town below.
It’s so black between the lamps,
I expect deep quiet,
beneath the rustle of new leaves,
but the highway hums in the distance.
Trucks travel with an insistent drone
that climbs the hill to my house,
and silence suffers
in the hustle of their incessant transitions.
The wind chimes
on my back deck
honour the day
intoning like sonorous church bells
calling for celebratory worship.
In drenched sleep
dreaming
computer rests across my knees
I’m writing
with neck crooked awkwardly
of you
and what happens next
in my favourite novel
and pondering the universe
until wisdom unfolds.
I type it all down,
in my dream
take dictation
from the subconscious
but when I awaken
there are neither words
nor keyboard
and all wisdom has evaporated
in the steam,
or drizzled down the drain.
I’m wearing Misty’s shoes;
her ghost clings to them
billowing behind the clicking heels
in the hallway.
Misty set these shoes
on the foot rest of her
wheelchair, but I’m dancing
to her memory down corridors,
blowing kisses to the sky
through windows
wide with wishes.
.
.
.
A few years ago on eBay I bought a pair of black and white Fluevog Harlows: T-straps on towering spool heels . Misty’s sister told me about how they were selling her shoes after her untimely death from cystic-fibrosis. I was so impressed with what she told me about her feisty sister over a brief correspondance, that I created a shoe-oholic character called Misty in the Grace books 3 & 4. The manuscript is sitting on a shelf, waiting for polishing. Someday you’ll get to meet her fictional namesake. In the meantime, you can admire her excellent taste in shoes:
Number one
occupational
health hazard for
flight attendants
is falling
during turbulance,
for hair stylists:
hair slivers,
for teachers
it’s vocal damage.
Today,
my throat concurs
and longs for Ricola
and honeyed tea.
Today,
teaching hurts.
Shawn L. Bird 