Last night
I fell asleep planning
an ensemble:
beige, flowing garments
open shoes
bare skin, no socks.
Spring is here!
Celebrate!
I awoke
to see snowflakes filling the sky
giant two inch diameter
behemoth flakes
mocking my dreams of spring.
Wardrobe re-think.
Boots today.
Again.
Still.
.
.
Remember
city lights
blinking in the lake
your arms wrapped,
us enraptured.
You and I
embracing the mystery
of intimacy,
creating a history,
trusting the future,
facing dreams, and
dreaming of reality
enfolding before us:
Laughter, longing,
lasting love
.
.
.
The anniversary of our engagement is approaching, so here’s a poem in honour of the guy who’s had my back for 60% of my life. Look at how cute we were on that romantic evening! 😉 (Trust me that there are city lights reflected in the lake behind us. I had a pretty crappy camera!)
.
Bald eagle
standing on turned over earth
Watching the cars go by on the highway
(or pretending to,
to give the small creatures
an illusion of safety).
Bald eagle
normally surveying
road and field from high above
is checking out a new perspective.
I wonder whether he prefers
dirt to sky?
Your toe nails
echo in the hall like
a cavalcade of snare drums.
Thundering timpanic tribulation
of tip tapping echoing through my brain,
draining me of peace.
Your toe nails
four times four feet times two
(two square roots of feet)
Are a private percussion section
depriving me of sleep.
.
.
.
I need to trim the dogs’ toe nails.
Arg.
I should have
warned you about our bud.
She’s thorny
but she’s precious.
Touch her brusquely
and you’ll bleed from flesh
torn by her thorns.
They are sharp, but they protect
a precious bud.
Some day, if we tend her well
she will blossom into a glorious rose,
for now she is a thorny stalk
with a tentative bud,
doubtful of blooming.
She will need to be coaxed,
but someday, her unique beauty
will amaze you.
She will show the world
talent, insight, and vision.
She’ll be a complexity of
colour, scent, tenacity.
For now, she is a thorny stalk,
but we have faith
the guarded bud
will bloom
At The Cracked Pot
three crack pots,
(story pouring
word winders)
read.
Audience fights
coffee makers,
straining ears
to hear,
relaxes with smiles
at trials below amid the coal,
at parking problems,
at teen trouble.
The writers who read have only words
with which to weave a moment
to give a gift, to share
with those gracious ears
filling the chairs.
.
.
Allusion to The Cracked Pot Coffee Emporium in Vernon, which hosted writers Patricia Donahue, Howard Brown, and me this afternoon. A packed house strained their ears, and it was a lovely time!
Put it away
It’s past the time
for you to escape
the fear
the hoping
the wish
that it will change.
It won’t.
The drinking
The shouting
The hitting
The habit.
It’s routine.
Routines don’t change.
That dream
That picket fence
That reflection in your rosy shades
will never be reality.
The reflection behind your shades
will always be blue and black.
Walk away
Put away
that dream
and claim
life.
The togetherness
stretched between
man-cave and girl-zone,
in dutiful words
and sharing kisses on the stairs.
The silences
listen for the echoes
of footfalls
and wonder
what togetherness
means.
Snuffling with fuzzy head,
her frigid feet
in search of heat,
she creeps, shivering between the sheets.
Piled high with fill from sheep and geese
duvets do not suffice to thaw her feet of ice.
As her teeth tremble a timpanic tintannabulation
of unsympathetic vibrations
She seeks cessation of sensation
in the oblivion of sleep.
Shawn L. Bird 