We’re at the precipice
You and I.
You’re in the harness,
tethered to a kite,
ready to leap.
I lean back from the edge,
Nervous of wings
Air currents,
carrying you away,
dropping you
where?
Mountains
Valleys
Tangling into trees,
I like safety
Side lines
You see
Sight lines
inclines
outlines
freedom.
You leap.
I wonder what will be
What all this means for me.
It’s 4 20 on Poetry Friday.
Half my class is missing.
Are they taking the day off to celebrate
with a joint?
The rest of us are celebrating poetry,
writing to prompts, savouring
chocolate caramel cupcakes
and cheesecake brownies
(not THOSE kind of brownies).
We’re clean living poets,
saving rebellion
for after school.
.
#Napowrimo prompt today was “Rebellion”
This moonlit night,
snow glowing with
luminescent memories,
I stroll along the old paths
thinking of the mystery you
made of me.
Identity molded like play dough
childhood laughter
leaching from the cracks of yesterday.
I can’t say anymore
who I am.
.
(another character perspective poem about Lydia & Dustin)
Diva Winter grips
her sequined white cloak. Clinging,
while we wish for Spring.
The sheets are clean,
fresh outside,
brought in,
crisp newness,
start again.
Wait for you,
to dint the pillow,
breathe deeply in sleep,
inhale promise,
clean sheets.
You’re right,
of course.
The girl’s got skills.
She works a room with flare,
engages crowds confidently.
You want her in your corner,
unless of course,
she reveals your inadequacies,
tramples your manly ideas,
and overwhelms.
The public thinks she’s wonderful.
The contrast between you
crackles. Can you let her go?
Or should you hold her close?
.
.
A poem for a character, as I’m working on Lydian Mode today. Lydia the artist is too capable by half. Poor Dustin. She is not making his world easy.
Fleance dreams of flight,
soaring on outstretching wings
into a moonlit night,
No day trips for him, he’s heard things
about flying too near the sun.
Day is for escape, for climbing,
Peaks ascending, journeys begun,
At sunset (it’s all about the timing)
he leaps into red glowing,
falls on moon rise
spreads his wings, catches winds flowing
embraces skies,
Wonders at all he does espy
and murmurs “Fly, Good Fleance! Fly!”
The Lord of All Knowledge,
Gatekeeper of Truth,
says the poem means this.
Generations of readers bow
before this wisdom,
even though they don’t see it,
can’t believe it,
they just accept it.
When the poet reads
the critic’s piece,
she laughs and laughs
at the irony of such arrogant
assumptions!
Oh, student!
Good reader!
There are no errors
of interpretation in poetry!
Your experiences show you a meaning,
and if you can find lines to support,
your responses are just as valid as any critic’s.
(So the famous poet said to me,
and he should know).
This way is ungated.
No barrier.
Crawl along hedgerows
wade through wheat fields.
The cows don’t care to cross the cattle guard.
Continue along the way,
eventually, I’ll come to you.
This poem is ungated,
too.
This gripping agony
squeezes me thoroughly.
All that exists are those few
square inches,
shrieking at me.
I see the ripples of this pain
on my brows, crossing vision.
The world has shrunk into a tiny piece
of me.
Shawn L. Bird 