I saw a shooting star
.
Last night
while letting out the dog:
a streak across the sky.
The dog squatted in the grass while
A weary traveler burned through our
atmosphere.
My upward glance made me a witness
and I must say, that meteor’s end
made midnight
magic.
Outside the window
new green
We walk by in masks
waiting for vaccine
Spring is a time
for hope
Another year on a
slippery slope.
Daffodils bursting
from the soil
Politics and a pandemic
embroiled
Breathe.
Take care.
We’re almost
there.
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NaPoWriMo Day 22 A little contrast between the hope of spring and the stress of rising numbers of infected folks, including a friend.
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Here is the true thing, my children.
It is dark outside.
There are beasts with teeth and claws,
prepared to rip and tear you into tiny bits.
Oh, yes, my children,
it is dark outside.
You must beware.
.
But come, my children,
here is another true thing.
There is light outside.
It glows from windows and from hearts;
it pulls what’s apart, together, wrapping gleaming strands
of hope, that shimmer if you look just so.
See?
There in your heart: a star!
Dare, my children, to shine.
It is dark outside.
You must
Be light.
Between then and now
Between here and there
Between faith and doubt
Between love and hate
Between us and them
Between you and me
Between life and death
We hover
We are 1-0:
tall and short
quiet and verbose
slender and round
scientific and artistic
Together we are
perfect.
In the mirror
the girl is slender,
waist defined
perfect proportions.
In the photograph
the girl is round,
an hour glass balloon
widely distorted.
In the mirror
the girl is round
an hour glass balloon,
widely distorted.
In the photograph
the girl is wraith-like
ribs defined.
Such visual contortions!
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 world is white on the outside
but she is black.
The core of her is burnt and raw,
bubbling flesh like molten lava.
The yard is sugar coated and bright
but she is dark.
The soul of her is encrusted and festering
rotting organs like gangrenous limbs.
The world is playfully building snowmen
but she is deconstructing herself.
Laughing children throw snowballs from
behind fortress walls that will melt.
Her fortress is firmly constructed;
joy will not reach her
until it bleeds away like winter.
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Today’s composition explores contrast. I’m trying to be a bit Plath-like here, though it’d be hard to capture the depths of her misery without living the pathos, perhaps?
Shawn L. Bird 