That old shell of a van
might make a fun project for you.
Just think, when it’s done
you can make out in the back with a hot chick,
or at least a chick with hot flashes.
.
poem- reciprocity May 2, 2015
I whisper you
You whisper me
I murmur you
You murmur me
I chortle you
You chortle me
I extrapolate you
I expostulate you
I lose you
.
.
This is my 1900th post to the blog!
It’s been a busy 5 years!
poem-arcs April 30, 2015
Arms are
the consolation
the comfort
the consideration
arranged around artifice.
Arcing constancy.
poem- perhaps April 26, 2015
Perhaps when
. you are dead
I will find a cache
. of hidden love letters,
. diaries,
. poetry
all proclaiming your passionate
. yearnings,
your adoration recorded
. day after day.
Moments captured on paper
. trapped filaments of bliss
. flashes of us through your eyes.
Perhaps
I will find a cache.
Perhaps
. not.
poem- see love April 23, 2015
As these lines came into my head, they came on a suspiciously familiar tune, so I think of these as song lyrics, and I will have to see if my harp and I can turn them into a song at some point. In the meantime, they’re a poem. (I wouldn’t hold your breath for the music, just so you know).
.
You don’t look.
You don’t see.
You don’t hear.
You don’t speak
words she needs you to speak.
You’re not listening
when her heart weeps.
You don’t hear.
You don’t hear!
Please come here.
You must look.
You must see
what she’s trying desperately
to help you see.
You must hear
how she’s struggling with her fears.
You must speak,
whisper love,
for that’s all she truly seeks.
Look.
See.
Hear.
Speak
Love.
poem- NaPoWriMo- Rush & Hurry April 18, 2015
Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt in honour of the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere is a poem on a theme of rush and hurry.
(and today I was delighted to discover I am the Day 18 featured poet for yesterday’s social media poem. How lovely!)
.
.
When it’s true
there’s all the time in the world.
Slow down.
.
They say
“Marry in haste, repent in leisure.”
.
I remember seven months
when time stood still
and you were the air I breathed.
.
In haste, married,
then filled a house with babies.
Now they’re gone, but you’re still here
Our leisurely repentance
is luxurious reward for our haste.
.
.
Happy 30th engagement anniversary to my love. (4 months after meeting and 3 months to the wedding!)
poem- he said she said April 14, 2015
That scarf was a ridiculous purchase, he said. I don’t work for you to buy gauzy strips of gratuitous fabric.
I don’t know why, she sighed, you insist upon these games
Because, said he, games are fun. His lips quirked up on one side. His eyes were dark
Not always, she said. Take chess, for example.
Racing is fun. Speeding around the track, outmanoeuvring competitors. I never liked chess. All that cornering the king. It’s unbecoming.
Oh I know, said she. She touched the damned scarf to a lit a taper and tossed it out the window as it flared. Oops. How clumsy of me.
His eyes grew wide and he rushed to the window to see flames rapidly licking the dashboard of his Aston Martin convertible.
You always forget that the real power on the chess board is the queen’s, she said, as he raced shouting from the room. Check, mate.
.
.
Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt is to write a dialogue poem.
Poem- Easter Monday aubade April 6, 2015
Last night
you woke in horror.
“What is it?” I asked.
You shivered, “A nightmare,
one of the worst I’ve had.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
I asked sleepily.
“No,” you said. “I can’t think about it.”
“Am I ever in your nightmares?”
You pondered for a long time.
“No,” you finally said. “Never.”
“Then come closer,” I said,
“I will protect you.”
In the morning, you are gone,
but you have left behind
the sighs of your security
in my arms.
.
.
Today http://www.napowrimo.net prompt is to write an aubade. I am particularly fond of aubades. They are the opposite of a serenade. In a serenade, the lover is trying to entice into the beloved’s bed; in an aubade the morning has come, and the lover must depart. I wrote one last year (or before?) that I’m sure WordPress will link to beneath this post. You may enjoy that one, too. I was quite proud of it.
poem-nesting April 2, 2015
The nest is empty
and without the chicks holding them together
some birds fly in different directions.
Job done.
So sad,
for others find the absence of young
brings far more joy in one another
than they could find while struggling
to satisfy the demands of youth.
The empty nest is the next gentle chapter
where romance can thrive again,
when laughing songs of
swooping lovers twitter through
the afternoon air and soft whispers
fill the nights.
poem-deep March 31, 2015
He sleeps
breathing deeply,
heavily,
his back steaming
against hers.
She is wishing for his embrace,
longing for his arm across her breast,
his breath tangling in her hair.
She wishes.
He sighs with weighty somulance
then rolls away, settling on the far edge,
of the king sized bed.
His breath comes in rumbling groans and mutterings.
She sighs,
wishing for his embrace
but finding sleep’s instead.
Shawn L. Bird 