Each day I arrive here
Look around
and notice it feels less like home.
Remember laughter,
feel their dreaming,
it’s all still here,
but where are my desires leading?
Could this all be coming to a close?
Are talent, skills, and luck
coalescing into
something new?
I am at a poetry retreat, and I have just realized I haven’t posted any new poetry in ages! Here is one that was prompted by discussion around the table last night.
Men are afraid that women will laugh at them.
Women are afraid that men will kill them
~ Margaret Atwood
Confession:
Inside
she is laughing
at his wizened, flapping sword
Ever appreciative
it is not slashing, slicing, dividing
head from heart.
Confession:
Impalement is not a virtue in itself
ecstacy can take or leave it.
Confession:
She desires his desire,
not his possession.
She is nestled up against him
waiting for the whispered words
of adoration, desire.
He sighs contently, and tells her
she is cuddly.
That sounds like a teddy bear she says.
He pulls her closer, nuzzling into her neck,
but a single tear rolls down her cheek.
Every minute that I wait for you
I will be longing for your arms
for the solace of your comfort
for the tenderness of your lips
While I am driving home
I will be wishing to have arrived.
You may not believe it’s true
but I always long to be with you.
Oh
the expression of distraught incredulity
on the dog’s face as
a tantalizing utensil travels above his head
on the way to the sink,
instead of to his dish.
Magic is all in your head, all about two things, imagination and will. You have to focus on your desired outcome and you have to have the will to make it happen.
~Jim Butcher in Dresden Files, Welcome to the Jungle
Sounds like hard work and passion is magic, doesn’t it? Hmm. He might be onto something here.
The music echoes through her bones
throbbing heart beat,
quivering quavers,
filling feet with rhythm.
Eyes scanning for possibilities,
Whose arms will encircle her?
Will he be the one to enfold her,
entwine their bodies,
make her sway
under his percussion?
She watches and wonders,
Shall she dance?
.
.
.
(Inspired by Richard Gere and Jennifer Lopez tonight)
Magic dances on your finger tips;
You transform the day.
Enchantment unwinds in glistening threads
and tangles between us.
Your spell has ensnared me,
but I’ll never tell that the gleam in my eyes
came from a cauldron of your promises.
Under your skin
you’re kindling dreams.
Letting just enough
hope gleam through the ash.
Your head says,
“You can’t.
It won’t be,”
But the kindling dreams
wonder,
“Why
not
me?”
It was woven
like light
dappling between the leaves
of our maple tree,
your voice, soft in memory,
searching for the heart of me.
It was woven
like lithe
subtleties between the grease
of our maigre feast,
your voice, lost in murmurings
purging forth our history.
It was woven
like life
sampling between the griefs
of our marble stele
your voice, wafts in every
yearning it exhorts of me.
.
.
I may be stretching your vocabulary with this one! Here’s some help:
maigre- religious diet without the flesh or juice of animals
stele- pillar, marker, tombstone (pron. like STEEL-y)
Shawn L. Bird 