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!”
Sculpting honey?
Pointless.
Shapes dissolve in moments,
dissappear in the gleaming
sweetness of now–
much like
memories
of you.
I see
how every word crashes into you,
threatens to capsize you,
flaps at your mainsail,
sends your boom flying across a bow,
leaving your cowering on the deck,
begging for the storm to pass.
Aim for port, where words
are bulwarked by the breakwater,
and tides are tempered.
We’ll tie up in safety;
see?
So small,
but her voice rings out,
bell-like and true
She holds tightly to the tune.
Iridescent cherry curves of caramel.
Beauty under pressure,
vibrating on my lap
music therapy for what ails me.
.
.
A little metaphor. Here’s the Brittany in question:
Literally true- she keep her tuning amazingly well- I didn’t play for a month and every note was still right! Unheard of in a harp, really. Also, the strings are under nearly a ton of pressure, the soundboard bellies out quite dramatically. (They say a harp sounds at its most beautiful just before it explodes…) My Brittany is cherry wood in the sound box, pillar and harmonic curve, but Baltic birch on the sound board. She’s a very beautiful little harp.
He’s going.
I feel him stretching out
like old elastic on the tops of pantyhose.
How old are your pantyhose?
That’s not the point.
You need to refresh your pantyhose, seriously
that elastic is good for a decade at least.
Oh forget I said it. He’s going. I can feel him slipping away.
Like pantyhose falling off your hips if they’re so old the elastic is brittle?
Well, yes.
I have some elastic lace. We can sew it onto the pantyhose. They’ll be like new.
It’s not about the pantyhose.
No. It’s about the elastic.
No. It’s about the leaving.
You know, if you put a pair of panties over the pantyhose, it will keep them up.
Like a hug.
Exactly like a hug. Sometimes the pantyhose work down a bit and are uncomfortable, but they stay up.
How do you know these things?
Oh. We all have our emergency strategies.
Emergency.
Definitely.
Hmm. Right. Thanks.
The idea
like a shy child
peeks from around a corner
hoping you will notice it.
If you’re too busy to pay attention
it fades away and you are left
trying to find the picture you can’t
quite bring to mind.
.
.
.
Twice this morning, while busy with something else, an idea fluttered up. Twice I thought, “Oh! That’s good. I must remember that!” and twice it disappeared into the ether. Darn. Darn.
You are bound tightly by mirrors
Gazing at yourself through refracted light
Every flaw magnified infinitely
Every hurt reflected back
slashing
slashing
slashing
you into fragile glass: you
naked Royal Doulton figurine
bare
broken
morose multiplicity in a million pieces of silver.
.
.
.
I want this to have a hopeful spin, but perhaps that will be part two tomorrow? It feels complete in thought, so I’ll stop.
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.
I was broken.
You sliced me,
knife blade deep,
peeling back skin,
excavating muscle,
exposing bone.
Then you
wound in screws,
stitched me together,
wrapped me in glass
and left a slash of
pulsing agony
to remember you by.
.
.
(Dedicated to Dr. Parfitt my orthopædic surgeon. 🙂 Sounds so much better as a metaphor; unfortunately he did all this literally!) 😉
Her smile
has spinnerets,
shoots invisible strands
that stick to your eyes,
wrap around your groin,
pull you inextricably tighter,
wind you in a gossamer shroud
ready to devour you
in sucking gulps,
and leave you an empty husk.
Shawn L. Bird 