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.
I’m chilled to the bone.
I wish for a wood stove:
that crackle and flash,
heat that sinks in deep,
defines cozy comfort,
makes me want to sleep.
I can hear my mother,
If you’re cold, put on a sweater!
I want a wood stove:
the summer scent on logs,
I want
warm feet on a hassock,
hot cup of tea,
well-written mystery.
Fine, Mother.
I’ll get a sweater, 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.
And what of you?
Do dark mornings creep around your heart
Reaching through night
Pushing past sight to wrap you tightly
In tomorrow?
What of you?
Your lonely walk, your feet tapping
On cobblestones in ancestral towns,
tripping on the roots of the family tree;
calamity or peace?
I see the dream
That’s you.
I remember the Christmas
she gave me
a set of hotel toiletries
from her vacation to Portugal.
Gold embossed tiny burgundy bottles
shampoo,
conditioner,
lotion,
and an elegantly packaged
shower cap.
Should we have known
there was something
wrong with her
then?
Golden hair
Bright eyes
Longing for him
Dreaming
Wishing
Whispers to him
Photo please
Oh.
Whoa.
He?
He.
He!
No.
No!
Dreams die.
Wishing wanes.
Eyes cry.
.
.
.
I created the first draft of this on the whiteboard as a free verse sample for my creative writing class. Some of them are *really* afraid of poetry!
We’re nestled here between the hills
protected from the harsh winds
warm and basking by the lake.
But you are bored,
you’re ready to escape,
to see what lies beyond the valley
and so we wave farewell
knowing after adventure,
home calls the blood.
I am
caught
between breath,
hovering within a moment,
alive in every cell,
dying a small death
until I’m inhaling
you
me
infinity.
For my eighteenth birthday
He wrote me a song.
Flutes and strings danced
in my honour,
a musical farewell,
recorded on cassette.
I filled the rest of the tape
with a treasury of captured moments:
His playing, my laughter,
melancholy dreams.
All synthesized on
The Lost Tape.
.
Years of wondering where it went.
.
Today. My birthday
I picked up an empty cassette case,
and it was not empty.
The case showed my face,
listed harp tunes by me, but inside
not me:
Ancient history.
A birthday present
from eighteen year old me
to middle-aged me,
magnetic taped
memories,
for time-travelling.
..
.
I feel inclined to add a photo, which I probably will remove later, so enjoy it while it’s here. The composer of the song, compiler of the cassette, my grad escort. Me at 18. (I had just been swimming, excuse the hair). 😉
After he came to her bed
she threw out her make up,
grew her hair over her face,
and zipped up a blubber suit.
After he came to her bed
she faded into a gossamer ghost,
hidden in plain sight.
Shawn L. Bird 