Tears appear;
truth pools in her eyes.
She looks out the window, scenery unseen,
one droplet, breaking free, tracks a slow progress across
cheek,
chin,
neck.
Another makes the parallel journey.
She turns her face, while she waits, wishes,
then slowly grows the knowledge
that what is
will be.
She weeps out the weakness.
While there may be grief,
acceptance brings resilience.
Resilience
is the power of belief
and relief.
I’m sure the vulture sitting there beside the deer
is eager to devour his meal,
launch red head first into the feast,
but he’s just sitting beside the prize,
to shy to dine ‘neath
prying eyes flying by on the highway,
hoping with futility for privacy to eat his meat.
.
.
This was the first vulture we’ve ever seen in the wild. It looked like this one.
Perhaps it is
some sort of survivor’s guilt
that the fractured fragments
the twisted tableaux of warped memories
those bêtes noires barely contained within your brain,
burst in sullen silence, tremulous terror, or
most disturbing, that zombie calm
of a human automaton.
Perhaps it is
just chemistry asserting its superiority:
neuro-biology exposing itself
as a short-circuiting electric conduit
for daily conduct.
Perhaps it is
an allegory for transformation
or
perhaps it is
futility that demonstrates fallibility
and ultimately, profound humility.
My nostrils are bitten
by the brisk scent of pine,
invigorating, enervating in the rain.
I follow my nose
to two freshly felled stumps
and marvel that death can smell
so very much alive.
If
I am not beautiful
to you,
I am not the one whom you should wake next to.
you should not woo;
Lest you regret your nuptial day
and prove untrue with
someone who
is
beautiful to
you.
Maybe, they told me. Maybe.
For stretches, for weeks, it’s a same old day,
but my brain starts to hum whenever I remember,
Maybe, it tells me. Maybe today.
.
.
Oh! The anticipation! Will it be? Won’t it? It’s like waiting for lottery numbers to be drawn.
There was something.
There was something in that bombastic laugh
that set a tingle up my spine,
something not quite right that climbed out from behind your eyes,
incised the benefit of the doubt.
There was something that kept me holding back
long before your strange attack.
Perhaps my intuition,
just knew it wasn’t safe to trust?
Your jar of pickled poems–
cheek puckering poetry,
sour smiles behind glass–
makes me laugh.
.
.
.
My students handed in their poetry collections today. Among them is a jar with poems written on green pickle shaped papers. 🙂 Bethany wins cutest poetry project. Too bad it wasn’t a contest. (Hmm. Maybe next year?!)
Thank you
though you broke my heart into pieces
that never quite went back together the same way again,
Thank you.
You said I knew you better than anyone. I floated on those words
hopeful they meant forever.
You knew and every word was true.
But knowing didn’t mean staying.
Knowing meant facing painful truths
Knowing didn’t erase you,
it released me.
Thank you.
I’m caught in a story
I can’t come out;
I’ll say I’m sorry.
But
I must stay and read
this day away,
Not really sorry to be
in need of story
Shawn L. Bird 