You wiped my eye from the tears,
Tearing yourself from the
paper poetry of your perfection,
Ripping my gaze apart.
mistakes March 30, 2013
It wasn’t one
to grab you so tightly that my fingers turned white
and to kiss you until my lips bled in bed at night.
It wasn’t one
to dream it could possibly be me and you
or to fight to make it true.
It wasn’t one
to fill every day with our love year after year
then to fight as days filled with fear.
What was one
was that your body betrayed us
and you’re riding off into the sunset
without me.
.
For David & Julia
reneged engagement March 11, 2013
He lies broken
pain unspoken
Splintered into pieces
Splattered into feces
Love rejected
Hope ejected
He lies broken
Pointless token
A golden dream
Not ring but phleame
His blood is let
His face is wet
The diamond cuts
into his guts
From sleep awoken
He is broken
.
.
(What does it feel like to be the guy proposing on the big screen, when the girl says no? Ouch.)
This poem is mostly written in trochaic dimeter- STRESS-unstress X 2. The exceptions are the second couplet, which is trochaic trimeter, and the penultimate line which adds an unstressed beat at the beginning).
inkless poems February 11, 2013
You do not write
love poetry in ink.
You write me
love poems
with wrenches,
screwdrivers,
and snow shovels.
You are
a breathing
love poem.
pillow thoughts January 30, 2013
He reaches
to her slumbering form,
gathering her
within his arms.
Brushing her hair
with his breath,
he pulls her
against his heart,
too full of
her
to search
for words.
words January 29, 2013
Splashing in the bathroom
awakens her
to a sorrowful knowing.
Her eyes are closed against it.
His baggage rustles.
“Come kiss me good-bye,” she says
blinking blurrily.
Compliant,
he leans and offers
a perfunctory pucker
upon her sour morning lips.
“I’ll call you tomorrow
to tell you whether I’m coming home,”
he says.
“Call me today
to tell me you’ve arrived.”
“I can do that,” he agrees
moving down the hallway.
Eyes clamped closed again,
she hears the firm crunch of
doors and humming rumble of the engine.
As the car leaves,
she leans into her pillow,
wondering at the words,
he didn’t say.
snippet of Grace Awakening Destiny November 17, 2012
I am brain numb today (still in recovery from our short week, and from combing the internet for summer writing options in Provence into the wee hours last night). As a result I can’t think of a thing to say. In such a circumstance, sharing a snippet of the NaNoWriMo project on the go seems like a good solution, so here is something for your reading pleasure. This is a first draft of Ben’s perspective on the infamous concert scene, set at the Orpheum Theatre in Vancouver:
.
It was my turn.
Kraft called my name and smiled at me from the podium.
I stepped onto the stage.
Kraft asked me about the inspiration for the song and I looked right through the blackness and into Grace’s eyes when I replied, “I wrote this piece as a celebration of the kind of love that can not be stopped by time, the kind of love that makes the universe worth inhabiting.”
The Bösendorfer grand piano gleamed in the stage lights like an ocean reflecting city lights. I sat down on the bench, positioned my hands, and nodded at Kraft. He nodded to the violins and marked the down beat.
My song told the story of my search for Grace. The strings wept my loneliness and longing for her. The flutes danced into the melody in little trills of hope, those moments when I thought she was near. Then I struck the keys of the piano and told of her appearance in my life, her rejection, her tentative interest, her fearful denials. I wound the music with my fears for her and my joy in her. A flute played the recorder part from the picnic when she’d accepted her ancient wedding ring from me. The woodwinds laughed with the joy of her acknowledgment of our love. I set my hands on my lap as the percussion beat out the danger and the brass howled my frustration and pain. Then I started playing again, pouring my hope and adoration through my fingers and out onto the strings of piano. My love rolled out from the piano and filled the hall with dreams and hope, and then I hit the final chord and dropped my head onto my chest, emotionally exhausted.
Like they had been at the end of Jilly’s composition, the audience sat, silently.
I stood up and turned to the audience. I kissed the tips of my fingers and extended my arm toward Grace. Her love filled my mind. I bowed to the still silent audience, as tears of grateful adoration clouded my vision.
Grace leaned over the railing of the balcony, stretching out her arm as if she could reach me. Tears were pouring down her face.
Suddenly, in a single tsunami wave, the audience rose to its feet and began to applaud. Applaud and applaud. It went on and on, clapping and clapping.
The announcer touched my arm and guided me to the other competitors.
I sat there as the audience continued to applaud.
The announcer stood waiting, trying to speak, but completely [overcome] by the crowd who were not ready yet to stop.
Wesford Kraft came over and shook my hand.
The announcer smiled at me in awkward acknowledgement and clapped his own hands. He had me stand once more and bow, and finally the crowd gradually stopped and took their seats again. He thanked the other contestants with a smile, told the crowd that the special long piece commissioned for tonight from the winner of last year’s competition would be performed after the intermission. They would announce the winner of the this year’s competition afterwards. He thanked Wesford Kraft for conducting and Kraft bowed to polite applause, and left the stage.
My heart was thudding so hard it was filling the room.
The house lights were turned back up and I glanced up to the Dress Circle. Bright was beaming down at me. Grace had disappeared.
I started up the aisle toward the lobby, people parted, smiling and thumping me on my back as I went.
In the lobby Grace flew at me in her flowing red dress like a shooting flame of longing. She fired into my thoughts all her joy, excitement, and love. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her, devouring her presence greedily.
The world fell away as we collapsed into ourselves, hearts, heads, and hands consumed in the bliss of physical presence at long last.
Grace gasped for air and we pulled apart, staring into each other eyes, our minds full of the euphoria of togetherness.
I looked around and realized that a crowd had gathered around us, beaming in amusement. I took half a step back, slightly embarrassed, and they applauded again with enthusiastic approval. Grace buried her head in my shoulder and I laughed, hugging her tightly.
The lights flicked to send us back to our seats, and I pulled her along with me to the front row. The others just grinned at us, and Jilly Tomm from Saskatchewan slid over one chair.
I was feeling very little appreciation for arm rests as we cuddled together when the lights went down. I knew that in the overflow of stage lighting we would be silhouetted for the entire theatre to see, and so I tried to be circumspect, when all I wanted to do was throw her onto the ground and make wild, passionate love to her. We hadn’t done that this life-time, and this truly wasn’t the place, but it didn’t stop me from wanting it. I nestled down to kiss her neck, and she made tantalizing little noises. They were an interesting cross between a squeak and a purr. They didn’t help my composure.
The orchestra played its accompaniment to our blissful entwining of affection, adoration, euphoria, and lust.
.
NaNoWriMo report.
Day 17 words: 2570 (November Total 27,515)
True confession. I have changed my NaNo time zone to Midway Island. That gives me three extra hours to write before NaNo closes down the day. Since I tend to do my writing after midnight, this is a great help!
poetry by Shane Koyczan- Stop signs August 17, 2012
Shane Koyczan is a talented poet from Kelowna, my home town. You might have heard him at the opening ceremonies of the Vancouver Winter Olympics. In case you missed him, here’s one of his slam style love poems called Stop signs:
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Shawn L. Bird 
becoming what I mean February 25, 2013
Tags: Barbara Kruger, becoming, being, identity, love
-Barbara Kruger
I read this quote in the book Blueprints for Better Girls (which was painful to read and not about bettering anyone). The quote is interesting. I suspect that one could ruminate for a long time on all the permutations it triggers. I think it will mean something new to you almost every time you consider it.
Kruger is an artist who creates these slogans as a kind of anti-establishment declaration, meant to challenge the viewer. You can read more about her in this article from Mother Jones magazine.
My first connection to this quote was to recall a youthful romance. It could have been spoken by the young man. In reality, he did not become what he meant to me. And yet he did, because I fashioned him in the image I desired, and so he remained in memory, inviolate.
My children could say this to me. I could say it to them.
In some ways, it’s a fatalistic thought. We are bound to disappoint. In other ways, it’s a liberating thought. We are imperfect, and accepting that, we are free to be whoever we grow to be.
What does it mean to you?
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