So you packed your canoe,
left a good man,
gave away that puppy,
you’d given to
those good boys,
those sweet little boys,
and rowed off to find yourself
on a river of their tears.
I hope the discovery
proves worth it
in the end.
poem- found Jan25 January 25, 2015
Pattern stitches
on demand
bordered diamonds
needles
hooks
open sesame
mind
body
spirit
try
.
.
.
This one was ‘found’ using words that I could see from where I was sitting on books, labels, and TV.
poem- weight January 24, 2015
Grey weight
drags me down
velcro-ed to cement
hobbled like a donkey
held together
by hope.
poem-flipped January 23, 2015
You need a silent rest
and I need recumbency.
I find a peaceful place,
I recline and read and write
throughout the night,
come to bed at dawn
to greet you as you rise.
But office workers
call at nine, nine thirty, ten
and so with blurry eyes I
pretend lucidity,
then fall back to sleep
until you return at two.
My head and ankle
have schedules
out of sync with offices,
though I’m in tuneful counterpoint
with you.
poem- Jabba January 21, 2015
Belly and breasts cascade
over ample hips.
The glass reflects
Jabba the Hutt lying in state
in my living room.
That is unexpected.
poem- bigger January 20, 2015
It was to be a small thing
a little something,
a useful token,
a stylish bibelot,
but it is a large thing
engendering greater
gratitude.
poem- ladybug January 19, 2015
Outside the snow is deep.
Inside, a ladybug crawls up my computer cord
All eighteen spots out of place,
It launches off my computer
having delivered a moment of grace.
poem- connected January 18, 2015
In the day
they brush past one another,
utter essential words,
questions,
instruction.
But at night,
they brush against one another,
whisper non-essential words,
passions,
exhortation.
poem-ginger snap January 17, 2015
The fiery flame of your hair
declares you.
You flash with fury and
unleash lashes of your tongue.
Light catches
in the disapproving flips
of your flickering locks,
We witness your scorching glare.
Viewed from a distance,
a bonfire is a beautiful thing
and I occasionally enjoy ginger snaps
while watching the fire.
.
.
Ah, it’s a stereotype, I know, but sometimes folks walk right into their cliché and live there.
poem-hard January 16, 2015
He relies on the strength
of her heart strings.
She winds them around him
to hold him together
when he might rattle apart
in the shaking, quaking times.
When she is weak and broken,
when she can not stretch her arms,
wide enough
to wrap heart strings around him,
he trembles and crumbles
apart.
When she is weak and broken,
he does not consider
that he could pretend
to be strong.
He could hold her heart strings,
and spin into her.
Shawn L. Bird 