Like a stone on the beach
she picked him up,
and took him home.
He filled her with new life,
and they held companionable
hands, two became four.
Beneath the bubble,
Poisons devoured him in relentless nibbles,
and the doctor said his only hope
was a healing journey
to a new way of life.
But toward,
is also away,
and children waved good-bye
to their skipping stone,
who crossed an ocean and
disappeared into time.
I grew up
a pampered princess
a late life arrival, long desired.
I felt my father’s
fondness every day-
a travelling salesman
who never missed a moment
of my active life.
But you
lost your father
along the way, lost sight
of him over the barriers
your mother built between you.
What was it like to find him
as he was dying, knowing
he had never stopped
loving you, though you
were equally lost to him?
Once you found him,
he slipped into eternity.
As I watch you, so
polished at your work,
on this career high,
I wonder,
Are you still a lost boy?
Or did the chance to embrace him
at the end of his life,
to know how proud he was of you,
help ease the sorrow
as you set him free to fly?
I forgive you
for not meeting me for tea
And I wonder,
what kind of father
will you let yourself be?
.
.
(For S&D)
Your fingers
touch tentatively
on the back of my neck
pulling the ribbon with
slow deliberation;
your breath tangling
in the tendrils of my hair
sends tingles
tumbling to my
toes.
.
.
.
Another Outlander poem from ep 107 “The Wedding.”
You’re pacing
a circuitous route
from living room
through kitchen,
pausing each time to pass
to stare meaningfully at me
as I ignore your
four feet. You’ve been fed,
you’ve been out.
I don’t have time for the fussing.
I have work to do.
Curl up, rest your head on my feet.
We can pick up the pace
together, tomorrow.
Wake with the head ache.
Set willow bark shavings
simmering on the stove
fifteen minutes to a rich russet hue.
Steep for an hour, salicin leeching.
Sip all day the natural medicine.
Heal the head.
.
.
.
While I am a terrible gardener (I have no patience, and forget to water) I am intrigued with botanical medicines. In Outlander, the character of Claire is an expert in this area, and author Diana Gabaldon has studied thoroughly to make her books accurate. One of Claire’s stand-by medicines is willow bark tea, so when I saw willow bark for sale at the local health food store, I had to give it a try. It’s not bad tasting (just like willow smells, if that makes sense) and it does sooth a head ache, as well as keeping you hydrated.
Mrs. Pickle
taught me much about
acidic Southern charm.
Vitriol dripped from her tongue
like garlic scented vinegar
stirred into syrup: bitter honey.
Against her absurdity, laughter made a bulwark.
A champion rose up,
waving a sword of words that
sliced that pickle into tiny pieces.
A memory to relish.
On this day
I remember a ghost anniversary,
the day in 1976
when my sister was married.
My 12 year old figure was
encased in my mother’s girdle
beneath a hideous rust bridesmaid gown.
I sported a new Vidal Sasoon bob,
felt bold and grown up with
my uni-brow plucked.
I remember my father’s scowl
when a groomsman with waist length hair
obeying rattling spoons, bent to kiss me,
and the resulting blush.
The marriage lasted four years.
My daughter wore the hideous dress
when she was twelve.
She called herself a princess;
rust suits her.
Too bad my sister
never saw it.
.
.
.
You know, that whole girdle thing is really weird. I was not a pudgy child by any reckoning. I probably weighed about 95 lbs around the time of this wedding. I recall it was my idea, so I must have been self-conscious of a little paunch, which at 12, was not paunch at all. Very strange how girls are, isn’t it?
.
I looked for the wedding photos in the album, but it looks like I took them out of those photo eating ‘magnetic’ glued albums, and who knows where I put them. Sorry!
We are 1-0:
tall and short
quiet and verbose
slender and round
scientific and artistic
Together we are
perfect.
You were there
I could tell
I could feel you
in the air.
But when I awoke
the sense of you
was lingering
while the rest of you
was lost.
Shawn L. Bird 