Like two hookers
in black vinyl trench coats
the crows stroll between the yellow lines
each watching the traffic
with one jaundiced eye.
poem- love story April 27, 2014
He says
her laughing smile
captivated him.
The smartest girl in the school
he thought, as he sat silently
at the back of the class.
Too good for him.
The only girl who listens
to that crap classical music
that you like, they told him.
So he braved to venture a date,
but she turned him down
in favour of dorm pork chops
He was determined,
and Mozart entertained
Before she knew what had happened
she had a ring on her finger,
and a lifetime
of devotion promised.
Her laughing smile is
not quite as captivating,
she’s unlikely to be
the most intelligent
in the room,
time brings rationalization,
after all
she says he’s too good for her
with laughing eyes
that are still his.
poem- imagination trumps reality April 26, 2014
“How can you write
about being drunk
if you’ve never been drunk?”
the boys ask, grinning.
I shrug, and hand them some papers.
“You tell me. Did I do it?”
They read, groan, gasp and sigh.
“I didn’t see that coming,” one mutters.
Finally they look up at me with muted faces.
“Well?” I ask
“Oh, yeah,” one grunts. “You did.”
The others nod and grunt in agreement.
“But how?” asks another shaking his head.
“I could imagine what it’s like to be drunk,
and so I never needed to drink.
I could have fun without needing to dull my senses
or find artificial courage.
I don’t drink. I’ve never done drugs.
I don’t need to, because
I have imagination.”
“Huh,” they say,
and class begins.
.
.
.
I know that my experience is not at all common. My parents were social drinkers, but I never saw either of them intoxicated. I didn’t like the taste of alcohol, and felt no need to drink to be cool. If I went to a party, I was disgusted how the drinkers all turned into idiots.
My high school friends didn’t drink. We went out together, had a great time, and the next morning we remembered what happened and we didn’t have a headache! We had a remarkable amount of common sense! 😉
I have addicted relatives. They are also a good lesson of how lives can be destroyed.
I am routinely astonished by students who have never met *anyone* who doesn’t drink. They think all adults drink. Many of the adults in their lives only socialize in an inebriated stupor and they don’t know there is another way to interact with people. I have never tried marijuana or other recreational drugs either. I don’t need to medicate my emotions or do weird things. I need all the energy I have, so I can’t afford to send my motivations up in smoke! I can’t imagine just taking some pill off someone at a party. That’s not fun, that’s just stupid (and dangerous).
I don’t presume to tell anyone else what to do, and I actually support legalization, to remove the criminal component. I consider it a health issue.
One thing about my clean life style- it frees up room in the budget for my Fluevogs! 🙂
haiku-farewell April 25, 2014
You speak gentle words
parting with empty promises.
Our dream has died
poem- one word April 19, 2014
My mentor says
there’s only one way to write:
one word at a time.
She’s right.
There’s only one way to finish
a project though,
and that’s to keep putting
one word at a time onto the page
until the page is full
and to keep doing that
day after day.
If you want to finish a
100,000 word novel
You can do it
in a year writing
just 274 words day,
that’s not even 2000 words a week.
It’s about daily diligence.
You eat a banquet
one bite at a time.
Develop a habit,
commit a little each day.
30 minutes will do it
so long as you keep doing it,
writing one word
at a time.
.
.
.
(113 words)
(Or you can join NaNoWriMo next November 1st, write 1668 words every day, and have the 100,000 words done by the new year. That’s a whole lot more stress, though!) 🙂
PS.
Writers Digest is on my wavelength today. Here’s an article on Writing Routines. #1 is ‘Write 500 words a day.’ How’s that for a coincidence? http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/guide-to-literary-agents/7-writing-routines-that-work
poem- quilted drive April 15, 2014
I drive a lime aphid
along a grey ribbon,
through rippling hills
and valleys of
green velvet
along teal satin waters
beneath a blue silk sky
dusted with tufts of batting fluff.
.
.
(The aphid is actually a Beetle, but the colour is right). 😉
poem- no poem April 9, 2014
There is no poem today.
The muses did not stop my way.
Regretfully I must decline
upon some vague truth to opine
Today for you there is no verse.
but chin up, it could be worse!
poem- when did I become a poet? April 6, 2014
When did I become a poet?
Was I not born a poem
Washed into the world on sorrow & pain
Spun thru desire?
Do poems require words
or only bodies?
Each life is a poem
unfolding without words
that every lover reads
and feels deep in the soul.
Every mother is a poet,
birthing baby poetry.
For
We are born as poems.
.
in lieu of the Golden Shovel poem I meant to post from yesterday’s NaPoWriMo prompt. I’m still not finding a poem I want to use as the inner poem. I wonder if a stanza of another poem will suffice? Otherwise I’m looking at mile long poems!
poem- mosquito poems April 2, 2014
I lie
Poems buzzing
about my head
Like mosquitoes.
I wait
For them to land,
Pinch them carefully,
Drop them into a
preserving jar of ink,
seal them between
leaves and binding.
I lie,
Free to seek
the peace
of sleep.
poem- wind wise March 29, 2014
She is wind wise
changeable
blowing hot and cold
changing
She murmurs
whispered promises
through trees
and laughs
on ocean waves.
She is still.
She is powerful.
She is wind wise.
Shawn L. Bird 