Pens poised,
Paper rustling.
Begin.
Destiny scratched
into this exam.
Future doors open or close.
You can ruin your life!
.
Don’t stress.
Life is not a straight road.
If an exam slams a door,
wiggle through windows,
force up foundations,
drop down the chimney.
Destiny is carved in determination,
not scratched in this exam.
Murmuring voices
racing around me, vacuum engine growl,
white noise.
Words without meaning.
Sound without sense.
There you are.
Your mouth moves,
but I can not hear you
anymore.
(for Nikki)
.
I see joy.
See how you have expanded
until you’re exploding with all
that you’d held tightly
contained, buttoned up?
I see confidence.
See how what was timid
and tentative
now twinkles with the knowing
that you are amazing?
I am so proud
of who you’ve made,
you.
Just like that
you were back.
A flash.
Years had disappeared.
Your hair glistened in the light of the theatre,
our laughter and the crunch of popcorn on the air.
A flash.
Grief seeped through me,
sucking me back to the day they said
you were gone.
.
.
RIP Lloyd. 1964-1997 No one is truly dead until they are not remembered any more.
Yes, there is laughter;
I see it sparkling in those eyes,
twinkling in the crevices of his face.
I see it dancing,
in those jaunty steps,
off-kilter, long-legged ramblings.
I see it in the shaking shoulders,
heaving joy, hard embraces.
There is laughter through that body,
whether we hear it
or not.
Snow flakes drift by,
washing the world white.
Cold drips down my neck,
scarf scratching,
steps slipping,
breath billows in small clouds,
miniature factories.
Trudge through the flakes
filling the sky,
painting a picture of
a world wiped clean.
There’s a spark in the darkness,
a pin point of light,
that might just mean,
day is right ahead.
Maybe.
It’s not obvious
that the fix is helping.
The image is blurry and bulges strangely.
What faith is required when the cure
feels worse than the injury!
.
.
My vision therapy glasses have arrived. Yikes. Not sure how I’m going to manage with months of this! How can something that makes my head hurt so much actually help in the long term? Fingers crossed!
It is so sad
that you eschew fantasy and romance in your world.
Without fantasy, where is imagination? Where is spark? Where is possibility?
Without romance, where is connection? Where is life? Where is compatibility?
You, ‘realist’ are deluded.
Facing reality means seeing above, below, beyond, and through.
Recognizing the power of the metaphor.
Feeling the electricity of a touch, when your love has gone.
Celebrating what may be.
It means believing in hope.
A realist is a dead shell lapped upon the beach,
while a great ocean signs beside it and carries whales
and sailing ships off over the horizon.
You can still be sensible,
and see the magic of the world.
When it’s a bad day,
the pain is there with waking.
Constriction or stabbing,
nausea or aching;
it fills the head until there is nothing in the world
but the hopeless frustration,
that I will never be well again.
When it’s a bad day,
there are no conversations,
no outings or errands,
only holding the head,
taking another pill,
and praying tomorrow will be
a better day.
Shawn L. Bird 