The sheets are clean,
fresh outside,
brought in,
crisp newness,
start again.
Wait for you,
to dint the pillow,
breathe deeply in sleep,
inhale promise,
clean sheets.
poem-choices February 10, 2018
You’re right,
of course.
The girl’s got skills.
She works a room with flare,
engages crowds confidently.
You want her in your corner,
unless of course,
she reveals your inadequacies,
tramples your manly ideas,
and overwhelms.
The public thinks she’s wonderful.
The contrast between you
crackles. Can you let her go?
Or should you hold her close?
.
.
A poem for a character, as I’m working on Lydian Mode today. Lydia the artist is too capable by half. Poor Dustin. She is not making his world easy.
poem-flying February 8, 2018
Fleance dreams of flight,
soaring on outstretching wings
into a moonlit night,
No day trips for him, he’s heard things
about flying too near the sun.
Day is for escape, for climbing,
Peaks ascending, journeys begun,
At sunset (it’s all about the timing)
he leaps into red glowing,
falls on moon rise
spreads his wings, catches winds flowing
embraces skies,
Wonders at all he does espy
and murmurs “Fly, Good Fleance! Fly!”
poem-wishful February 7, 2018
Wistful
Wishful
A tank of fish full:
silver darting
Red Sea parting.
Make a way;
say your say.
Wistful
wish.
Full.
poem-interpretation February 6, 2018
The Lord of All Knowledge,
Gatekeeper of Truth,
says the poem means this.
Generations of readers bow
before this wisdom,
even though they don’t see it,
can’t believe it,
they just accept it.
When the poet reads
the critic’s piece,
she laughs and laughs
at the irony of such arrogant
assumptions!
Oh, student!
Good reader!
There are no errors
of interpretation in poetry!
Your experiences show you a meaning,
and if you can find lines to support,
your responses are just as valid as any critic’s.
(So the famous poet said to me,
and he should know).
poem-dark? February 5, 2018
Midnight
outside the kitchen window
snow capped cedars glow
in moonlight.
poem-ungated January 30, 2018
This way is ungated.
No barrier.
Crawl along hedgerows
wade through wheat fields.
The cows don’t care to cross the cattle guard.
Continue along the way,
eventually, I’ll come to you.
This poem is ungated,
too.
poem- push on January 28, 2018
We labour in monotonous isolation
Words falling onto pages
magic spells
new worlds
It might be good.
It might be worth sharing.
It might just be,
what it needs to be for us
to set our demons free.
Isolation and monotony,
and then someone
you respect
says
“Such lovely prose!”
or “beautifully wrought characters”
or “Loved it!”
and you think there’s hope
for your imaginary friends
and your imaginary world
and your imaginary dreams.
Labouring becomes inspired
by encouraging analyses.
poem-touch January 21, 2018
This gripping agony
squeezes me thoroughly.
All that exists are those few
square inches,
shrieking at me.
I see the ripples of this pain
on my brows, crossing vision.
The world has shrunk into a tiny piece
of me.
poem- belittled January 10, 2018
Short temper erupts
Tiny trouble surrounds
Small smiles: faked.
Insidious misogeny ignored
We knew.
#MeToo told us nothing new.
Those men want us to
Be little.
But something’s brewing.
It’s going to be big.
Shawn L. Bird 