Love is not love
if it alters when alteration finds
It is an ever fixed mark, said Shakespeare.
Constancy is a quality of mind
that removes sparks of fear.
Love is love
when the word can be relied
upon and expressions of affection
will be supplied, for
faithfulness in word and deed
is the essence of true love’s need.
Our broken heart
has not mended;
the hole of your absence
will never fill.
But crushed and anguished
though it is,
there is room for love
still.
So we open to new
affections even
while we’re missing you.
We welcome new joy
and celebrate your memory,
as we remember you
in reverie.
Baby
you’re far away.
Maybe
you’ll come home with me.
Maybe
it will be.
Baby
I just wanna say
if someday you’re here with me
You’ll be my only baby
and I’ll love you
unconditionally.
.
.
(There might be a poodle puppy in my near future. He needed a poem. Maybe his poem should have been “One of these things is not like the others” because like me, he stands out in the group! Guess which one?) 😉
You open up before me
a gulf of possibility
things I never considered
complications I did not foresee.
You open up before me
a black hole of opportunity
devouring expectations
creating alternative realities
of what my future might be.
.
.
(“Thanks, Des,” she says
dripping with irony.)
Will I choose you?
Or you?
Or will I choose at all?
Am I ready for this work
of nurturing potential?
My world is wound tightly
with possibility,
fighting emotionality with
rationality.
Tears appear;
truth pools in her eyes.
She looks out the window, scenery unseen,
one droplet, breaking free, tracks a slow progress across
cheek,
chin,
neck.
Another makes the parallel journey.
She turns her face, while she waits, wishes,
then slowly grows the knowledge
that what is
will be.
She weeps out the weakness.
While there may be grief,
acceptance brings resilience.
Resilience
is the power of belief
and relief.
I’m sure the vulture sitting there beside the deer
is eager to devour his meal,
launch red head first into the feast,
but he’s just sitting beside the prize,
to shy to dine ‘neath
prying eyes flying by on the highway,
hoping with futility for privacy to eat his meat.
.
.
This was the first vulture we’ve ever seen in the wild. It looked like this one.
Oh, her longings are loud
and she seizes opportunities,
reads the mysteries and leaps.
.
Oh, her caution curls her
into weeping domesticity,
because she never neglects responsibilities.
.
Oh, love leaps from the river
like a dolphin and tangles in
fishermen’s nets
and bridal veils.
.
.
A little homage to the theatrical presentation of the Brazilian folk tale The River Bride by Marisela Treviño Orta, enjoying its world premier at Oregon Shakespeare Festival at the moment (2016 season). We thoroughly enjoyed the complex tale with its stunning set and lighting!
Down the hall, I hear
the soft woofing of a dreaming dog,
but no dogs are here.
.
Is someone gleefully
chasing dream rabbits
at our B and B?
.
True story. (Thin walls).
You’re overcast again,
a nearly perennial state,
but I have a colourful umbrella
for contingencies,
and I’m safe from sunburn.
Blue sky is beautiful, of course,
but the texture of tangled
shades of grey offering drama
has some appeal,
in small doses, at least.
Shawn L. Bird 