Isn’t it strange
how what you imagine will captivate you forever
can become stale and disgusting with time?
Like fruit fallen too ripe,
stinking beneath the tree,
time sometimes does no favours
to distant hearts.
poem-preservation January 2, 2016
Distance offered safety
Communication was a precious gift
words in letters to save, tied up in ribbon,
opened and savoured.
Today how do they preserve memories?
poem-seeds January 1, 2016
We are planted
with potentiality;
white blanketed rest bids us wait
until spring gives us the urge to rise
to skies and find our fate.
poem-new December 30, 2015
It’s time:
sublime possibilities await.
Face the gate of the new year
coming near,
without fear.
Can’t wait!
It’s here.
poem-wanderer December 28, 2015
Death walks softly
cloaked in invisibility.
You rose from bed,
settled in your chair,
and Death tapped you on the shoulder;
bid you follow.
But you said, “Wait,
I have something to do.”
You closed your eyes, and arrived in my room.
I felt you there, befuddled and lost, and so I told you
To move toward the light,
I told you I loved you.
I told you to say hello to Grandma and Grandpa.
And you tracked the light, through my bedroom door
up through my roof, and I looked at the clock: 8:37
The moment you left for heaven.
poem-Brittany December 27, 2015
So small,
but her voice rings out,
bell-like and true
She holds tightly to the tune.
Iridescent cherry curves of caramel.
Beauty under pressure,
vibrating on my lap
music therapy for what ails me.
.
.
A little metaphor. Here’s the Brittany in question:
Literally true- she keep her tuning amazingly well- I didn’t play for a month and every note was still right! Unheard of in a harp, really. Also, the strings are under nearly a ton of pressure, the soundboard bellies out quite dramatically. (They say a harp sounds at its most beautiful just before it explodes…) My Brittany is cherry wood in the sound box, pillar and harmonic curve, but Baltic birch on the sound board. She’s a very beautiful little harp.
poem-morning December 25, 2015
Somewhere,
children are laughing
tearing wrappings
squealing gleefully.
Somewhere,
some one is dining on cold pizza
in relative contentment
absent of relatives.
Somewhere,
snow is falling,
from a moonlit sky
and light is returning
bit by bit.
poem-Christmas Eve December 24, 2015
It’s Christmas Eve and you’re not here,
There’ll never be another year
when we will feel your warm embrace
and look upon your loving face.
It’s our first Christmas without you
No wonder I am feeling blue.
poem-exorcise December 23, 2015
Pen strokes
Keyboard strikes
Ghosts exorcised by words;
Freedom found from phantoms.
New worlds
opened for exploration.
Shawn L. Bird 