She’s fuchsia
purple
royal blue.
She’s wine,
emerald,
turquoise.
Everyone knows it.
But you gift burnt orange
despite having heard years
of disgusted mutterings
about orange and yellow and olive
from childhood.
Burnt orange.
Burnt.
Orange.
She ponders
Surely there is a message here?
and wonders whether you would be offended
if she dyes your gift
more than she’s offended
by burnt orange.
I hear your voice I see your smile
I’m glad you’re here to sit a while,
but when I turn around I see
that you are only memory.
So Christmas has come and you are gone
and day by day life still goes on;
though you are free from earthy pain,
Your absence grieves my heart again.
Perhaps, because I’m reading
Dust bunnies scamper across my floors
hiding beneath tables, gathering behind doors.
Perhaps, because I’m reading
Dishes stack into tall piles
and papers are exploding in spurts, beyond their files.
Perhaps, because I’m reading
I ignore the telephone,
but then, because I’m reading,
I’m content within my home.
We’ve decorated the artificial tree
The fire crackles on the TV
Holiday cards show everyone happy
People gather smiling gleefully
to celebrate festivities
and it all feels like fakery.
.
If this is meant to be
a season all about peace,
then let me sit here quietly
alone but for fictional company
the only sound, fire crackling,
and I will celebrate contentedly,
avoiding family and all their expectation of responsibility.
.
.
I am an extrovert and I generally love being out with people, but when I’m under a lot of stress, all I want to do is sit in heated comfort by myself, and spend time in the company of book friends. All the obligatory holiday hoopla just makes me grumpy and anti-social, particularly with my dad passing away this summer and my mother suffering a serious stroke a couple of weeks ago.
Hallucinations
Delusions
and we argue or agree,
Placate or debate,
against the injury in your brain
against frustration and pain
Face the inevitable
and wonder if you’re able
to see the irrevocable
ruination.
Once upon a time
you sent me cassette tapes in the mail,
one sided conversations taped in the car
on your commute to the radio station,
elucidating the state of our universe
and illuminating that eternity
I was so fond of,
while people glanced from their vehicles,
confused or amused as you talked to yourself
but really me.
Once upon a time,
I talked to you,
but really myself,
elucidating the state of an imaginary universe
that would not become real,
no matter how many words wrapped around it,
or how many miles of magnetic tape professed it.
Once upon a time
we shared a fairy tale,
and when I listen to us now, I wonder that we ever believed
in the intensity of the narrative we told ourselves.
Old dog
curled on a cushion
foggy eyes still adoring
tail still wagging
slow to rise, feet creak,
aging devotion.
If you want me,
I am but a small and raspy thing.
Leave me quiet,
cover me with honeyed warmth;
Let me have your soothing words,
fluid kindnesses,
wrap me up in love.
Our bodies are mostly water
and my head is swimming as I lie.
Consciousness swirling in eddies,
I’m drowning in myself.
Congested nose
a sniff, a sneeze
and then a cough.
Pass a tissue, please?
Shawn L. Bird 