I love the simplicity
of this collection,
but it’s
bordering on saccharine
almost
syrup on my waffles,
but not
quite.
.
.
(I had an official poetry critique by a famous writer/poet today. I have never had my poetry critiqued by anyone ‘in the biz.’ This is the summary of the observations on the 20 or so love poems submitted. 😉 Apparently I should aim to be a *bit* edgier. I think this is quite wonderful, actually).
I’m filled with words
Your words.
My words.
Our words.
A story concocted in laughter.
A story unraveling fears.
A story exploding conjecture.
A story that brings forth your tears.
I am filled with our words
softly spoken
I am filled with our words
shouted loud
I am filled with our words
barely whispered
I am filled with our words
lacking sounds.
Your words.
My words.
Our
story.
.
.
Enjoying a lovely weekend with amazing authors like Charles De Lint, Kathryn Para, Anne De Grace at the Word on the Lake Writers’ Festival. Collected a lovely certificate and cheque for a writing contest prize, as well. 🙂
and so she searches in silence,
on tips of toes wanders
wakeful through the dark
thoughts
troubled determination
dragging her toward the
treasure
she will never find.
It’s crowded
in my head
No room for tunes
or truth festooned
across your bed
It’s crowded.
![DSCN1592[1]](https://shawnbird.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/dscn15921-e1431482559656.jpg)
.
Water rushing,
whispering journey,
rippling over rocks
hurrying yearning
for shimmering
ocean.
.
(This water colour painting is half of a pair by Valerie Rogers)
He cries when you sees you,
low whimpers of delight.
His frailness is endearing
if it doesn’t keep you up at night.
He rubs his head against you
he murmurs adoration
When you scratch behind his ears
his tail waves in celebration.
His love is pure and when he looks
so deeply in your eyes
You know these daily trysts
will last until he dies.
.
.
(and if he’s as old as my boy is, that may not be as long as one would hope).
So many mothers:
mine with her great gardening gams
independent and active, just like always,
and I with my empty nest
working, writing, studying and more.
Busyness channeled in different directions,
but independent.
I always said, “I’m raising independent children,”
like my mom
I did my job.
Far away my children lead their independent lives
and only rarely feel the need to call home to update us
on the latest news.
Other mothers,
keep their chicks under their skirts,
want to be involved in every aspect of their lives,
with weekly dinners, frequent phone calls,
dependent interconnectiveness whatever their ages.
‘Not better,
not worse,
Just different’
like the exchange student mantra.
Family is the place you begin.
Family is where they have to take you in.
Family is many things
and there are many mothers.
Your hands
grip your head,
hide your hurt,
hold that history
in your hands.
Oh, I know the row you hoe
is dreary and full of woe!
or so you are inclined to think
but we are not defined by your narrow ink
We see you fear to be seen as less
You shout. you rave, you wave distress
It’s not about what we do, dear,
We are not the problem here.
We watch serene, your freak out scene.
We see your strengths, your skills, your care.
We know you’re kind and very fair.
You’re really great. Don’t be irate!
You perceive attacks where there are none.
There’s no one talking at your back.
You do not seek to clarify,
Oh, my, how you leap to conclusions
Each based simply on illusions.
I know perception makes reality
but I encourage you to find serenity
Ultimately, you can not be
great when you can’t see what true,
and when people are contentedly accepting you.
Your displeasure wafts off you like
the shimmering waves of a manure pile in July.
You reject optimism and trust.
You will let no sunshine disturb your dung beetles.
Shawn L. Bird 