Downcast eyes,
a tentative
I made this for you.
Whatever it is
wrapped by hopeful hands,
holding you with a glistening gaze,
There is only one response:
It’s lovely!
Crumpled paper,
unfathomable art,
shapeless, tasteless garment,
Made it for you means
I love it.
I love it
means
I love you, too.
And what of you?
Do dark mornings creep around your heart
Reaching through night
Pushing past sight to wrap you tightly
In tomorrow?
What of you?
Your lonely walk, your feet tapping
On cobblestones in ancestral towns,
tripping on the roots of the family tree;
calamity or peace?
I see the dream
That’s you.
You are twisted in knots
pulled here, there, everywhere,
responsibilities,
avoiding hostilities,
paying utilities,
cleaning facilities.
You are wound tight
tossed left and right
crushed under mighty
feet, but step into this
darkened space
seek solace from the thoughts
that race,
trace peace.
Surcease.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Release.
.
.
for Lorien
A modern Orwellian
metaphor,
you scientist
of faith.
You hold content within your mind
evolution;
creation.
Visible genetics of intersex
counted on chromosomes;
the old testament binary code.
You hold seven days;
dinosaurs.
Believe in hypotheses, blind studies.
Worship in blind faith.
See God in the Fibbonacci sequence,
fractals,
crystalline symmetries.
Hermetic hermeneutics:
Paradoxical predicament.
Creak
Cracks
Broken
Backs
Strung on a rack
Creaking wheel
pulls spine taut
Entreats,
“Sweet mercy!”
Greets pain
Back
broken
cracks
creak.
You can
so
you do.
Time.
Faith.
Encouragement.
You give yourself
in generous helpings,
spinning your blessings
into our blessings
into your blessings
into our blessings.
Oh, I am grateful
for such a
giving
heart!
I’m deliriously thankful
to be
amid
this dancing, scribing circle
of joy.
.
.
Another one for Diana, whose generousity of time and spirit are an inspiration.
Early in my publishing life, editor Sylvia Taylor spoke at a workshop about the importance of community: how as writers we reach up for guidance and assistance and we reach down to share benefit of our experience. I have seen many examples of this in the last decade, to my privilege and joy. Just this week, on one hand I purchased the book from a writer I’d encouraged at a conference, when this book was a dream, and on the other hand, I received an endorsement for my new book from a best-selling author. It’s a giant circle of support. We’re each other’s readers, promoters, flag wavers, editors, and shoulders to cry on. If you’re a writer, don’t sit alone, join a circle! You belong where people *really* understand about the voices in your head! 🙂 I highly endorse writing conferences as being the places to meet.
That is you.
I know it.
You thought it was a secret,
clung to it,
revelled in the glory of it.
Joy to the world.
Right?
Trust it’s not the only thing.
Naturally.
Oh, baby blues sparkle.
You see the darkness,
and turn your back.
No slackers here.
No secrets sneaking from those cracks.
Oh, I know.
That’s you.
Here’s another pantoum poem, written as a demo with a class on Poetry Friday. This was last block of the day, and one of the students wanted to go get a muffin… Another laugh filled class as we created this poem together!
.
Muffin Pantoum (C block)
Josie and Ally want a muffin;
They can’t work on empty stomachs.
Without food, they won’t do nothin’.
How about crackers and hummus?
They can’t work on empty stomachs
How can we ask them to?
How about crackers and hummus?
As we watched, their hunger grew.
How can we ask them to?
A muffin’s not too much to ask!
As we watched, their hunger grew.
They couldn’t do their tasks.
A muffin’s not too much to ask!
A morsel would be fine!
They couldn’t do their tasks
Oh, please! Please, let them dine!
A morsel would be fine!
They only need a bit of food;
Oh, please! Please, let them dine!
Josie gives us attitude.
They only need a bit of food
Without food, they won’t do nothing
Josie gives us attitude:
Josie and Ally want a muffin!
.
(This is quite literal. When we were done, they went off and got ONE muffin that they shared). 🙂
In our school, the chef’s training kids make ‘eggers’ in the morning. These are buns with fried egg, cheese, and a sausage patty. They are a popular fast-food breakfast fare, but I hate them. Fried eggs are nauseating to me, runny yolks make me want to vomit, the smell makes me nauseous. So, to avoid calamity, I do not allow them in my class room. Kids have to eat them outside the room. There are huge windows between room and hall, so the class can watch the egger eater outside, like a sad puppy at the glass, waiting to come in.
Today we learned about pantoum poems, and before they wrote their own, I guided a class written one. This was what A block English 11 came up with, as one student was barred and then didn’t realise the door was unlocked, so he could just walk back in when he was done eating his egger. There was lots of laughter, as we wrote it! 🙂 I love Poetry Fridays!
Egger Pantoum (A block’s)
I wanted into English class.
I wasn’t allowed in.
They laughed at me, en masse.
Eating eggers is a sin
I wasn’t allowed in;
I walked away.
Eating eggers is a sin.
What a great start to the day.
I walked away.
I wandered through the halls.
What a great start to the day,
Trapped within these walls.
I wandered through the halls.
I’m chewing very slowly
Trapped within these walls
Eating eggers, I’m unholy
I’m chewing very slowly;
Tears are streaming down my cheeks.
Eating eggers, I’m unholy,
The door won’t open for a week.
Tears are streaming down my cheeks.
They laughed at me, en masse!
The door won’t open for a week.
I wanted into English class!
A poem, found in the comments of NUDGE. By Shawn and Chris
.
Your mind, has to be much better.
You ‘re not getting shock treatment too?
Are you?
Not electro-shock, at least
They’re trying to make me look crazy.
Every time i go to the hospital
Strapped to a bed…
You may be fine, but
perhaps the drugs are crazy?
Drugs are how i am…
Where does one end and the other begin?
Is a place ahead
separate from that identity?
desired?
willed?
(Is this a poem?)
No,
drugs are part of the poem
Life is the poem;
drugs are just your ink.
Shawn L. Bird 