The feathers
on this balcony
indicate a recent
coup de
chat.
poem- love letters March 23, 2017
They’re talking love letters
and I hold my tongue
but not my lips.
The tilting corners betray me.
The envelopes with your distinctive hand writing
my name like a caress
glued down like a kiss,
all our hopes and dreams scribbled onto foolscap
by a fool to a fool
giddy from hormones.
And now love letters
are notes on the counter:
“Turn on the crockpot at noon”
“Running errands. Back around 3.”
Messages that mean you still
love me.
poem- boots March 22, 2017
The boots are on.
Laced up tight.
Little Xs pulling things together
(Are those hugs or kisses?)
No matter.
When you’re giving winter the boot,
either
is a good message to wear.
![20170322_154305[1]](https://shawnbird.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/20170322_1543051.jpg?w=548&h=975)
Fluevog.com Miracles Logan boots from the “Narrative of the Grey Boot Quest” blog post.
I always feel slightly super powered when I wear these boots, though I can’t wear them if I’m running late for work since it takes 4 minutes per boot to lace them up! 🙂
poem-ghost hug March 16, 2017
I feel your ethereal pride
in my accomplishment
as firmly as I used to feel
your embrace.
poem-sweater March 13, 2017
I found your cardigan
and held it close
searching for the sensation of your arms.
I gathered up the folds
and held it to my nose
searching for the scent of you.
You’ve been gone too long.
Instead of holding memories
Now
it’s just a sweater
you once wore.
poem-toothpaste love March 6, 2017
This was your toothpaste.
The tube still holds the contours of your fist
the last squeeze you gave it.
I wrap my hand around
imagine your grip,
the skin on your hand like satin tissue
squeezing paste to scrub your teeth.
It is a long time before I can remove the lid
and squeeze the paste onto my own brush.
Remembering your hand
holding mine.
poem- heard March 3, 2017
I heard the rumble of
my grumblings
and wished
and wished
and wished
for what was glorious and joyful
what was fun and focused
what was
ah
what was.
This is uncomfortable
unsettling
unsatisfying
unbearable.
I heard murmuring
everywhere.
Everyone
grumbling
wishing
wanting
longing
for what was,
what no longer can be,
looking
for change again.
Everyone
and
me.
poem-shed February 21, 2017
The plan
erodes
corrodes
implodes
as you stare at the wreck
you must live in.
But maybe
all is not as it seems,
maybe this is only the wood shed
and there’s a mansion
waiting for you
around the corner.
poem-new February 20, 2017
The shape of this idea
is new,
resolving conceptually around
a
round
never-ending
novelty
what the mirror reveals of me.
The shape of this idea
greets daily astonishment
as “You can be” turns out to be true.
Who knew?
poem- inviting trouble February 14, 2017
You see,
sometimes,
you can only handle
a little bit of trouble,
a tidbit,
not a whole,
irritating basket of it.
Sometimes,
you can manage a small inconvenience
a tiny irritation.
You’re the whole basket, baby.
Okay, so no one tells you,
that the braying of your voice hurts their ears,
the ignorance of your opinions hurts their brains,
the narcissism of your monopolizing every conversation
just makes them want to scream at you,
to
just
shut
up.
(That would surely hurt your feelings,
and you want to be nice).
Instead,
you just aren’t invited to the party.
Your presence is a pain that is more pleasant to avoid
if it’s at all possible.
What to do
when you learn of an event and you’re sad to be left out?
What to do, indeed.
Sometimes
you can suck it up and face the pain,
but sometimes,
you can’t.
.
.
.
(Deliberately playing with the subject of the ‘you’ throughout this poem about a catch-22 situation).
Shawn L. Bird 