Outside, in the twilight
the world is black and blue,
like a sun bleached wrapper,
yellows and reds leached away.
Just an old wrapper,
a ghost of its former brightness,
as is this day, lightness fading
blue.
quote from Jenny Hubbard January 15, 2016
In the book, And We Stay by Jenny Hubbard, protagonist Emily is sorting out the world by writing poetry and reading Emily Dickinson. The book is full of poetry and is written with a very poetic tone. Here is a particularly beautiful passage:
So sew. Either way you spell it, on its own, the word looks wrong. Emily could write a poem about it, about how sew needs a subject, an object. About how a girl needs a duty to lock her in place. So if she sits at a desk, scrawls words on paper, are the words as lonely as she, or do they sow seeds into a soul across time, across centuries? Was Emily Dickinson ever able to thread the words together in such a way that she was beyond the need for stitches?
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poem-today
Grief today
is not like yesterday’s;
today it’s a ball, lodged deep in the throat,
instead of yesterday’s hovering cloud.
Tomorrow grief may be rain washing away every thought,
or the laughter of melancholy memories or perhaps
I won’t be able to keep tears at bay.
It’s impossible to say.
Grief is complicated,
that way.
poem- grey day January 14, 2016
January is filmed
in black and white,
soft focus filter,
lots of white space.
Mist grows until
it fills the screen,
ready for the credits
to roll by.
poem-mashed January 13, 2016
Mashed potatoes are a delicacy
when a tooth has been pulled,
the jaw is tender,
and one hasn’t eaten in 15 hours.
poem- wiggy January 12, 2016
How is it that I have any hair on my head,
When I just cut enough off of the vacuum beater bar
to make a wig?
poem- whispered
Whatever she wishes
fictitious fantasies unfold,
so long as she keeps the secrets.
Shhh.
poem- a trifle January 11, 2016
A trifle is an insignificant thing
but not so when set within a trifle bowl
filled to the brim with
custard, cake, whipped cream
and pudding or gelatin
Any of which is itself complete
but oxymoronically a trifle is not trifling feast.
poem-stacked January 10, 2016
8 screws
6 boards
8 pins
wind, wind, wind, wind
wind, wind, wind, wind
push, push, push push
push, push, push, push
shelves stacked
and now book, book, book
Why did it take so long
to buy a book shelf, and clear these
stacks off the floor?
poem-moment January 9, 2016
That was it.
You felt it, hovering,
the possibility of change.
You knew you only had to take a step
and life would never be the same.
You felt the moment filled with possibility
and stepped back urgently,
to familiar
mediocrity.
Shawn L. Bird 