There is security,
profoundly deep,
knowing that whatever
needs to be done
will be done,
without me having to ask.
.
There is gratitude,,
profoundly deep,
knowing that whatever
I need
will be met,
without argument.
.
There is peace,
profoundly deep,
knowing that whatever
happens, I can trust you,
to be there.
Snow falling
dancing white specks
journeys from heaven
quickly absorbed
in mundane.
.
Plane flying
leaving white trails
journey from you
quickly absorbed
in fast lanes
You’re going and now I think
of all the things that could have been
and all the things that should have been
and all the things that would have been
if only you’d been forthcoming
before you left.
Fifty times a day
she invites you
to connect.
“Honey, look at this!”
she says, forwarding an email.
“How was work?”
she asks, leaving her desk.
“Do you have ideas for dinner?”
she ponders in the kitchen.
Every time you grunt,
ignore her,
snarl, or shrug,
you are erasing what matters
most to you.
Every time you smile,
consider, give some time,
answer courteously, and
squeeze her warmly,
you’re drawing a
portrait of your happiness.
.
.
This poem is based on this article about an interesting study on relationships!
This is a glimmer
and it will be flame.
She is danger
and you are not fire fighter
enough to avoid
being burnt.
You were
exorcized
letter by letter,
word by word,
phrase by phrase,
sentence by sentence,
paragraph by paragraph,
page by page,
chapter by chapter.
Now you are
merely a spectre
who peeks around corners
whispers at my ear
hums for my remembrance.
My only benediction
on the lost boy
from long ago
is the bittersweet smile
and the faraway glimmer
in my eyes.
Two identical
blazing logs
are ramming together
shooting sparks
with every shot,
neither aware
that they will set the
whole forest on fire
if they do not
stop ramming
and begin rolling
toward the cool waters
of understanding.
Your gift
My heart
Your time
My money
Your devotion
My desire
Either way
Us.
Dirty clothes piled in the bath room,
Plates and projects in the living room
Books piled in the dining room
Clean laundry 4 feet high in the dressing room.
Everywhere there’s work to do
and I just want to cuddle you.
They speak of gifts
from former lovers:
vases
or black eyes,
rings
or babies.
They carry
former intimacies:
horrors and tragedies
traumas and ecstasies.
I have no
former lover,
I carry only
years with you;
no horrors mar our history,
just monogamous longevity–
our effort at ontogeny.
.
.
Shawn L. Bird 