She wants him to journey
through her, trail his fingers
along paths of discovery,
raise mountains of delight,
explore lingual caverns,
create tsunamis of desire.
But travelling is work,
and he’s not up to the flight.
poem-flames February 7, 2015
She’s caught between the flames
of inferno and ice
Accusations of blame,
of who’s not playing nice.
She’s caught between the fury
of defeat and aggression,
For neither is sorry
and all leads to depression.
She’s caught between love
crushed between hate
a magician’s dove
that is stuffed then must wait.
She’s caught between threads
stuffed up their sleeves
’til she’s dangling her head
beneath the nearest trees.
poem-hollow January 31, 2015
Her belly is hollow.
Once it was filled with him,
but she has been excavated
and spun into emptiness.
.
Her head is hollow.
Once it was filled with him,
but she has been desolated
and spun into heaviness.
.
Her life is hollow.
Once it was filled with him,
but she has been devastated
and spun into enviousness.
.
Her hope was hollow.
Once it was filled with him,
but she has been extricated,
and spins into readiness
poem-mother January 27, 2015
Grade eight.
Horror.
Mother is her substitute teacher today.
“Do not
acknowledge
that you know me!” she hissed.
But when her name was called for
attendance, and teacher-mother
looked around for
whichever student would raise her hand,
she glowered,
unhappy
with anonymity.
poem-voyageur January 26, 2015
So you packed your canoe,
left a good man,
gave away that puppy,
you’d given to
those good boys,
those sweet little boys,
and rowed off to find yourself
on a river of their tears.
I hope the discovery
proves worth it
in the end.
poem-flipped January 23, 2015
You need a silent rest
and I need recumbency.
I find a peaceful place,
I recline and read and write
throughout the night,
come to bed at dawn
to greet you as you rise.
But office workers
call at nine, nine thirty, ten
and so with blurry eyes I
pretend lucidity,
then fall back to sleep
until you return at two.
My head and ankle
have schedules
out of sync with offices,
though I’m in tuneful counterpoint
with you.
poem- connected January 18, 2015
In the day
they brush past one another,
utter essential words,
questions,
instruction.
But at night,
they brush against one another,
whisper non-essential words,
passions,
exhortation.
poem-hard January 16, 2015
He relies on the strength
of her heart strings.
She winds them around him
to hold him together
when he might rattle apart
in the shaking, quaking times.
When she is weak and broken,
when she can not stretch her arms,
wide enough
to wrap heart strings around him,
he trembles and crumbles
apart.
When she is weak and broken,
he does not consider
that he could pretend
to be strong.
He could hold her heart strings,
and spin into her.
poem-sliced January 12, 2015
I was broken.
You sliced me,
knife blade deep,
peeling back skin,
excavating muscle,
exposing bone.
Then you
wound in screws,
stitched me together,
wrapped me in glass
and left a slash of
pulsing agony
to remember you by.
.
.
(Dedicated to Dr. Parfitt my orthopædic surgeon. 🙂 Sounds so much better as a metaphor; unfortunately he did all this literally!) 😉
poem-awkward January 5, 2015
He needs a bed,
and she has one,
so she welcomes him to it,
and he lies.
Shawn L. Bird 