(with apologies to William Carlos Williams)
.
This is just to say
I have eaten
The last
of the tortilla chips
I know you
Were saving them
For a bedtime snack
But like you
they were salty
And so delicious.
How could I resist?
poem- This is just to say November 13, 2022
Poem-perfect picks September 22, 2022
Another tautogram poem, this time on the letter P.
.
.
Penelope phones Philip.
Pals?
Probably? Possibly?
Philip’s philosophisizes prior panegyric’s painful.
Penelope ponders Philip’s preachy palaver,
Parsing phrases, puzzling prosody:
Pasty poetry.
Pall permeates.
Penelope’s perky, pretty, popular.
Point: Penelope’s perversely pitiful picking Philip! Plough politeness Penelope! Possess proper prize!
Princely prospects prove perfect!
Pitch Philip! Pick pyrotechnics!
.
.
A tautogram (Greek: taut-same, gram-letter) is a poem in which every word starts with the same letter. Unlike alliteration, the words do not have to sound the same.
poem-they’re trying to kill you? April 4, 2020
Last week reports of your smiles and charm,
surprised us. Did they have the right patient?
I am fast asleep when the phone rings this morning.
You’re shrieking at me.
I know you’re angry and afraid,
but I can’t deal with you
and a pandemic, too.
poem-weeping December 2, 2019
He, loved filled,
would be caught weeping.
The first time,
graduation.
The second,
over broken relations,
feeling her pain, worried
she’d be okay.
Later,
from loneliness,
from frustrated, infirmity,
he would weep, “Please come!”
I’d wrap my arms around him,
sit beside him,
share those moments of fragility,
so thankful for love,
so thankful for him.
She’s never shown a tear.
Year after year,
muttering,
grumbling,
no personal responsibility,
dark heart.
Her rages
call for no sympathy.
At least,
from me.
poem- wishes November 25, 2019
She used to see him everywhere
He wove into every conversation
‘All roads lead to…’ they joked
Now the roads go new places
Wind through wishful thinking,
blissful realities
settle comfortably in what is
for what it’s worth.
poem- cracks June 9, 2019
I’m slipping apart
Deep gut groaning,
inviserating split.
Your knife is sharp
and oh so subtle
No one sees the slicing
as pieces of me fall:
blood, tears and confusion.
Devotion’s greatest trick.
Betrayal by the longed for hope,
tenderly nurtured,
joyfully gathered to the heart.
Once before, protection pushed you out.
You said your sorries, cried for communication
and here we are again.
Cruelty masquerading as the heart I carried.
Pain pretending to be love.
No one else would be allowed in, after all this anguish.
Broken pieces of how I used to feel.
Wondering where the sweet creature disappeared to.
Mothers earn merit badges from the torture
of their children.
poem-wandering August 7, 2018
It is
It isn’t
Round and round
I can!
I can’t!
You do
You don’t
and trying
trying
trying
doesn’t make it easier
to pull your broken brain away
from turbulance
I don’t know you anymore
I don’t like you anymore
Loyalty keeps me doing
because I promised him
and you can’t help being broken
I know.
It is
It isn’t
Time ticks by
I try
I try
I try.
poem-is isn’t April 6, 2018
It is.
It isn’t.
Me.
You.
A circle compounding compromises.
Conviction carries us.
I promise.
I pound.
I promise
I pound.
I paint
conviction
carrying
us.
It is.
It isn’t.
Promising.
(A poem for Dustin & Lyda, Jason & Kirindip. These are characters in the current w.i.p. novel).
poem- honey December 2, 2017
Sculpting honey?
Pointless.
Shapes dissolve in moments,
dissappear in the gleaming
sweetness of now–
much like
memories
of you.
Confessions July 7, 2017
I am at a poetry retreat, and I have just realized I haven’t posted any new poetry in ages! Here is one that was prompted by discussion around the table last night.
Men are afraid that women will laugh at them.
Women are afraid that men will kill them
~ Margaret Atwood
Confession:
Inside
she is laughing
at his wizened, flapping sword
Ever appreciative
it is not slashing, slicing, dividing
head from heart.
Confession:
Impalement is not a virtue in itself
ecstacy can take or leave it.
Confession:
She desires his desire,
not his possession.
Shawn L. Bird 