The nest is empty
and without the chicks holding them together
some birds fly in different directions.
Job done.
So sad,
for others find the absence of young
brings far more joy in one another
than they could find while struggling
to satisfy the demands of youth.
The empty nest is the next gentle chapter
where romance can thrive again,
when laughing songs of
swooping lovers twitter through
the afternoon air and soft whispers
fill the nights.
I am cracked earth,
parched red clay
shrinking in the sun.
You are water,
not a flood
pouring over, but
a gentle, constant rain,
infiltrating slowly,
waking dormant seeds,
bringing blossoms,
to barren hopes,
remaking me.
Her body next to him is not enough
For him to believe in love.
He must believe he is lovable,
in order to love someone else.
If she is worth romancing,
would she be with him?
He must believe he is lovable
in order to love someone else.
If he is unworthy of love, how can
he encourage her to love him
through hearts, flowers, and love letters?
He must believe he is lovable
in order to love someone else.
I love nestling next
to your naked body discussing
psychological theory.
Magic dances on your finger tips;
You transform the day.
Enchantment unwinds in glistening threads
and tangles between us.
Your spell has ensnared me,
but I’ll never tell that the gleam in my eyes
came from a cauldron of your promises.
She was wrapped up in herself
and he had a bad rap
But they were enraptured
and joys they unwrapped.
,
,
Some wordplay this afternoon, just for you!
Quiet crept
through rustling leaves,
soft snowfall.
Quiet crept
through murmurs heard
under our hearts.
Quiet crept
through gentle touches
sweet sighs.
Quiet crept
through me
to you.
This is a glimmer
and it will be flame.
She is danger
and you are not fire fighter
enough to avoid
being burnt.
His scowl bounces off the walls
and she knows what kind of bounce he needs
but their inconvenient visitor
incites invible depression
so there is no undressing
for decompressing
As Ben Franklin would say,
“Fish and visitors stink
after three days.”
It was woven
like light
dappling between the leaves
of our maple tree,
your voice, soft in memory,
searching for the heart of me.
It was woven
like lithe
subtleties between the grease
of our maigre feast,
your voice, lost in murmurings
purging forth our history.
It was woven
like life
sampling between the griefs
of our marble stele
your voice, wafts in every
yearning it exhorts of me.
.
.
I may be stretching your vocabulary with this one! Here’s some help:
maigre- religious diet without the flesh or juice of animals
stele- pillar, marker, tombstone (pron. like STEEL-y)
Shawn L. Bird 