“I want a wood fire,” she sighed.
“Go light a match on the porch,” he said,
“and never say I don’t support
your dreams.”
.
.
.
Oh, the sarcasm! But since they don’t have a fireplace in their house, I guess this is the best that could be managed.
poem- rumbling October 7, 2014
She arrives home exhausted.
“Ooh,” he says, nose curled.
“Those pants are terrible.”
She stares at him, deposits groceries on the counter,
heads down the hall,
and collapses into bed, too tired
to discuss appropriate comments,
respect, and positive encouragement.
She sleeps.
Hours later, she awakens, hungry,
makes some toast.
He comes upstairs. “The kid is out,” he says,
heading to the bedroom.
Ah, she thinks. That’s code for ‘Apology sex.’
Wise of him.
She bathes, listening to him preparing
in the other bathroom.
She climbs into bed,
to find him snoring.
She wishes she had eaten beans,
cauliflower
and cabbage for dinner.
She ponders delivering a two footed
kick to his backside, propelling him out of bed,
and into the wall.
(An easy task, since now she probably outweighs him).
Instead, she rolls over,
and sleeps.
poem- looking (an #Outlander poem) September 29, 2014
“I want to look,”
she says.
Finger outlining
the focus of
her attention,
she walks
a slow, studious circle
of analysis
and inevitable
appreciation.
.
“Fair’s fair,”
he says,
stepping back
with a glint in his eye,
joyfully
thankful for circumstance
that made her
his.
.
.
.
Another poem based on Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander; this one based on Ron Moore’s TV series, specifically episode 107, “The Wedding.”
Poem-another sign of love- a kilt story July 17, 2013
She gets these notions, ken?
Strange notions.
That because my great,
great,
great,
great,
great,
grandfather was a Scot
I need a kilt.
.
I won’t wear a kilt,
I said.
I am not connected to
my Scot’s heritage
I said.
That’s all right,
she said,
unloading
eight meters of fabric
and starting to pleat.
.
I won’t wear a kilt
I said.
What kind of belt buckle?
she asked.
So I picked the clan buckle
of my great
great etc
grandfather.
.
I won’t wear a kilt
I said.
Which pleat design?
she asked.
So I picked the pleat to the sett
(or so she tells me)
and she ironed
and ironed
and ironed
late into the night
and then she sewed
and sewed
and sewed
each stitch by hand
for night
after night.
.
I don’t want a kilt
I said.
She sewed
a linen shirt
and knit a lace jabot
and created sock flashes
and sock garters.
I ordered the socks and
the sporran from
Scotland
she said.
.
I really don’t want…
I said
Try this
she said
arranging a leather pocket
dangling from chains
around my waist.
No!
I squawked
It can’t go like that!
That’s like saying
X marks the spot!
She laughed
at my dismay.
.
Just try it all
she said,
arranging
ecoutrements.
I sighed
but did.
Walk up and down so I can see the swing,
she said.
Ooooooh,
she said
and led me back up the hall.
.
For our anniversary
she said
will you wear your kilt?
Yes,
I said
and did.
.
.
True story.
Outlander inspiration is clear.
Diana has a lot to answer for.
But most of it is good.
Verra good.
.
Here’s the proof:
and the more modern interpretation:
We should have taken some pictures from behind to show off…
(cough) the pleat to the sett.
It’s verra lovely.
<g>
Always remember “Happy Wife, Happy Life” or as Diana wrote him in the book plate for his copy of The Scottish Prisoner, “No one looks better than a man in a kilt.”
.
FYI- Here are a few of the posts written back while I was making the kilt with photos of the process:
https://shawnbird.com/2011/11/16/the-latest-obsessive-project/
https://shawnbird.com/2011/11/19/kilt-progress/
https://shawnbird.com/2011/12/06/all-done/
Note the dates- It’s been nearly 18 months since I finished. He’s worn it ONCE before today, back for that final drooling fitting. Plainly I caught him in a moment of weakness today. Or else he’s been reading Outlander again on his own. Good lad.
6 years later, here’s a lovely shot of the swing from behind! 🙂
she says, he says May 21, 2012
I’m sad, she says,
her head resting
upon his shoulder.
Words greeted by silence
that hovers
like a malevolent precipice.
Why, he says, are you choosing
to make yourself sad?
I did not choose to be sad, she says.
So then, why did you say, This is sad? he says.
What? she says.
You said, This is sad, he says.
I did not, she says.
I said, I’m sad. She says.
No. You didn’t, he says.
Yes. I did. She says, sighing.
Silence weaves around them like water
filling between the cracks.
Now,
I’m angry, she says.
Shawn L. Bird 