Geode

Geode



He wrote a simple poem, the kind best read alone,
no pretences, or awkward dictionary interruptions.

But, one line went around in an intriguing way.
It was broader, deeper than what I had first seen.

I inserted myself into the crevice, pushed
against walls of understanding, until

the whole thing fell apart in my head,
and what I found inside those words
was magic


Shirley Alexander
2010

But I'm Still Waiting

The Waiting Game


My Windstream Official Telephone Directory
contains no listing for Soul Mate,
business or residential.

A broader search on Google Maps informs
there exists an error of insufficient information;
Destination entered cannot be displayed.

People Search dot com wants cold cash,
but they are certain you do exist…somewhere.

Meanwhile, expectations dwindle
down this lonely country road.


Shirley Alexander
2011

A Tribute to my Father

What My Father Planted


He was a short man,
but there was a certain way he stood;
his silhouette strong and familiar
like a steeple in times of worry.

It was a determined stance,
glance to sun, hand shading frown,
tongue moisture over dry lips.
He timed breaths by till of hard soil.

If he chanced to catch me watching,
he was quick to harvest a smile.
We’ll be okay when it rains.
God watches over farmers and fools.

He was a short man,
but there was a certain way he stood,
tall and strong like a church steeple
towering toward heaven.


Shirley Alexander
2011

Ghost Prints

Photo by Shirley Alexander


Ghost Prints


Walk softly, the old woman said.
Leave nothing disturbed.
Children and warriors knelt near campfires
to be warmed by the wisdom of her life.

They left no path through green woods,
thanked Mother Earth when they hunted.
prayed the good soil of their bones
would replenish what was taken.

I think of my ancestors when I walk in forests.
I think how this land must have been graceful,
accepting the music of soft footprints on ground,
leaving nothing disturbed.

I think of them, too, when I walk here,
where wisdom of elders is locked in antiseptic halls,
and grey city streets are paved
with deep prints in stone.

Shirley Alexander
May, 2011

Quench

(All art and photography displayed on this site is the original work and property of Shirley Alexander)



Quench


Maybe you ask;
Why do I carry the dream of us in my heart?

I think of your skin,
moist and heated under the glide of my fingers,
and the way your name is a salty sweet kiss
across my searching tongue.

Still, I cannot shape words into an answer.
Why?

Why does a traveler take a flask
into the desert?


Shirley Alexander
2009

Without A Proper Eulogy

(all art displayed on this site is the original work and property of Shirley Alexander)


Without A Proper Eulogy


I am as a miner on his mountain of grey,
calculating the loss of sweat for profit.
The land I hold writ to name my own
will choose to remember nothing of me,
save plastic scars and scent of dusty bones.

And when I am gone, mourners will rush
to add insult on the careless print that was me.
They will stack weak stone tall in my honor
where wild flowers should forever be free to grow.
And I will sigh into the dirt, and mourn all losses.


Shirley Alexander
2010

Red Mourning

Red Mourning

The day we buried Eddie, it snowed.
We gathered like penguins on ice,
all in black; black suits, dresses,
black umbrellas turned against gusts.

Black veils shrouded our hearts in grief,
and draped into the open hole of his life.

But she stood like a wounded heart,
splayed and bleeding its fire,
dressed all in red; red dress, shoes,
red umbrella kissing the sky.

Scarlet veils bled love from her veins,
and dripped into the open whole of his life.

People will talk. She said nothing
until the last flower was laid in snow.
Red is my love’s favorite, she whispered
to those silent men with black shovels.

I want to know he looks down from heaven;
smiles me vibrant in this cold and lonely world.




Shirley Alexander
2010