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

Walking on the Dark Side of the Moon

(All photographs displayed on this site are the original work and property of Shirley Alexander)

Dark Side of the Moon


There was a time, I could shine.
When I thought of you, I could shine.

I stand alone under night heaven;
feel light on my upturned face.
Does it glow if you are not watching?

I might have been this moonlight,
a reflection of your distant fire.
But, I became the dark face
and she, your moon.

Somewhere inside, a new light burns.
It is a world without phases,
a place where day welcomes night
and returns to warm the morning.

I stand alone under night heaven.
There was a time, we could shine.
There was a place, I could burn.

Wings spread, a wiser phoenix
will rise from the ashes of your fire.
Do you shine if I am not watching?


Shirley Alexander
2010

Fear of Falling

Fear of Falling

Fifty years ago, my sister and I raced across a long, high porch;
jumped off the end to fly across daffodils and old barking dogs.

That was before my sister fell.
She sprained her arm on harder ground.
Afterward, I would run across the porch,
leap into abandon, arms open to sky.

My sister would run to the edge,
brake a full stop, sit down, and cry.
I never understood her fear of jumping,
or the tears she shed for what was lost.

I spent a lifetime long jumping from one thrill to the next, fearless.
Then, one day I took the highest leap, for love. Now I understand.

Shirley Alexander
2010

A Time To Break Down

(Photo: "Magnolia" by Shirley Alexander)



A Time to Break Down


Take care of what you hold now,
this pulsing mass you recognize as sex.

Listen intimately to soft noises in this room,
these clandestine whispers of you, owning me.

It is the urgent beat of my heart,
They are the cries of abandoned control
as it swells beyond my guard,
leaps into throat, slides across tongue,

slips from wet, swollen lips to land
mute, in the dry cup of your greedy hands.


Shirley Alexander
© 2010