shaunterrywriter

These are my writings. Ideally, these are the most honest expressions of myself that I could give.

We Were Always Friends

Cuddling

Two eggs spin
on sterling silver spoons,
spotting while executing
synchronized pirouettes.

Baby birds
chipping at stone –
fuzzy contortionists –
trying to fight free
from the ecru walls
that isolate them.

Their feet stumble
over remnants of
tattered translucent prisons.

“How did you know I was lonely?”

“Well, why else
would I have longed
for you?”

Every fraction
of a jigsaw puzzle
fits flushly against
the pieces for which
it was designed,
just as no amount of force
will ever fuse
two disparate jigsaw puzzles
together.

The Place Where You Are

Woman in Nature

Soaking in the softness of her azure irises;
a pale, pleasant morning
before a torment of questions and born-hollow doubts.

Pedestrians pass her by and smile:
their eyes
manipulated by the weight of her
gentle, lovetrap face,
supine to subtle, incidental seduction
in long, limber, elegant limbs.

And boys and men
and girls and women
try to find some bit of something
to say,
hoping that she’ll
look on them
with something
more than pity.

But they don’t
see her;
they see what they want
her to be.

They don’t see around
rounded corners’ creases in big blue eyes,
calling for
the kind of conversation
or homily or footnote or patterns in pavement or jester’s song
that leads to
fountains of forgiveness
and forever-forgivenness
and open hands
and open hearts, ready-made
for placing her just so;
she’s wavering,
blind to tricks and traps,
fighting to find space where she can just breathe:
her tender, ripened, crimson mouth,
reaching to pull in air
that grows a her that is hers, alone.

They don’t know her eager ambitions,
they don’t know her fears and revelations;
too dumbstruck
by beauty and benevolence
to realize that
she’s already all there.
She has all that she needs.

From what corner of this place did you find me?
Who held your hand when you were four,
and who wiped away tears
when your universe was unkind?

I am each person here, and I am not them.
I own their motivations and weaknesses,
but I see filaments and fragments
of what they mostly miss.

I want to smooth a path so soft
that you might find
yourself free from suffering.

Daily Disturbance

Sleep

 

8:45am
Get dressed
Brush teeth
Fix hair
Put on deodorant
Make breakfast
Check email

But no shower

Wait – am I hungry?
8:45?

This bed’s so warm.
I can’t think.
9:00 is fine.

What Remains

Sad Man in Bed

“Left of the last door,” he said.
Less remains from before:
a book, a lamp, a chalice, a bed
are what remain after Jason’s snores.

The last embers burn the bottom of the fireplace.
They crackle as the angels chase
a man too late, too fast to catch,
resigned to Thanatos’s dispatch.
Family, enemies, friends and lovers
make breakfasts as he freezes beneath covers.
The bedroom door extends and squeals
as the meowing cat demands its meal.

Jason was the best of us,
his name now scrawled in ash and dust.

The Last Winter

The Last Winter

Snow in springtime,
breaking leaves on pale powder,
a furnace for last year’s lost love letters.

Stubborn spades of April’s grass
try to break Winter’s promise
of short grey days
and long black nights,
of half-chewed words
and touch born of pragmatism, rather than of
profound personal connection.

But this snow is never-ceasing:
long, sunny days will aim to
break the shackles
of this coldest, longest winter.

The edge of an axblade can’t
break a fire forged
in millennia of mismanagement.

What It Is To Be Saved 2.0

Newborn

Slacked jowls,
cue balls where eyes should be,
tight, matted ebony swirls –
thick used motor oil against ivory fresh flesh.

A phantasmic rugby ball squeezed through a coin slot.
Narrow, rounded, pudgy, piggish shoulders,
one after the other,
squeezing, slipping, sliding.
A tiny humanesque body
– squished, crushed –
sucking four thousand tons of oxygen
through a coffee straw
at a pace enough
to cause reverberations of the room.

A wail makes its way from her apple-sized lungs,
and smiles cross giant faces.

You are, for a moment,
the most vulnerable of all creatures.
Your life is in the hands of a few well-versed strangers,
and they give routine smiles and reassurances.
The odds are in your favor
in this case.

But I won’t and can’t let harm come to you.
I’ve been no sort of hero to anyone,
but I will be yours.

Salvation in Stars

Stars

Every stick and stone that makes you
was forged in a celestial fire.

And you are stars to me.

This world is a small one –
an infant toddling,
trying to find her feet beneath her –
and she is ever-growing.

Without stars pushing the last frontier,
the world could be only that which has been.

You, as stars,
expand everything.

Without you,
the world would lack a little luster;
the world would stop growing, and contract instead.

But with you,
the ever-shifting edge of everything
expands and amazes.
With you,
cockamamie dreams
and half-eyed fantasies
and last-ditch ambitions
stretch eager limbs
to hearts and hands of delicate dreamers.

You, like stars, make wonder.

The Turtle and the Lemur

Turtle tracks

A giant sea turtle sat on the beach,
watching the waves smash into the rocks,
and watching them slide back and forth over the shore.
She delighted at the sight,
as fish and crabs and plants came and went.

She wanted to run into the water
to be with the other sea creatures,
bus she couldn’t remember what the water felt like.
She turned and looked toward the trees,
and she saw the happy monkeys swinging,
the squirrels dancing,
and the birds gliding from branch-to-branch.

Then, a beautiful, wise lemur sat next to her,
and asked her what was wrong.
She replied that the water looked so enchanting,
but that she couldn’t remember how to swim.

“The water is filled with perils,
and you can never know which direction
the water will choose to go.
Look at the crab: he eats the plants from the water,
and spends the rest of his time trying to escape the dangerous water.
In the water, the safest animals are those with fins,
but you have four legs, just like me,
haven’t you?”

The giant sea turtle was sad. She knew that he was right,
but she still felt a great affinity for the sea.
“But why do I long for the sea?” she asked.

The beautiful, wise lemur’s eyes lowered and tightened.
“Often, we want that which is unsafe;
many a ruin has come from wanting
that which brings great danger.
Look at the monkeys playing.
Do they seem endangered?”

“No,” replied the giant sea turtle.

“And do the squirrels not seem overjoyed?”
asked the beautiful, wise lemur.

“They do,” the giant sea turtle solemnly replied.

“Even the birds, who glide over the air,
can trust that they will safely land
on firm branches or solid grounds.”

The giant sea turtle’s neck drooped low enough
that she could smell the wet sand.
The beautiful, wise lemur felt the giant sea turtle’s pain,
and it saddened him.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to be safe?
After all, the joy that we experience in this world
depends on our survival,
doesn’t it?”

The giant sea turtle looked out at the water,
and a fish, shining in the sun,
swam up to her.
It smiled, and the giant sea turtle felt
that the fish was very happy,
and the giant sea turtle wanted to be so happy.

Fight Free from Sirens

Guitar Lady

Polaris in her eyes,
a mouth full of sin,
encumberingly marble-esque architecture.

She was baptized in chicken grease and guitar strings,
and she can’t tell what time it is.
She’ll talk about church,
and she’ll talk about heaven,
but ask her what the future holds,
and she’ll spit at you for sinning.

She teaches how to sit,
and she’s read a thousand books,
but she can’t tell you how to read her thoughts.

She’s a small, scared dog,
cowering beneath a coffee table,
but ask her how she feels,
and she’ll bare her teeth and growl.

Her big-eyed, tear-filled smile will suck you in,
and her dance will keep you around,
but ask enough questions,
don’t keep her distracted,
and those teeth will push you off.

Before I Leave You

Sad Apartment Cat

I need someone to tell me how I feel.
I’m just another desperate person
waiting for my dreams to end,
laying in the dark,
on my icy apartment’s linoleum floor,
testing the limits of hypothermia.

I’m dangerously quiet now.
Acid bubbles beneath the thin sheet of
skin that envelopes my brittle bones.
I no longer notice any of millions of passing thoughts.
My joints are gyrating,
and I can’t close my eyes.

I left the kitchen knife on the nightstand;
it still has my blood and your fingerprints on it.
I’d finish the job,
but I’m too tired to pick it up.

You smile so beautifully when you watch me bleed.

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