Category Archives: memories

Making Love With Music

This was one of the first poems I posted on WordPress.
I don’t do a lot of re-posting, but a post by one of my friends reminded me of it,
and I thought it could use another airing.
Thank you for reading.

Making Love With Music At Shag Phelps' birthday bash, in a small dark bedroom, on the far end of Alan's trailer, we found ourselves laughing and naked, doing the dirty dance to a drum solo, and strains of electric mystic Iron Butterfly 'In-A-Godda-Da-Vida, baby…' Flashes of strobe and heady weed streamed through a carelessly ajar door. The earth swirled and tilted when I arched backward, just to hear you swear as my hair tickled the bare tops of your thighs. 'Oh won't you come with me...' Thirty years later, a soft country ballad is mingled with snoring before the first verse leads to pause. In still darkness I walk through this big house alone, while ghosts taunt from shadows. 'and walk this land…' I put the album carefully in place, turn the volume to an unfamiliar low, and close my eyes to drink the music. If I lean way back in a younger woman's arch, I can almost feel the hair that is no longer there tickle the skin of my bare and lonely waist. 'Please take my hand…' Shirley Alexander © 2005


Filed under mature, memories, poetry

and all around me, life goes on

Autumn Porch Days

Some days, all we can do to see a wider world is lie quietly in the sun, faces curved to sky, watching leaves drop color and die, as clouds paint a bleached collage of our other places. All this radiance and warmth must surely reach something deeper than skin, higher than your mountains and stars, less broken than my in-between lovers. Yet, why does the wind winter swiftly? If I fade to sleep, dreams will pull me to body tired Autumn nights in Boone; Perseus chasing Pegasus across a dingy lens. Do you remember? Somewhere, far to the south of my dreams, you climb toward a circumpolar view, where your lens is robbed of my brightest star. I envision your weary form in these clouds as you drag a trail across that uncertain heaven. If you are seeking peace, come home. Our days apart are beyond the stack of peaks. All that is left is a calming stroke of hands, the sharing of pictures in winter clouds. That is enough for me, if I am with you. If you are seeking redemption, come home. You will discover the best of it here, in my heart. Years become mountains. We both know the trail. When will you remember me?
Shirley Alexander © 2011


Filed under life, love, memories, poetry, spiritual


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


Filed under family, life, love, memories, poetry, spiritual, tribute