Birthday Poems: A Birthday Night Out - Poem by Alison Cassidy

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A Birthday Night Out - Poem by Alison Cassidy

Tall and slender,
she graced the noisy restaurant
draped in Madonna blue.

Her laughter sparkled.
Her pale skin revealed
a filigree of venous lace.

Her eyes bubbled, as she
poured the veuve clicquot,
and read aloud the words of wit
penned by her wild and woolly brothers.

Tonight my daughter charmed.
Bright as the shooting star
that exploded
the day of her birth.

Comments about A Birthday Night Out by Alison Cassidy

  • Andre Lopez 6/2/2008 11:19:00 AM

    i like it, it remembers the joy of having been born long time ago Reply

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  • Ben Gieske 10/12/2007 1:12:00 PM

    Bright as the shooting star
    that exploded
    the day of her birth

    An exquisite image to be remembered. Paul Valery, a poet, said that a poem is a holday of mind. This certainly is.
    Reply

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  • Dr.subhendu Kar 9/9/2007 6:15:00 AM

    Ravishing beauty in the eyes of poet.........excellent work, i do admire, thanks Reply

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    0 person did not like.
  • Permanent Daylight 8/11/2007 11:33:00 PM

    She's stepping out of the shadows! What a real poem, and so beautiful in it's own right. Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Robert Howard 8/10/2007 11:07:00 PM

    The free and breezy language underscores the charm and congeniality of a lady who has attained (shooting) star status in a grateful poet's eyes. Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Scarlett Treat 8/7/2007 1:06:00 PM

    Funny, how we mothers sometimes get overly syrupy when our children do something special...such as speaking in public and making everyone laugh! ...but you have shown your pride here without being overly sentimental. Your love for HER just shines through...and I would bet a thousand dollars that there were many, many times when she cut her eyes back to you, the source of her inspiration. Mutual love! Wonderful poem! ! Reply

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  • Ted Sheridan 8/4/2007 12:12:00 AM

    Isn't it wonderful to seem them shine. Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Ashley S 8/1/2007 7:55:00 PM

    True mothers love came from your pen as you described the occasion and your daughter. To be able to sit back and observe a wonderful moment through your eyes (made me shed a tear too) . I'm an old softy as you seem to be as well. (No offense on the old thing, just seems to go) LOL Thank you for sharing this intimate moment! Ashley xo Reply

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  • Joseph Daly 7/29/2007 9:24:00 AM

    This is excellent, Alison. You have taken a romantic approach and portayed an excellent pictire. The opening line, should set the scene, and here it does so wonderfully. The inventiveness of a colour, Madonna blue is superb in that it conjours up more of an emotion than a colour. That is the value of words and colours. Excellent portrayal. Reply

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  • Chris Mendros 7/28/2007 7:10:00 AM

    Sounds like a memorable way to celebrate one's birth. it only comes once a year, after all. Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
Read all 11 comments »
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  1. A Birthday

    My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me. Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.

  2. Poem On His Birthday

    In the mustardseed sun, By full tilt river and switchback sea Where the cormorants scud, In his house on stilts high among beaks And palavers of birds This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave He celebrates and spurns His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age; Herons spire and spear. Under and round him go Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails, Doing what they are told, Curlews aloud in the congered waves Work at their ways to death, And the rhymer in the long tongued room, Who tolls his birthday bell, Toesl towards the ambush of his wounds; Herons, stepple stemmed, bless. In the thistledown fall, He sings towards anguish; finches fly In the claw tracks of hawks On a seizing sky; small fishes glide Through wynds and shells of drowned Ship towns to pastures of otters. He In his slant, racking house And the hewn coils of his trade perceives Herons walk in their shroud, The livelong river's robe Of minnows wreathing around their prayer; And far at sea he knows, Who slaves to his crouched, eternal end Under a serpent cloud, Dolphins dyive in their turnturtle dust, The rippled seals streak down To kill and their own tide daubing blood Slides good in the sleek mouth. In a cavernous, swung Wave's silence, wept white angelus knells. Thirty-five bells sing struck On skull and scar where his lovews lie wrecked, Steered by the falling stars. And to-morrow weeps in a blind cage Terror will rage apart Before chains break to a hammer flame And love unbolts the dark And freely he goes lost In the unknown, famous light of great And fabulous, dear God. Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is alwas true, And, in that brambled void, Plenty as blackberries in the woods The dead grow for His joy. There he might wander bare With the spirits of the horseshoe bay Or the stars' seashore dead, Marrow of eagles, the roots of whales And wishbones of wild geese, With blessed, unborn God and His Ghost, And every soul His priest, Gulled and chanter in youg Heaven's fold Be at cloud quaking peace, But dark is a long way. He, on the earth of the night, alone With all the living, prays, Who knows the rocketing wind will blow The bones out of the hills, And the scythed boulders bleed, and the last Rage shattered waters kick Masts and fishes to the still quick stars, Faithlessly unto Him Who is the light of old And air shaped Heaven where souls grow wild As horses in the foam: Oh, let me midlife mourn by the shrined And druid herons' vows The voyage to ruin I must run, Dawn ships clouted aground, Yet, though I cry with tumbledown tongue, Count my blessings aloud: Four elements and five Senses, and man a spirit in love Thangling through this spun slime To his nimbus bell cool kingdom come And the lost, moonshine domes, And the sea that hides his secret selves Deep in its black, base bones, Lulling of spheres in the seashell flesh, And this last blessing most, That the closer I move To death, one man through his sundered hulks, The louder the sun blooms And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults; And every wave of the way And gale I tackle, the whole world then, With more triumphant faith That ever was since the world was said, Spins its morning of praise, I hear the bouncing hills Grow larked and greener at berry brown Fall and the dew larks sing Taller this thuderclap spring, and how More spanned with angles ride The mansouled fiery islands! Oh, Holier then their eyes, And my shining men no more alone As I sail out to die

  3. A Prayer For A Mother's Birthday

    Lord Jesus, Thou hast known A mother's love and tender care: And Thou wilt hear, while for my own Mother most dear I make this birthday prayer. Protect her life, I pray, Who gave the gift of life to me; And may she know, from day to day, The deepening glow of Life that comes from Thee. As once upon her breast Fearless and well content I lay, So let her heart, on Thee at rest, Feel fears depart and troubles fade away. Her every wish fulfill; And even if Thou must refuse In anything, let Thy wise will A comfort bring such as kind mothers use. Ah, hold her by the hand, As once her hand held mine; And though she may not understand Life's winding way, lead her in peace divine. I cannot pay my debt For all the love that she has given; But Thou, love's Lord, wilt not forget Her due reward,- bless her in earth and heaven.

  4. Poem For My 43rd Birthday

    To end up alone in a tomb of a room without cigarettes or wine-- just a lightbulb and a potbelly, grayhaired, and glad to have the room.

  5. A Birthday Poem

    Just past dawn, the sun stands with its heavy red head in a black stanchion of trees, waiting for someone to come with his bucket for the foamy white light, and then a long day in the pasture. I too spend my days grazing, feasting on every green moment till darkness calls, and with the others I walk away into the night, swinging the little tin bell of my name.