Shirley Anne Alexander

Shirley Anne Alexander Poems

the seventh anniversary of our marriage
we spent the night in a van,
on top of Brasstown Bald mountain.

The land has many spirits.
They see us; they know us,
better than we know ourselves.

She sits by a bright, bare window
in a chair that has seen too much wet.
She is picking on days in her past,
fingers digging nervously into scalp.

In winter, bones of this land are laid bare,
exposed to drying wind and white blind of frost.
Cosmetic camouflage of kinder seasons are gone.
In winter, we see the strength of framework behind green.

I am not the woman people envy
in her confident, got-it-all-together stride.
I am not that person who is called to offer prayer
in a gathering of Christians.

He said I sleep like an unborn child, naked,
with knees drawn to belly, hands clasped
palm to palm, and held tightly together
by thighs clasped tightly together, by instinct.

I remember Easter dresses. Folds of pastel cotton.
Embroidery. Lace edges. Starched bow sashes.
Scent of sunlight and my mother's lemon sachet.
But, I am a quiet blue jeans grandmother,


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.

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

Ghost Of A Blue World

I dreamed I was flying

Life is a broken bowl, held together
by the cup of a tired woman‘s hands.

History is written in swirls of dishwater,

I drove back to our old home place today,
with the lonesome ache of memories for company.
Now, I stand by a thistle strewn cow pasture.
Let the dry summer wind steal my tears.

I dream I am walking on a high swaying bridge.
It is made of old wood, like sun bleached barn siding,
more visible in evening light with splintered edges
forming deep shadows of grey and blue.

In this green forest, there is a sweet dampness;
blossoms dropping jewels of spent raindrops.
On this path, soft with cushion of moss and fallen leaves,
my world whispers passion with the voice of a lover.

Somewhere, in the damp mold
and earthen rot of a Georgia landfill,
all the old pages of her calendars
are steadily feeding worms.

Bumble Jack was a simple soul
and he had a simple plan.
He caught a train and headed west
to be a gun slinging man.

I carry a small black pouch in my heart.

Baggage packed in the seventies

She wasn't really my friend, you see;

she just stirred a curiosity in me

Three wise kings, noble and fine,
once traveled together through the night,
tired and weary but faithful still;
they would witness a prophecy fulfilled.

I was only five when I first heard the ghost
getting water from our backyard well.
The steady rhythm of a muted squeak;
drawing up that old bent metal pail.

Shirley Anne Alexander Biography

Shirley Alexander lives in Crawford GA. Her poetry, short fiction, photography, and art have appeared in numerous local and regional publications. Any messages to the poet are welcome.)

The Best Poem Of Shirley Anne Alexander

Something From The Woman I Left Behind

the seventh anniversary of our marriage
we spent the night in a van,
on top of Brasstown Bald mountain.

He slipped a pistol under the mattress
and said we would be safe
from robbers.

Vandals wear many disguises
and the violated learns, eventually,
to recognize the mask.

2 a.m.,
wrapped in my own arms,
the scent of his whiskey on my neck,
bruises on bare trembling legs;
I stood naked before the moon.

In cold October air,
had to find my way back
to me.

© Shirley Alexander

Shirley Anne Alexander Comments

Thank you, Ina. I appreciate that you took time to read and comment.

1 0 Reply
Ina Schroders-zeeders 02 May 2013

This is a lovely poem :)

1 0 Reply

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