Biography of Shirow Walker
I don't really want to call any of my posted works poems. In truth, they are pretty much short works. Words that form an egg shell around personal philosophy. If they rhyme, then it is more by chance than design. A lot of my work talks about something almost totally different then what you would expect just reading it literally. Some of them have small clues and others don't. The only person who ever will know what they are about is me. I write to accentuate my memory and for my enjoyment, not for anyone else.
Shirow Walker Poems
Sing little bird, I knew you first. Your words so gentle; fell and settled to cast a shadow one night upon my window sill.
Proud To Be A Frog
I am proud to be a frog, though I know not why. The green of my skin, so utterly devine; as to what others say, (to which I am blind) 'You are proud to be a frog, though we do not know why'.
To that last day, that final hour. Upon those fleeting seconds, When words like death to family seem dour I will say, lay me to rest beneath the bower
Never have I kiss a nape so sweet or nibbled a lobe so soft Neither heard words whispered in kindness and hope creep into my soul in the midst of the twilight hours. Or missed someone in sweet sorrow even as they lay, cradled in my arms. When you cried, I cried, though I shed no tears.
Seconds stop as water falls and plops, dribbling down a sweet soft cheek. Then in the quiet, among the waters riot, echos travel up through forgotten history ever repeating. And in stopped time when her lips meet mine there is a sense of lost and regained familiarity. So silently, earnestly, my heart yearns to ache and feel the beating of the falling rain.
In life I seemed to be A man forever lost in a boys dream Seeing only what I wished to be Not how others comprehended me
It is in time that I will see What others would scarcely dream Concrete foundations crumbled to dust Iron gates left to rust
Do not frown Do not smile Just stare into air with empathetic eyes empty of thought
I am going to kill you while you sleep little sheep Then for my dinner I will eat your meat As for your body, it will become a coat And for my glue I will grind up your toes
In deep shadows they longed to meet Across barren fields and shallow streams Through twisted oaks and cold risen stones To a forgotten meeting place alone.
Death At A Wedding
Post Modern Artist
I was sad,
I know I was.
That horrible sinking feeling.
That wonderful sensation.
It was bliss.
Oh how dreadful I felt,