Biography of Shirley Alexander
Shirley Alexander Poems
Something From The Woman I Left Behind
1978, the seventh anniversary of our marriage we spent the night in a van, on top of Brasstown Bald mountain.
More Than She Knew
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.
Presents From Jim
Nineteen sixty-nine. The autumn fair was in Athens. I was sixteen. You had finished your senior year.
Tricking The Reaper
The land has many spirits. They see us; they know us, better than we know ourselves.
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.
In winter, bones of this land are laid bare, exposed to drying winds and white blind of frost. Cosmetic camouflages of kinder seasons are gone. In winter, we see the strength of frameworks behind green.
Sometimes, Life Gives You Lemons
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,
Ghost Of A Blue World
Ghost Of A Blue World I dreamed I was flying
But, I'M Still Hoping
My Windstream Official Telephone Directory contains no listing for Soul Mate, business or residential.
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.
Secrets, And Women
Life is a broken bowl, held together by the cup of a tired woman‘s hands. History is written in swirls of dishwater,
My First Broken
I carry a small black pouch in my heart. Baggage packed in the seventies
The Ballad Of Bumble Jack-(A Bit Of Fun)
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.
Sweet Wine And Saddle Oxfords
Fara comes to me often lately, comes down from Grey Hill,
Ghosts Of Me
It is one bright memory.
I am nine, or maybe nineteen.
I sit peacefully in a red clover meadow.
All the years of life are colored stones,
round and easy treasures in my pocket.
Held to sunlight, each one becomes a rainbow.
Then, cracks in time break sinkholes beneath me
and a gray hand, more shadow than flesh,