Shawn L. Bird

Original poetry, commentary, and fiction. All copyrights reserved.

poem-going July 19, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:47 am
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He’s going.

I feel him stretching out

like old elastic on the tops of pantyhose.

How old are your pantyhose?

That’s not the point.

You need to refresh your pantyhose, seriously

that elastic is good for a decade at least.

Oh forget I said it.  He’s going.  I can feel him slipping away.

Like pantyhose falling off your hips if they’re so old the elastic is brittle?

Well, yes.

I have some elastic lace.  We can sew it onto the pantyhose.  They’ll be like new.

It’s not about the pantyhose.

No.  It’s about the elastic.

No. It’s about the leaving.

You know, if you put a pair of panties over the pantyhose, it will keep them up.

Like a hug.

Exactly like a hug.  Sometimes the pantyhose work down a bit and are uncomfortable, but they stay up.

How do you know these things?

Oh.  We all have our emergency strategies.

Emergency.

Definitely.

Hmm.  Right.  Thanks.

 

 

poem- sad July 18, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:22 am
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Why doesn’t the smile on your lips

show in a twinkle in your eyes?

What false bravado are you bearing

with that expression that tells lies?

 

poem-I do July 17, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:50 am
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Yes.

No.

Maybe so.

I love you, but

I love you,

but,

I love you, so

I will.

Do you?

I do.

.

.

.

.

If this poem had a ‘gag reel’ it would include

I love your

butt

(cough)  But it doesn’t.  So pretend you didn’t read that.

Happy Anniversary #30 to my long-suffering man. 🙂

Five years ago, when this blog was only a couple of months old, I posted this anniversary thought, complete with sepia toned wedding photo… 

 

poem-elevator July 16, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:30 am
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I wait for the elevator.

She waits for the elevator.

They wait for the elevator.

We wait for the elevator.

Wait

Wait

Wait

for the elevator.

Rap Rap Rap, cane on elevator door.

“We’re working on it!” come the call.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

for the elevator.

 

quote-Ken Robinson on creative people July 15, 2015

Filed under: Quotations,Teaching — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:34 pm
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Some of the most brilliant, creative people I know did not do well at school.  Many of them didn’t really discover what they could do–and who they really were–until they’d left school and recovered from their education.

Sir Ken Robinson in The Element

I am doing my Masters in Education at the moment.  Specifically, I’m on campus at University of British Columbia Okanagan taking two courses, each three hours a day, for three extremely intensive and exhausting weeks.  As I write, I am exactly half way through my degree.  In another week and a half I will have completed 6 of 9 courses. I am presently trying to determine what I will do for a project to reflect the research I do around my question which explores passion-based learning and teaching in a high school.

I come to this research because since I have fulfilled my passions as an author and poet, it has completely changed the way I teach.  I am happier.  I believe my students are happier because of it.  I suspect they learn better because I bring my outside passions (as a writer) into my class room.

Unlike the people Robinson knew, I did do well in school, in the classes I loved like English, History, and Choral, at least.  I didn’t do as well in math and sciences.   I knew I wanted to be a writer even back in high school.  I was in the yearbook (publishing a book each year!), newspaper (publishing a column each month!), as well as musical theatre (applause!).  Back then, all three of those were extra-curricular activities.  How great would it have been to have been earning English and art credits for all that learning?  Our kids today do.

I was so jealous of Sue Hinton who’d written The Outsiders while she was in grade eleven!  Consider: she failed English that year. What a travesty! Next year, I have 2 students who are planning to do Independent Directed Studies writing novels (or perhaps novellas) for credit.  Sue Hinton would have loved English in my school.

I may have known my passion, but I didn’t leap in and start (well, finish) writing that novel in my head until 25 years after leaving high school.  That’s a long time to have a fire smoored, awaiting the flash of flame and burning of achievement!

How about you?  What’s your passion?  Is it smoored or burning?  Did formal school help or hinder development of your passion?

 

haiku-gratification

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:35 am
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Three times a charm

at least for him, pumping joyfully.

She stairs at the ceiling.

 

poem- stretch July 14, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:56 am
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and that is beginning

and that is ending

and that is continuity

and that is blessing

and that is leaving

and that is receiving

and that is you

and that is me

and that is we

 

poem- late July 13, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:42 am
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Eleven forty-two

and I’m missing you

You said you’d be back between

eleven thirty and twelve o’clock

I hope you didn’t stop anywhere because it seems

The minutes are hours and I’m powerless

with longing.  I guess this means

I love you, even though now it’s

eleven fifty-two

.

.

.

.

(Actually, he came through the door at 11:47, right on schedule.  Poetic license!)  🙂

 

poem- Beatsalad at Woodhaven 2015 July 12, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:01 am
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Did the Beats start their sets on time?

I waited for the cool jazz, for a dancing upright bass in the dappled green, backed against hill,

cool beats, words playing with rhythm, strings and syllables descrying the human condition.

I waited, wondering why audience here must wait for audience there.  Thirty minutes late, dudes!

but when D-man struck a chord and finger-danced on guitar strings

I forgave jazz absence, tardiness, miserable neighbours, and cane wielding attendees being forced

to hobble down uneven lanes (blue bruises today from the straining).

At least this year it wasn’t raining, the splatter was patter of voices being cool in the heat.

The poets read The Beats or the wanna-be Beats or the bed-mates of Beats, and I watched

an ant wrestle a kernel of corn across the ground to their long ago voices.

I do not wrestle railway container cars, but that ant had high hopes, until he abandoned it

to drag off a fallen comrade whether for cannibal feast or sacred burial in Antshillvania, I didn’t care.

A week on campus, rock bed, longing for the man at home,

my heart gave up poetic posing. I admitted tonight my heart wasn’t in this verse game.

After more hobbling down the long, dangerously uneven lane

for someone walking with a cane, cursing parking and cars.

I turned at my old high school, gasping at the glinting copper sun that hung

a molten disk, poetic sky writing the poets under trees were missing,

like that sky was kissing me good-bye while I traced the highway north

with high apple pie in the sky hopes of my own.

 

poem- not a poet July 11, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:25 am
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I’m not a poet she said

I don’t get poetry.

But

everything she says is poetical

She views the world in deep metaphors.

She embodies poetry.

Giving something a name

gives it power, she said.

Am I a poet

because I accept the name?

.

.

(Write about that abalone, Tina!)