Summer here,
choking heat
forests fill the sky
as ash.
poem- performance art July 22, 2017
I know,
that sometimes my performance faltered.
I reached down or up for notes that would not be seized.
I fumbled at times with pitch, tune, entrances, but
every time
I believed.
I believed I was selling crumbs to birds
who were going to die horrible deaths
without them.
I believed that every person
within the sound of my voice should buy
just a small bag for the ‘ungry young ones.
My voice trembled with my belief, as I gazed out at the faces,
beseeching each and every one to part with a tuppence.
.
You believed.
Stranger, how you clung to my arm,
when me met on the sidewalk, months later,
eager to tell me how you’d heard my voice
in your head weeks afterwards. How beautiful it was.
How it made you wept.
I, who knew every vocal fault,
struggled to believe
that my believing,
had been enough to reach past my inadequacy.
Thank you
for reminding me,
it’s the only thing that connects
in the end.
.
Image (c) Evan Buhler used with permission. “Feed the Birds”. Mary Poppins Shuswap Theatre 2016.
Me, being The Bird Woman November-December 2016.
I met a fan of the show yesterday and struggled once again to come to terms with the fact that our art has its own life and power. It can transcend us to speak poignant messages to receptive ears.
poem- Jingle Pot Road. Nanaimo July 18, 2017
Jingle Pot Road.
You make me want to belly dance
along your length,
as you meander back and forth
across the highway–
a serpentine of signposts–
Shimmy! Jingle! Pop! Road.
.
.
I actually performed this piece, bellydancing to the words, at When Words Collide in Calgary, August 2017. I definitely need to improve my choreography and have the piece properly memorized to do the concept justice, but it does add a fun touch to a poetry presentation! 🙂
Web post about how Jingle Pot Road got its name.
quote-attracting poets July 17, 2017
From The Colour Master by Aimee Bender:
…part of trying to attract those poet-men was to look a little like I had wandered onto campus by accident after having spent 10 years with the wolves behind some farm house, living off scraps and reveling in the pure air like a half-girl Mowgli, half-woman Thoreau.” p. 76
I found this quite amusing, as I had just come from the Honeymoon Bay Poetry Retreat and had spent some time with a few poet-men.
poem-ocean tears-valtameren kyyneleet July 16, 2017
Sydämeni lentää meren yli.
Käteni ulottuvat valtameren yli.
Täyttävät välimatkaa, omat kyyneleet.
Voi, mitä olemme menettäneet.
Nyt purjehtii taakse auringon.
Yesterday, a warm and generous man sailed off this earth: my 4th host father from my time as a Rotary Youth Exchange Student in Finland. He’d waged a long battle with cancer, and now he may rest.
Here’s the translation:
My heart flies across the sea.
My arms reach across an ocean.
My tears fill the space between us.
Oh, what we have lost,
now sailing beyond the sun.
poem- leavings July 15, 2017
Reaching inside the chair
. deep in the cushions
. I am sliced by a workman’s
. lost staple pack
. sharp edges up.
. It tears my flesh,
. leaves my blood on the leather.
Sometimes, behind us
. we leave words
. meant for construction.
Sometimes,
. our leavings
. bite.
poem- Hwy 19: missed connection July 14, 2017
You sit,
back against the Merge sign
inviting convergence
. connection.
I see,
the next sign, No Hitchhiking.
Pick up is illegal.
I drive by.
poem-The Poetry Retreat is Over July 9, 2017
The Poetry Retreat is Over
I am the last to leave.
The GPS battery is dead;
I don’t know where to go from here.
poem- My daughter says July 8, 2017
My daughter says
. my hair’s too long;
. it drags my formerly too round face
. down.
My daughter says
. my car’s too girlish;
. pastel seats and butterflies
. are frivolous.
My daughter says
. my voice is too strident;
. her ears are are hurt
. by their happy cadence.
To my daughter I say
. life’s too short to be
. a fuddy-duddy*
. before you’re thirty.
.
.
*fuddy-duddy: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuddy-duddy
Shawn L. Bird 
sharing July 24, 2017
Tags: assault, feminism, violence, women
I wonder how many women do not have these stories in their lives? I suspect there are few if any. We acknowledge these stories, but so rarely bother to stand up to them, because they are ubiquitous. I am glad to see the light being shone on them and the label being attached. Yes, these are assaults. Yes, this is violence. This is why some cultures are so protective of girls, but why, why, why can’t the blame be put entirely where it belongs- on the perpetrators of this violence?
Perhaps because that requires us to look at our own dark natures?
I was recently reading an article that talked about the passive label like “Violence against women” as if there is no agent acting. Where does that violence come from? Not the ether. Let’s label the agents, not the objects of the action.
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