Shawn L. Bird

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

poem-cure May 26, 2017

The demons are hiding around corners

lurking in the shadows

watching you.

I know you feel the weight

of their gaze

hear the clink of their weapons

every day.

On the sunny days,

you outrun them

find smiles to return to those

around you

in their circles of care.

Other days,

smiles are barred growls,

the glow of sinister eyes pacing

around you,

squeezing life and hope

as their circle crushes in,

suffocating you.

Your demons on their unwitting backs

Your demons in their unwitting smiles

Your demons on their unwitting feet

Your demons in their expectations

Your incessant demons

invisible to others,

writhing,

circling,

just

there.

 

 

 

 

 

poem-just when May 25, 2017

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:24 pm
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Just when I think there’s been a change

Just when I think the brain’s been rearranged

Just when I think obstacles have been constrained

There’s a smash, crashing return to the old

The opening petals refuse to unfold

The rebirthing story will not be told

Just when I imagine, my hope’s short-changed.

Reality is bitterly cold.

My expectations are really what’s strange.

 

poem-sparkles May 23, 2017

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:36 am
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The light of you

twinkles on your skin

sends shooting stars crackling from the top of your head.

The light of you

glows blue green like  phosphorescence

attracting, inviting.

You are bio-luminescence

shimmering on an ocean,

trails flowing after you  like an evening gown.

I reach to dip my hand into the water and watch the light

die in my palm.

I long to live in your light,

bathe in the beauty,

float in the flotilla of the mesmerized, microscopic worshipers

flowing after you.

But you go your way

and I go home.

I gaze after you, and wonder if you’ve shared enough of you,

for me to generate light

of my own.

.

.

.

(for Sheri-D)

It’s always a let down at the end of a conference to leave the like minds of other writers, and return home to quotidian life.  This was a particularly good conference for me, with lots of messages from the universe (or rather one that just kept coming up over and over).  I am hopeful the words will be off on interesting journeys as a result of the learning.

 

poem- yellow May 15, 2017

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:35 pm
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The green gold glistens

in the spring light

waving languidly in the breeze

as if to greet friends

seen from a great distance.

 

poem-Mother’s Day humility May 14, 2017

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:44 pm
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Looking forward to seeing you this weekend!

the mother wrote.

The greeting card holidays remind children

of filial duties.

Without them, would they ever call?

Text message comes mid-day:

Happy Mother’s Day.

An opening!

Mother replies,

When will we see you?

No response.

Cat’s in the Cradle.

.

Sacrifice.  Care.   Tuition bills.  Sick beds.   Pain.

And here,

A lesson in humility.

It’s strange how

Happy Mother’s Day

can feel a lot like

F-you.

A greeting card sentiment,

leaves a slashing wound,

sliced by a weapon wielded in a war

she didn’t know had been declared.

There had been no need to

clean the vase,

dress up for the surprise

brunch,

lunch,

dinner,

visit?

or even stay home to hang around the phone

so as not to disappoint

the kids

who call to wish

Happy Mothers’ Day.

.

.

.

(I’ve got a short story in my brain, but we’ll start with this.)

 

poem- not May 11, 2017

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:05 am
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I am not enough

to fill the void.

A yawning maw,

a gaping hole,

inadequacy piled upon inadequacy

overwhelms

and I

do not have the mass

to shore up against this tide

of weakness compounded

year after year until they got here.

I am battered.

I am broken.

I am not enough.

 

poem-blood and stone May 10, 2017

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:47 am
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They say

you can’t get blood from a stone,

but there you are

grinding

and bleeding from the effort.

There you are

releasing your hard heart

and weeping change.

Oh sure,

 

it hurts to be stoned

It’ll kill you, if the impact

hits the right place,

but a bloody stone

is only a reminder

of your strength.

Stones were once mountains

Worn by time and pressure

your mountain has become a stone,

and from your tight grip

drips

blood.