Six months ago
you were fighting to play pickle ball
laughing on the small court
stretching your racket to hit the ball
stumbling and crashing onto the court,
filling your head with
flashing white fireworks,
exploding star bursts.
Now
you are fighting for two more weeks
laughing with guests in the small room,
stretching your life to see your children
stumbling and crashing against time
filling your belly with fluid,
flashing white pain
imploding your life
.
.
.
For Auntie Linda
Change blows in
on the wind
on the sweet scent of honeysuckle
and the stinging tang of chicken manure
Sort the good from the bad,
and set your sail
to catch the breeze you need
for your new direction.
New covers
for old chairs.
Pieces of summer sky
cut, sewn, and stapled
Fresh summer days
contained within a frame
set in the living room.
This isn’t silence
This is you
thinking
cogs whirring
thoughts stirring
trolling the bottom
of the ocean
for the solution
to your dilemma,
resolving the conflict
with yourself.
Time has pleats.
While years may stretch them out.
They enfold when old friends
meet after years,
touching as if only
hours have passed.
I’m re-blogging a post about myself on another blog. Is that terribly narcissistic of me? This was an entertaining exchange! 🙂
Shawn L. Bird is a poet, a novelist, and an educator. Here is my artist’s conception of her, but I do not do her justice, and I hope you visit her site to find that that is true.
Recently Shawn posted an “Unfinished Canadian Joke” about a beaver crossing the road, thus:
On the side of the highway:
a body of thick fur and flat leathery tail.
Why did the beaver cross the road?
I guess we’ll never know.
I commented, thus:
Because with Beavers it’s one dam thing after another.
She replied, thus:
You should lodge a complaint.
And from then on it went like this:
Gary: I tried, but my tail fell flat.
Shawn: Keep gnawing at it, and I’m sure it’ll work out.
Gary: Is that incisor information?
Shawn: Dam right! Stick to it!
Gary: Would that I could, but I can’t afford to be chewsy. [sad…
View original post 200 more words
There is a gentleness
and a comfort you’re wearing now,
so unlike the anger
and anguish that was your shield.
We’ve seen you change
from besieged warrior to
confident ruler of your world.
We have seen
and we are glad.
The house rests.
Five bodies drift on dreams.
One sits, enshrined in song,
strums softly
on strings:
a living lullaby.
She writes in peacock blue ink
Turquoise words like an equatorial sea–
exotic and dramatic–
vivid colour for vivid dreams,
beyond pedantic black or
boring blue
so dark it’s a black wannabe.
In gatherings of youthful poets
peacock ink predominates.
While pedants declare it’s
a colour coded affectation,
peacock poets know
ink encapsulating sky and sea
makes mere words ethereal–
their metaphor of fundamental creativity.
Mama and Papa Quail,
wearing identically jaunty hats,
are trying to contain
two dozen very excited,
fuzzy brown ping-pong balls.
.
.
.
.
(and they were ADORABLE as they churned about the grass!)
Shawn L. Bird 