Shane Koyczan is from my home town. He is a powerful poet.
This needs to be watched. October 29, 2013
poem- fractured
I know
you’re broken.
I see the fracture lines
behind your eyes
I feel the seepage
leaking from the crack in your soul.
I have
needle, thread
glue
and hope.
I’ll share.
poem- kill the critic
Kill the critic:
let him drown in the
flow of your words.
Kill the critic:
let him sear in the
molten eruption
from the core of you.
Kill the critic:
let him smother
gasping against the tide
of your creativity,
.grasping at the emptiness
that was your insecurities.
Kill the critic:
be free.
.
.
NB: I do not advocate murder of anything but the inner voice that tells you that you’re inadequate. Your inner critic has no business in your writing head-space. You can’t edit a blank page.
poem- echoes
I bought
an adorable black hat
at Goorin Bros.
Tilted the burgundy brim
to the perfect angle
Grabbed my new
wooly black ruana,
draped it around my shoulders
with a flourish, loving the fall
of the ruffled edges,
the weight, the warmth.
I felt my creativity
shouting through the garb,
felt Bohemian, wild, and artistic.
Then I grinned in the mirror
and saw the echo of my
great-grandmother’s
Salvation Army cape and bonnet.
We never get too far away
from home.
poem- autumn ghosts October 28, 2013
City
streets
are graveyards
of summer leaves.
Their blood red corpses
crushed beneath our feet
ghostly impressions
on concrete:
art in
decay
.
(for Leena, in memory of our Yaletown adventures Sunday morning)
poem- faith October 27, 2013
It is enough
that you fill the hollow places.
When you’re in your darkness,
the glistening of faith in you
can find the warmth you need
so what was empty
overflows with me.
poem- beautiful
I love you
I want to be with you
he said
but I can’t ever call you beautiful
I’ll say lovely
and that’s better
She nodded uncertainly
wondering what that meant
Years later
she reminded him of his words.
I was an ass,
he said.
But he still could not
bring himself
to say the word.
poem- self-fulfilling prophecies October 26, 2013
At four hundred pounds
she filled every room
I am beautiful!
I am amazing!
I am entertaining!
I will help you succeed!
They didn’t question
her self-control
her ugly words
her petty cruelties
her avarice
They accepted every word
and made it true.
poem- lessons October 25, 2013
When my dad went to school
he knew the Brother would beat him.
The ruler would rap down across
his small knuckles
once for every spelling mistake.
He knew he’d always make a mistake.
He knew he’d be beaten.
It didn’t make him study,
it just made him drag his feet
on the way to school,
meant education was painful
meant inadequacy
and brutality
were part of every day.
It didn’t make him speed up
that he’d be whipped
for tardiness
either.
During lessons,
he watched boys fly
across the room
propelled by the fury
of the Christian Brothers
who didn’t understand
much about children,
faith
kindness
or the golden rule.
Dad kept his head down,
nursed sore
knuckles and learned
how not to treat children.
.
.
Happy Birthday to my dad, who celebrates his 99th birthday today!
One more year until the official greeting from the Queen!
PS. Dad attended parochial school in Montreal in the 1920s.
poem- bubbles October 24, 2013
You’re simmering
on a low boil,
bubbles sitting on the
bottom of the pan,
popping to the surface
in occasional bursts
of aggravation.
I don’t know
whether to turn
up the heat,
or turn you off.
Shawn L. Bird 