Oh, loser dad,
squealing the tires of your
red convertible in
front of all the grads.
I’m sorry
you peaked in high school.
The revving of your engine
declares you
as a fool.
Faces turn, loser dad,
with pity on your son,
the grad.
May he go on to be
much better
than the man
he sees.
.
.
.
Ok, ok. I know this one is harsh. But seriously. 2-300 people in the courtyard, little kids moving through the parking lot, and this idiot is smoking his tires as he parks his car. Really? Common sense, man!
Flying oilslick
on thrumming wings
collapses on my pine tree
and stares at me
daring me.
My protectors
bark their disapproval
and it languidly lifts off
trailing them behind.
Until they reach the fence,
then, tails
immensely satisfied,
lope back to me,
for their reward.
Black garbed intimidators
with steely eyes
do not impress
the wolf clan.
This is a comfort.
Morning rain
pouring over drains
everywhere,
overflowing weirs.
Rivers risen,
spreading,
heading for places
no river should be.
We could see roads
but brown water
obscures,
fills houses
rushes, hisses.
Morning rain,
Warnings reign.
Please water,
drain.
.
.
.
For my friends and their families in Southern Alberta suffering from the massive flooding throughout the region. May people, pets, and possesssions be reunited without damage. May insurance cover the rebuilding! May rebuilding be prompt.
She sheds memories
like dandruff
and as we brush
away the flakes of her,
she loses us.
She squints through
vast blankness with
vague intensity,
“Who are you?”
Her life drifts
in and out
on images as tenuous
as imagination.
Thus, mother transforms
into a mesh of
our memories of her,
even as her memories
drift into fog.
.
.
.
.
I see sweet ladies at the Extended Care unit, who are lost to themselves. So sad for them and their children. I’m thankful that my parents both hold tightly to their memories.
The sky drips
its soggy sorrow
on students
walking into exams.
They step
out of white hazes
in expectation
(or desperation).
The sky drips
on their satisfaction
of consummation
and their sighs
of celebration
for coming
graduation.
Originally posted Nov 8, 2011. It’s nice to revisit old posts!
This was written from a prompt for Gooseberry Garden on Feathers, Fidelity Figment and Fables.
.
Your name is faithfulness.
Time stretched the fidelity
and you left that future,
For years t’was fueled
by the fervour of adoration,
and the declaration of forever.
Faith dripped
faintly
across forever
and fell
in fragrant furrows
of fallow hope.
Your footprints mark the dirt in your garden.
Your finger prints are on the door frame.
Your handwriting tells me we need
Saskatoon berry jam
potatoes
and milk.
Your hair is tangled in your comb.
Your breath is in the bristles of your toothbrush.
Your head left its impression on your pillow.
Your scent is on your clothes in the closet.
But you
are gone.
You are a poem
that only angels know.
You move with the ocean’s pulse
waves kissing the shore
twice a day,
touching sky,
swelling with promise.
You are a poem
only the angels know,
but I am listening
for your words
on the wind,
reaching to catch
the rhythm,
in the rolling tide,
stretching to hear
the angels whisper.
You are a poem
I long to know.
In honour of Father’s Day, here’s an oldie from 2010 for your enjoyment. Do you have a similar precious memory of your dad from your youth? I’m still a Daddy’s girl. How about you?
For Friesens and Bhatias who are grieving the loss of their fathers this week.
.
I followed behind him on the beach.
He turned with a smile and opened his arms
for me to run into
and he swung me schrieking
high into the air,
catching my laughter on the way down.
I stood on his shoulders as he
launched me into the surf
squealing and splashing.
Then screaming and thrashing
as I gulped in salt water
and my feet desperately
saught security
until his hands reached down
and pulled me into the haven
of his embrace.
Baby boy,
blue blanket tucked into your chin,
Thumb in in mouth, jaw moving tch-tch-tch-tch.
Perfect tiny face,
an animated melon
beneath the blanket,
immersed in the sweet scent of diaper powder.
I blink.
Baby boy,
Body stretched across the mattress,
Toes draped over the edge,
blankets splayed across your waist,
whiskers bristling your chin.
Mouth agape: GRZZZZ-GRRRRZ-GrrrrrrZ
in the pungent scent of sweat.
Baby boy.
.
.
.
(Even when they’re men, their mothers see the babies they once held in their arms.)
Shawn L. Bird 