Shawn L. Bird

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

poem- fade June 2, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:48 pm
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Certainty sits in my throat while

rain weeps uneasy farewell

to the ambulance.

She will not fare well.

She is failing, fragile.

Rain washes tenuous existence

down the street in ripples

and rivulets.

It’s all downhill from here.

 

poem- seeing May 31, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 8:22 pm
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I see a new person now.

The years’ baggage-

so much bitterness and resentment-

has disappeared like lost luggage.

She stands at the Baggage Claim,

befuddled

then teeters down the hall,

oblivious to its loss.

This peaceful creature

is new.

There is no room to hold the past

against her.

 

poem-flick May 28, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:51 pm
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Strike the match;

light that candle;

defeat the dark.

Spark.
Sputter.

That tiny wick

won’t brighten

anyone’s despair.

Spark.
Sputter.

Little wicks are a waste of wax.

Candle melt-down.

Find a wick you can trim

For light that won’t dim.

 

 

poem- homunculi May 27, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:52 pm
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Oh, those little men,

stomping about.

Ranting!  Raving!

Poor persecuted poppets

lacking conscience and self-control.

“No! No! No!”

“Mine! Mine! Mine!”

Mothers roll their eyes,

send intractable toddlers

back to bed.

 

poem- it’s raining May 6, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:25 pm
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I’m chilled to the bone.

I wish for a wood stove:

that crackle and flash,

heat that sinks in deep,

defines cozy comfort,

makes me want to sleep.

I can hear my mother,

If you’re cold, put on a sweater!

I want a wood stove:

the summer scent on  logs,

I want

warm feet on a hassock,

hot cup of tea,

well-written mystery.

Fine, Mother.

I’ll get a sweater, too.

 

 

Poem- Pandemic sestina May 5, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:37 pm
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These days are quiet time
Our hectic lives forced to slow
We breathe,
thankful for lungs that work,
content to wait
until it’s safe out there.
.
In some places, there
stands Death, taking its time,
poised with scythe, to wait
as heart beats slow.
The nurses do their work;
patients struggle to breathe.
.
Breathe
deeply. There.
It’s work.
Time
slows.
We wait.
.
The entire planet waits.
Even the wind breathes
in coughs and gasps. Fast.  Slow.
No more rushing here and there.
Clocks are useless. What is time?
Stay home.  Avoid work.
.
If you have savings and sick leave for your work,
you can afford to wait.
Money doesn’t equal time.
Some can afford to breathe
easy, but there
are folks who can’t afford to slow.
.
It’s hard being forced to slow
down, to re-think how we work,
to consider that there
comes peace in learning to wait,
in learning to breathe,
in resting for a time.
.
So slow down and wait.
Work on your breathing.
In time, freedom will be there.

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A sestina is an old, French poetry form made up of 6 stanzas of sestets ending with a 3 line ‘envoi.’  Each stanza re-orders the end words of the first stanza (lexical repetition)  in a specific pattern.  

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poem- In the world beyond my windows May 1, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:57 pm
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The White Crowned sparrows fill

the yard; they butt striped heads at

the feeders, but they sing for their supper.

The sky is brilliant blue,

clouds hover around the edges of my sight, fringing

the hills.

Mount Ida is still white-capped,

the fire-dead splinters bristle through

the snow line above

a carpet of spruce and fir.  Across

the street someone has left

a painted rock beside

the mailbox; we’ve all earned its

purple heart.

Bursting buds,

New green leaves on spring awakened

trees.

The House Finch in

the blue spruce announces his

new family, but warbles his warning,

No visitors allowed!

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This is a list poem. Sometimes they are numbered, though this one isn’t, obviously.  🙂  I don’t think I’ve seen one with enjambment like I’ve used here, but hey, it’s my poem. What good is a poetic licence if you don’t take advantage?

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poem- My watering can has a leak April 30, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:42 pm
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I race through the living room

hand cupping drips

rushing toward the sink,

but my right foot finds a puddle

and flings itself forward

I contort in a frenzied downward dance

still clutching that can,

twist an ankle,

stretch a thigh,

descend in slow motion

as husband stands agog,

an astonished witness.

Look!  I skinned my knee! 

We wonder together how that

particular injury came to be.

I limp to the sink, feeling four once more,

glad not to be picking gravel from the wound,

Look for leak-free watering options,

and try the task again.

Battered and bemused,

life goes on.

 

poem- isolation moment April 21, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:58 pm
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Small dog,

heavy on my foot.

Scent of baking muffins

wafts down the hall.

Buzzer calls at last

 

poem- get out of your way April 20, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:22 pm
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It’s all possible

deep stretched dreams

pushing through negativity

into it can be.

Ignore discouragement.

You can make it,

taking skill, faith, time,

mix with luck,

Do it.

 

 
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