Shawn L. Bird

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

poem-wanderer December 28, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:49 am
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Death walks softly

cloaked in invisibility.

You rose from bed,

settled in your chair,

and Death tapped you on the shoulder;

bid you follow.

But you said, “Wait,

I have something to do.”

You closed your eyes, and arrived in my room.

I felt you there, befuddled and lost, and so I told you

To move toward the light,

I told you I loved you.

I told you to say hello to Grandma and Grandpa.

And you tracked the light, through my bedroom door

up through my roof, and I looked at the clock: 8:37

The moment you left for heaven.

 

poem-Brittany December 27, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:00 am
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So small,

but her voice rings out,

bell-like and true

She holds tightly to the tune.

Iridescent cherry curves of caramel.

Beauty under pressure,

vibrating on my lap

music therapy for what ails me.

.

.

A little metaphor.  Here’s the Brittany in question:

Literally true- she keep her tuning amazingly well- I didn’t play for a month and every note was still right!  Unheard of in a harp, really.  Also, the strings are under nearly a ton of pressure, the soundboard bellies out quite dramatically. (They say a harp sounds at its most beautiful just before it explodes…)  My Brittany is cherry wood in the sound box, pillar and harmonic curve, but Baltic birch on the sound board.  She’s a very beautiful little harp.

 

poem-morning December 26, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:16 pm
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Tender embraces

whispers in the dawn

unveil tomorrow;

night is gone.

 

poem-morning December 25, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:58 am
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Somewhere,

children are laughing

tearing wrappings

squealing gleefully.

Somewhere,

some one is dining on cold pizza

in relative contentment

absent of relatives.

Somewhere,

snow is falling,

from a moonlit sky

and light is returning

bit by bit.

 

poem-Christmas Eve December 24, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:53 am
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It’s Christmas Eve and you’re not here,

There’ll never be another year

when we will feel your warm embrace

and look upon your loving face.

It’s our first Christmas without you

No wonder I am feeling blue.

 

 

poem-exorcise December 23, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:35 pm
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Pen strokes

Keyboard strikes

Ghosts exorcised by words;

Freedom found from phantoms.

New worlds

opened for exploration.

 

poem-burnt December 22, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:11 pm
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She’s fuchsia

purple

royal blue.

She’s wine,

emerald,

turquoise.

Everyone knows it.

But you gift burnt orange

despite having heard years

of disgusted mutterings

about orange and yellow and olive

from childhood.

Burnt orange.

Burnt.

Orange.

She ponders

Surely there is a message here?

and wonders whether you would be offended

if she dyes your gift

more than she’s offended

by burnt orange.

 

 

 

 

poem-absent December 21, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 4:35 pm
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I hear your voice I see your smile

I’m glad you’re here to sit a while,

but when I turn around I see

that you are only memory.

So Christmas has come and you are gone

and day by day life still goes on;

though you are free from earthy pain,

Your absence grieves my heart again.

 

 

 

poem-reader December 20, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:12 pm
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Perhaps, because I’m reading

Dust bunnies scamper across my floors

hiding beneath tables, gathering behind doors.

Perhaps, because I’m reading

Dishes stack into tall piles

and papers are exploding in spurts, beyond their files.

Perhaps, because I’m reading

I ignore the telephone,

but then, because I’m reading,

I’m content within my home.

 

poem-fakery December 19, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:31 pm
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We’ve decorated the artificial tree

The fire crackles on the TV

Holiday cards show everyone happy

People gather smiling gleefully

to celebrate festivities

and it all feels like fakery.

.

If this is meant to be

a season all about peace,

then let me sit here quietly

alone but for fictional company

the only sound, fire crackling,

and I will celebrate contentedly,

avoiding family and all their expectation of responsibility.

.

.

I am an extrovert and I generally love being out with people, but when I’m under a lot of stress, all I want to do is sit in heated comfort by myself, and spend time in the company of book friends.  All the obligatory holiday hoopla just makes me grumpy and anti-social, particularly with my dad passing away this summer and my mother suffering a serious stroke a couple of weeks ago.