When very riled my dad would curse
“Sugar!” he’d cry with vehemence.
Remembering now makes me sigh,
t’was a perfect curse for such a sweet guy.
poem-road trip July 31, 2015
Oil checked
Tires checked
Rad fluid checked
Windshield washer fluid checked
Windows washed
Trunk packed
Tunes loaded
Seatbelts on
Drive
Talk
Laugh
poem-old dog July 30, 2015
It can’t be comfortable
in that convoluted position
but since you assume it more and more often
I can only presume that normalcy
is more painful than contortion.
poem-lost July 29, 2015
Small voice calling;
creatures crawling.
Hopes are falling.
She’s left bawling,
Must stop lolling
and start hauling.
poem-naked July 28, 2015
The line of naked men was long, snaking along a corridor
in the recruitment centre, with whispered jokes and camaraderie,
then the naked line was shorter,
then just one naked man standing awkwardly alone,
in the line of now clothed young men.
He fought flaming cheeks as they studied him punctiliously.
“No, you won’t do,” the army medical team announced. “Heart murmur.”
Shame.
A great escape, that. The boys who went to war never quite came home.
But that heart murmured along for another three quarters of a century,
serving his country by staying alive..
.
.
.
My dad had a lot of stories.
Apparently I’ll be working through my grief setting them down as poems.
poem-dedicated July 27, 2015
This is for you
across miles
words
music
a message to the masses
A heart hung on electrical wires
or floating on the wifi waves
thinking of you.
.
.
.
.
Thinking about these memories.
poem-next week July 26, 2015
“I’ll see you next week, Daddy,”
I said.
“I hope I’m feeling better then,”
he said.
“I do, too, Daddy. I love you,”
I said as I kissed his cheek.
This week, I hope he is feeling great,
playing tennis in heaven.
.
.
.
This was the 2000th post on ShawnBird.com I’d celebrate, but I’m not quite up to it, for obvious reasons.
poem-summer noise
Oh, if only those
air conditioner fans would stop
then I could listen to
the summer serenading
of the frogs.
poem- gone July 25, 2015
My scheduled time to sit vigil by your bed
was one o’clock this afternoon.
I was there, but you were gone.
.
poem- this journey
on this journey
the sun is bright
occasionally it blinds to way ahead
on this journey
bugs occasionally pester us
pepper us with worries
on this journey
there are hills to climb
with slow deliberation
step by step
on this journey
there are wild rides, laughter, and open eyes
on this journey
the destination is secondary
Shawn L. Bird 