The bouquet of irises
is dessicated;
brown paper shells devoid of scent,
death displayed in a vase.
The purple blooms,
dripped inky streaks down the walls
and puddles onto the floor.
The stains leave a memory of floral glory
for tomorrow.
micro-poem: Indiana Jones May 27, 2015
Today at school, one of my students asked me what a ‘whippersnapper’ was. I explained the meaning and then smirked at her, and told her this. She didn’t get it. Hopefully you do! 😉
poem- swing
In the photograph, you are on a swing in city park,
the yellow paint on the support bar is worn and flaking,
you grip the chain, suspended on the tiny rubber seat
your tall man body mashed.
You’re smirking so wide your dimple dances with the light in your eyes
Our first French kiss lingered in the air,
as our future flashed fireworks over your head.
.
.
This photo sits on my desk, and makes me smile every day.
poem-choose strong May 26, 2015
You can not choose the circumstance
that fights to keep you down,
but you can choose how you respond;
you can choose to be strong.
Whatever trauma shatters you,
Whatever hurts you feel,
The weakness is just temporary;
You have the strength to heal.
.
.
.
A fitting conclusion to yesterday’s poem, today’s piece reflects the message of Robb Nash and his band who played for the high schools of Salmon Arm today. I’m glad to part of Shuswap Rotary which supported Robb’s visit. Read more about Nash’s astonishing life story and inspirational work here: http://www.robbnash.com
poem-shatter May 25, 2015
You are bound tightly by mirrors
Gazing at yourself through refracted light
Every flaw magnified infinitely
Every hurt reflected back
slashing
slashing
slashing
you into fragile glass: you
naked Royal Doulton figurine
bare
broken
morose multiplicity in a million pieces of silver.
.
.
.
I want this to have a hopeful spin, but perhaps that will be part two tomorrow? It feels complete in thought, so I’ll stop.
Poem- Parts May 24, 2015
I’m part English, part Welsh, part Prussian, part French
Diluted by experiences of generations born the ‘right’ colour.
Not even ‘No Irish need apply’ to tarnish their immigrant dream:
Canada, land of opportunity for the stalwart farming types.
Though great-grandpa was an accountant and failed at farming.
.
So who am I to comment on anyone else’s parts?
. My great-niece: part African
. My nephew: part First Nations
are just family. Or
Those friends from here and there whose colour
Was not as important as their character
Whose home culture was a matter of curiosity
Never animousity. We were
White kids convulsing over that time at the bar
When the guy climbed into the back of Khalid’s car
convinced he was a taxi driver,
And we never considered that maybe parts of his heart
Were incized by the stereotype he laughed off.
Because we didn’t waste time worrying about races or colours,
We were full of the wonder of all our parts racing together toward our futures.
.
.
This was created as part of an assignment in my Education of Inclusion course. This week we’re looking at cultural inclusion and racisim. One of the videos we watched was about ‘hyphenated Canadians’. We were expected to comment on this, but I just don’t feel like I can say anything about what it might be like to feel caught between cultural identities, so this poem is my offering on the subject.
poem-bellydancer day May 23, 2015
This day
is tie-dyed velvet:
Sequined blue blinks below,
milk swirled turquoise above,
Bald Eagle arcs over
undulating sunburnt pink hills,
Red-tailed Hawk swoops above
evergreen shadows that
shimmy under shining sun.
poem-rapid write May 21, 2015
Your pens are scratching
Timer ticking
Ten minutes of writing
frantic
fervent
instant effort
fired up
The buzzer sounds
and you have created
something that did not exist
ten minutes before.
.
.
In my classes students do daily timed writes to get the brains used to engaging quickly and just writing loosely. I give them prompts to use or not: lines from songs, Rory Story Cubes, a photo. It’s amazing to see how they develop writing muscles. I check these as complete, but don’t grade them. They’re about process because you learn to write by writing. 🙂
poem-lonely May 20, 2015
I do not know what to do
about your screams.
It seems you plunge
to unplumbable depths
and I do not know
how to swim.
The mists of melancholy
shroud the waters,
coat you in agony,
fog reason, and
I fear I am not lighthouse
enough to guide you home.
Shawn L. Bird 