The label on the bra
reads “Keep away from fire.”
Is this a warning against
flames of excessive passion,
self-immolation, or
metaphorical representations
of feminist independence?
.
poem- raining March 22, 2015
We’re home, and it’s raining.
Vacation sun hidden
Blue skies masked by grey
I didn’t ask you to say
anything. I waited.
Too late.
We’re home, and it’s raining.
poem- the look March 21, 2015
I didn’t mean to do it.
The clerk was trying to teach me to do something for myself
but I had neither time nor inclination.
I just wanted a book, and if the one I had requested from the other campus wasn’t there,
it didn’t matter where it was in the system
or whether it was coming.
Today I could pick it up, not tomorrow or later.
It wasn’t here, so I just wanted to sign out the book in my hand.
When she tried to explain what I should do to trace the path of the missing book
explain the complex library system, invite me to log into a computer off to the side,
I gave her the look.
I didn’t mean to, but I did.
She froze and her sentence stuttered to a halt,
eyes gaping at me.
She passed my book over the scanner, gulping.
I apologized for not being teachable.
I don’t know where I developed the look,
I don’t realize I’m doing it until I see the reaction.
I don’t know what I’m doing precisely
that conveys such intense disinterest and disapproval
but it does.
At least I didn’t have to sit for ten minutes
for a lecture and computer consultation, like she wanted.
Three minutes in the university library was long enough
when I am hobbling with a cane
and irritated with accessibility.
poem-cracked March 20, 2015
I am cracked earth,
parched red clay
shrinking in the sun.
You are water,
not a flood
pouring over, but
a gentle, constant rain,
infiltrating slowly,
waking dormant seeds,
bringing blossoms,
to barren hopes,
remaking me.
poem-bully the victim March 19, 2015
Everyone thinks they’ve been bullied.
Everyone has had someone say something mean
been called a rude name
felt misunderstood
felt completely unseen
felt left out of the game.
Growing up means learning that not everyone thinks you’re great.
Growing up means knowing you’ll get called out when you’re weird.
Social correction.
Don’t be so intense, trying to fit everyone inside your fence
If they’re just being nice, don’t make them want to slice
their wrists rather than interact with you
Social rejection
is a natural reaction to those things you do.
Social conversation
starts out small, don’t demand their all
Everyone has met the kid that’s on the bullhorn
the irritating thorn who blames everyone for the scorn
he invites himself. If you want deep contact
don’t start combat if interaction contracts.
If you want a friend
Be a friend.
The end.
.
.
A few years ago, I was overheard a conversation between a Special Education teacher and a new student on the autism spectrum who was visiting the high school in preparation for attending the following year. She explained to him that in high school, if he was doing something inappropriate as a grade 8 student with poor social skills, a grade 12 would call him on it, and that wasn’t bullying, that was social correction. It was probably the most effective way for him to realize his own responsibility for the irritations of others; social correction was an enlightening concept for him. There’s a line here. Some behaviour is not appropriate! It’s important that bullies receive just as much social correction as ‘victims’ do. “We don’t treat each other like that” goes both ways. To other students, the student in question was a bully, in the way he monopolized the class room with irrelevant questions or self-indulgent narratives. He impacted them negatively, and they retained the right to tell him he needed to be quiet. He responded better to students than teachers giving the same message. What do you think? Is there such a thing as ‘social correction’ or is any negative feedback just a form of ‘bullying?’
poem-following March 18, 2015
Release your words
Let them go
Have faith that they will flutter like leaves
around
above
upon.
Some will watch and smile as the leaf words go by.
Some will study, approve, disprove, analyze, consider.
Some will see the words upon their landscape, sweep them up
send them away.
One might press your words to savour for another day.
Leaves offer scent, food, shade, beauty, and garden humous.
Every purpose is good.
Release your word leaves
to the purposes they find,
whether they’re what you intended,
or not.
Let them go.
Have faith.
poem-leprechaun March 17, 2015
Giant leprechaun
on the Via Crucis of
Palantine Hill
in Rome.
An American
in a giant
green velvet hat
laughing
and jigging
for St. Pat.
Five years ago on St. Patrick’s Day we were in Rome. We were exploring on Palantine Hill when we saw these Americans. I took his photo and he passed me his camera to take a photo of them. End of story. His hat has remained in memory as an amusing incidental of the trip.
poem-between the lines March 16, 2015
Honey,
quit hunting between the lines
for secret messages!
The pondering that ravages your mind
is funny.
Sometimes a like is just a like,
it’s not a matter of spite
a declaration of might,
suggestion you’re right,
it’s just a like.
‘Nice words. I heard them.’
‘Well phrased. This stays with me.’
‘You posted. Yay!’
Quit running with the attitude
that everything’s about you.
Relax. Let live. Don’t stress.
I don’t care if you’re wearing pants or dress.
If you look like Hans but feel like Sue.
I’m not gunning after you!
Do what you want to do.
But don’t read between my lines
and imagine that in my rhymes
I’m referring to you.
(Though this one time,
it’s true,
I do).
.
.
(Sometimes I get weird email. I should just ignore it, but sometimes it’s inspiring. What can I say?)
poem-identity March 15, 2015
Hovered over the computer
you groan about how you’ve been screwed up
by school schedules that don’t let you take
the courses you need to graduate.
Something from grade nine,
another from grade ten,
a couple from grade eleven,
how can you fit it in twelve?
School’s fault.
Not your fault, of course.
Never your fault
for not coming to class,
for not doing your work,
for not taking advantage of offers to help
for not being respectful of your peers
for not accepting support,
for not passing the courses.
One or two (or three or four)
missed credits each year.
It’s the school’s fault.
Of course, it is.
Everything is hard for you.
Why?
Why?
Why?
You strike the question,
a damning indictment.
I will tell you,
though you won’t hear:
This is why:
Because you don’t see that
you choose.
You choose
to work.
You choose
to fail.
You choose.
Until you choose
to be responsible
for every choice,
to admit you failed because you chose
not to work,
not to accept help,
not to accept the consequences of
your choices,
life will always
seem unfair.
It’s not life that’s unfair.
It’s you who is refusing
to own your reality.
Accept responsibility for yourself.
What are you afraid of?
Be!
poem-pi sigh March 14, 2015
This morning
3.14 15 at 9:26.53
I waited breathlessly
for Math Gods to bestow
great knowing.
I waited for glowing in the sky
as the moment equaled ten digits of pi.
But no.
No math enlightenment from on high.
Sigh.
Shawn L. Bird 