Shawn L. Bird

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

harp tune-Suo Gan June 24, 2014

Here is Suo Gân, a Welsh lullaby, arranged by me and dedicated to David Prosser of the Barsetshire Diaries.

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My paternal great-grandmother was Margaret Owen, born in Holyhead, Wales. She was married to Thomas Mosses of London, England.  About the only time the two appear to have been together is on their marriage certificate.  According to many years of census data, Margaret was alone from the time of the marriage onward.  My grandfather was David Owen Mosses.  I wonder if single mother Margaret ever sang this lullaby to young David?

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(And if you happen to be a Mosses from Liverpool or London, I’d love to hear from you).

 

poem-darkness June 23, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:54 am
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The porch swing rocks

beneath a speckled sky.

Mosquito hums fill the air;

black wings swoop overhead

in invisible rustlings,

swallowing music.

 

 

micropoem- illicit scent June 22, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:47 am
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The perfume from

these stolen peonies

seems extra sweet.

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(Lest you think I stalk the neighbourhood, masked, with scissors in hand looking for floral victims: the peonies in question were bending onto my driveway from a peony bush in a bed so overgrown I don’t think the neighbours even know the bush is there!).

 

poem- demon hunting June 21, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:18 pm
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You don’t believe in God

but you know demons,

up close and personally.

The ever present haunting,

sometimes out of sight

but never far,

is a billowing storm cloud,

black and ominous,

waiting to pour down upon you

waiting to wash out your roads

waiting to carry you away

too rife with hopelessness

to thrash against it.

A demon rides your shoulder,

its claws clinging to your skin,

its fury held at bay by

an umbrella of medicaments,

a pharmaceutical shelter

from the storm,

inadequate against a

demon’s tempest.

 

 

poem-laughter

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:35 am
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You toddle over,

your two tooth grin wide.

When tapped

upon your button nose

you burst with

belly laughs.

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I met Iona today.  Iona is little, and doesn’t speak yet, but she oozes personality!

 

poem-sun June 20, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:12 pm
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The mahogany  marbling

of my arms betrays

my desire to remain indoors,

out of the burning glare.

Strange times, when

we are forced under sun.

Instead supervising exams

we direct lost tourists

to the Info Centre

(Google, your map is wrong,

like this government).

So many metaphors

and all day in the sun

to appreciate them.

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leg

 

 

poem- the line

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:30 am
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Picket signs

propped in front of us

we strike for a better world

either strolling the side walk

or strumming harp

or guitar.

A strike is like a barbeque

for a cause

fueled by coffee and doughnuts

instead of beer and beef.

 

 

poem- stand up June 19, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:27 pm
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“Why are teachers even bothering to picket,

when you aren’t getting strike pay any more?”

he asked.

I told him it was because teachers are moralists

who are defending democracy

and fair working & bargaining conditions

against a corrupt government:

A government that ignores the court rulings

spends billions of tax payers’ dollars appealing

judgments by the Supreme Court

and the United Nations saying they

are WRONG to steal from our kids.

It will pay billions for a stadium roof,

but will not pay for educating its children.

I told him that in such a war,

pay is a small thing.

We will fight, because if our government

succeeds in destroying OUR union

then every other working person in this province

is in peril.

If OUR contracts can be shredded with impunity,

so can YOURS!

We are fighting for YOUR rights

and for our students’ right to a properly funded education

against a government with an agenda

to destroy public education and the middle class.

We’re fighting for YOU! I told him.

“Oh,” he said.

 

poem- creek

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:45 am
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From the bridge

I look down

upon the frozen creek

and see a red mitten

bobbing  under the ice.

 

poem- old street June 18, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:18 am
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The old man

who lived in

the corner house

with the red front stairs

always had

time to

listen.