Strike the match;
light that candle;
defeat the dark.
Spark.
Sputter.
That tiny wick
won’t brighten
anyone’s despair.
Spark.
Sputter.
Little wicks are a waste of wax.
Candle melt-down.
Find a wick you can trim
For light that won’t dim.
poem- homunculi May 27, 2020
Oh, those little men,
stomping about.
Ranting! Raving!
Poor persecuted poppets
lacking conscience and self-control.
“No! No! No!”
“Mine! Mine! Mine!”
Mothers roll their eyes,
send intractable toddlers
back to bed.
poem- it’s raining May 6, 2020
I’m chilled to the bone.
I wish for a wood stove:
that crackle and flash,
heat that sinks in deep,
defines cozy comfort,
makes me want to sleep.
I can hear my mother,
If you’re cold, put on a sweater!
I want a wood stove:
the summer scent on logs,
I want
warm feet on a hassock,
hot cup of tea,
well-written mystery.
Fine, Mother.
I’ll get a sweater, too.
Poem- Pandemic sestina May 5, 2020
These days are quiet time
Our hectic lives forced to slow
We breathe,
thankful for lungs that work,
content to wait
until it’s safe out there.
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In some places, there
stands Death, taking its time,
poised with scythe, to wait
as heart beats slow.
The nurses do their work;
patients struggle to breathe.
.
Breathe
deeply. There.
It’s work.
Time
slows.
We wait.
.
The entire planet waits.
Even the wind breathes
in coughs and gasps. Fast. Slow.
No more rushing here and there.
Clocks are useless. What is time?
Stay home. Avoid work.
.
If you have savings and sick leave for your work,
you can afford to wait.
Money doesn’t equal time.
Some can afford to breathe
easy, but there
are folks who can’t afford to slow.
.
It’s hard being forced to slow
down, to re-think how we work,
to consider that there
comes peace in learning to wait,
in learning to breathe,
in resting for a time.
.
So slow down and wait.
Work on your breathing.
In time, freedom will be there.
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A sestina is an old, French poetry form made up of 6 stanzas of sestets ending with a 3 line ‘envoi.’ Each stanza re-orders the end words of the first stanza (lexical repetition) in a specific pattern.
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poem- In the world beyond my windows May 1, 2020
The White Crowned sparrows fill
the yard; they butt striped heads at
the feeders, but they sing for their supper.
The sky is brilliant blue,
clouds hover around the edges of my sight, fringing
the hills.
Mount Ida is still white-capped,
the fire-dead splinters bristle through
the snow line above
a carpet of spruce and fir. Across
the street someone has left
a painted rock beside
the mailbox; we’ve all earned its
purple heart.
Bursting buds,
New green leaves on spring awakened
trees.
The House Finch in
the blue spruce announces his
new family, but warbles his warning,
No visitors allowed!
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This is a list poem. Sometimes they are numbered, though this one isn’t, obviously. 🙂 I don’t think I’ve seen one with enjambment like I’ve used here, but hey, it’s my poem. What good is a poetic licence if you don’t take advantage?
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poem- My watering can has a leak April 30, 2020
I race through the living room
hand cupping drips
rushing toward the sink,
but my right foot finds a puddle
and flings itself forward
I contort in a frenzied downward dance
still clutching that can,
twist an ankle,
stretch a thigh,
descend in slow motion
as husband stands agog,
an astonished witness.
Look! I skinned my knee!
We wonder together how that
particular injury came to be.
I limp to the sink, feeling four once more,
glad not to be picking gravel from the wound,
Look for leak-free watering options,
and try the task again.
Battered and bemused,
life goes on.
poem- isolation moment April 21, 2020
Small dog,
heavy on my foot.
Scent of baking muffins
wafts down the hall.
Buzzer calls at last
poem- get out of your way April 20, 2020
It’s all possible
deep stretched dreams
pushing through negativity
into it can be.
Ignore discouragement.
You can make it,
taking skill, faith, time,
mix with luck,
Do it.
poem- seized April 8, 2020
Circles spinning
Words. Confusion.
Frustration.
Irritation.
and then
Enough.
Done.
Control taken.
Plans made.
Tension eased.
Creating manageable goals.
Autonomy seized.
poem- around the world April 6, 2020
I’m on a site celebrating my adopted culture
when someone asks which of us were exchange students.
Suddenly there are 50 comments:
their years, their homes, their hosts.
Someone writes to me from Australia,
“We were there at the same time. I wonder if we met?”
Imagine that.
A virtual rendez-vous decades later.
A tiny marble, this globe; we can
almost hold it in our hands.
Shawn L. Bird 