The chickadees are spreading the word,
New restaurant in the neighbourhood!
Oh, such gossip and chatter in the trees,
when I’ve filled the feeder with sunflower seeds!
Poem-beauty August 14, 2017
Bath
twice shampooed
hair conditioned.
Five hours on the table:
brushed,
de-matted,
brushed some more,
combed
shaved,
scissored,
scissored,
scissored.
Gorgeous poodle emerges,
from scruffy mess.
.
.
(my boy is in a historically correct Continental clip, but we’ve been travelling and it’s grown out. We’re now visiting his breeder, who ‘for fun’ gave him the whole beauty treatment. Wowza. It’s not as much hair as a show cut, but it is incredibly impressive. More work tomorrow!)
poem- scream August 11, 2017
My feet are too big
Those great shoes would look like canoes.
I’m too fat
no one would hire me.
My memory sucks
I could never share my words.
I can’t.
I’m not good enough.
I’m not.
SCREAM!
Seize your power!
Seize your words!
Scream them out!
Drown out self-doubt!
You are!
You are!
You ARE!
You are worthy.
You are worth it.
You are the only you.
You are the
only
you.
We
need
you
to embrace the you
we believe in.
We believe.
We believe
in your voice:
SCREAM!
poem-bereft August 8, 2017
Two days
Twice bereft
Two losses
barely found.
Possibility snatched away
leaves me
longing.
poem-code August 2, 2017
I read your words
poetic rendering
of a message you
send to the world.
I read your words
seeking for your
meaning. Seeking
without success.
I read your words
and they are only
bar bar babble.
Your words shout
they moan and cry.
I read your words
but I can’t find
your message.
I read your words,
but
I am not your
cryptographer.
poem- performance art July 22, 2017
I know,
that sometimes my performance faltered.
I reached down or up for notes that would not be seized.
I fumbled at times with pitch, tune, entrances, but
every time
I believed.
I believed I was selling crumbs to birds
who were going to die horrible deaths
without them.
I believed that every person
within the sound of my voice should buy
just a small bag for the ‘ungry young ones.
My voice trembled with my belief, as I gazed out at the faces,
beseeching each and every one to part with a tuppence.
.
You believed.
Stranger, how you clung to my arm,
when me met on the sidewalk, months later,
eager to tell me how you’d heard my voice
in your head weeks afterwards. How beautiful it was.
How it made you wept.
I, who knew every vocal fault,
struggled to believe
that my believing,
had been enough to reach past my inadequacy.
Thank you
for reminding me,
it’s the only thing that connects
in the end.
.
Image (c) Evan Buhler used with permission. “Feed the Birds”. Mary Poppins Shuswap Theatre 2016.
Me, being The Bird Woman November-December 2016.
I met a fan of the show yesterday and struggled once again to come to terms with the fact that our art has its own life and power. It can transcend us to speak poignant messages to receptive ears.
poem- Jingle Pot Road. Nanaimo July 18, 2017
Jingle Pot Road.
You make me want to belly dance
along your length,
as you meander back and forth
across the highway–
a serpentine of signposts–
Shimmy! Jingle! Pop! Road.
.
.
I actually performed this piece, bellydancing to the words, at When Words Collide in Calgary, August 2017. I definitely need to improve my choreography and have the piece properly memorized to do the concept justice, but it does add a fun touch to a poetry presentation! 🙂
Web post about how Jingle Pot Road got its name.
Shawn L. Bird 
sharing July 24, 2017
Tags: assault, feminism, violence, women
I wonder how many women do not have these stories in their lives? I suspect there are few if any. We acknowledge these stories, but so rarely bother to stand up to them, because they are ubiquitous. I am glad to see the light being shone on them and the label being attached. Yes, these are assaults. Yes, this is violence. This is why some cultures are so protective of girls, but why, why, why can’t the blame be put entirely where it belongs- on the perpetrators of this violence?
Perhaps because that requires us to look at our own dark natures?
I was recently reading an article that talked about the passive label like “Violence against women” as if there is no agent acting. Where does that violence come from? Not the ether. Let’s label the agents, not the objects of the action.
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