After forty
came freedom.
No one relying on me
My dreams became
priority.
Embracing fun and beauty:
Shoes that make me dance
VW Bug that makes me laugh.
Writing stories and poetry,
then releasing them to readers.
Studying for that masters degree.
No one to stop me reaching.
No tethers constraining me.
After forty
possibility
became reality.
poem-I came into myself November 4, 2020
poem- seeing May 31, 2020
I see a new person now.
The years’ baggage-
so much bitterness and resentment-
has disappeared like lost luggage.
She stands at the Baggage Claim,
befuddled
then teeters down the hall,
oblivious to its loss.
This peaceful creature
is new.
There is no room to hold the past
against her.
poem-calendars June 13, 2016
Day by day,
week by week,
month by month,
year by year,
Perpetual motion
marks our lives,
cradle to grave.
Recto, verso,
each a new start
toward the inevitable,
inexorable,
final page.
poem-failing May 8, 2016
New griefs
Still alive
but failing
dropping pieces of yourself
behind you
abilities drip away
and we face a new you
seemingly oblivious to
this reality
poem- alienation September 18, 2015
She speaks of the alienation of senses.
vision fades
hearing lies
touch hurts
taste dulls
smell empties
What remains is the acute sense of memory
and occasionally a sense of humour
at the irony
of it all.
poem- retirement project May 5, 2015
That old shell of a van
might make a fun project for you.
Just think, when it’s done
you can make out in the back with a hot chick,
or at least a chick with hot flashes.
.
poem-old dog February 4, 2015
You groan in your bed
shifting to find a comfortable spot.
You struggle to rise on those
sore back legs.
You fall over avoiding
chair legs.
You ignore your dinner
as if eating is too much effort.
You don’t hear people when
they come to the door.
You go out to toilet,
but poop as you come in.
You strain to see me
through clouded eyes.
But you wag your tail
when you recognise me
and bring me a toy to tug.
You follow me whenever I move,
just wanting to be with me.
You make me stare down
hard decisions.
dear old dog.
.
.
.
2015 is not my favourite year.
Dusty Dog’s 17th birthday is in August, but I don’t think he’s going to see it.
poem- Christmas Eve December 24, 2014
The
house
is empty
except for memories
It’s really too much effort
setting up that Christmas tree.
The young folks all use email
so there weren’t many cards received
The avenue is packed with snow
that’s falling unrelieved
They won’t risk driving anywhere
on that they are agreed.
Celebrations are in the past
as memories are retrieved
That’s the magic of the season,
and the truth of
Christmas Eve.
.
.
.
Merry Christmas to those who are alone, working, or happily avoiding celebrations.
PS. The shape was supposed to be a Christmas tree, but I’m thinking it looks more like an elf silhouette. What’s your take?
poem- everybody dies alone December 12, 2014
You tell me
you’re afraid
of the inevitable destination
of this journey,
and I can’t help you.
I’ve never been there,
and I don’t know what to say
to ease your fear.
poem-Dusty July 16, 2014
Little brown
Dusty dog
shadow at my
feet
Your blind eyes no
longer help you pick a ball out of the air
leaping four times your height
cookies tossed at your mouth
now bounce off your nose.
Your sore hips
aren’t stable enough
for you to beg
or dance
or roll over
any more.
But still you follow
whenever I leave the room
attached to my ankle
just to be beside me,
my little brown
love
shadow.
.
.
.
When this little brown poodle pup came to live with us, his name was MacBeth. As a family we debated whether to call him Dusty (after the Dusty Strings harps, since he’d be the only Dusty I could afford) or Shadow. He became Dusty, but he was always Shadow.
Shawn L. Bird 