Shawn L. Bird

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

poem- seeing May 31, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 8:22 pm
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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

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:51 pm
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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

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 8:23 pm
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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

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:00 pm
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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

Filed under: fun,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 4:56 pm
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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

Filed under: Poetry,poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:31 pm
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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

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 4:33 pm
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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

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:29 pm
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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

Filed under: Poetry,poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:04 pm
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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.

 

 

poem- changes July 9, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:15 pm
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The day after she turned fifty,

She found four spider veins

She was sure weren’t there

when she was forty-nine.

 

 
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