Shawn L. Bird

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

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


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






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.


poem- blinded March 8, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:22 pm
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Nearly 100 years old

Macular degeneration stolen sight

Ears failing

trapped in a blurry, muzzy world

When I am his age

will the genetics he passed along

place me in his world?

Will I be able to do what I love without sight or sound?

So I practice

typing this poem without my glasses.

Hoping for the best

like aging.


poem- what are you saying? February 8, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:11 pm
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The dress is tight

and youthful.

You beam, when people say

“You look great!”

But from a distance

they observe

the bulges from

the botched cosmetic surgery,

and the fake parts glued here and there.

They sigh how sad it is

that you feel you need to try so hard

to be a plastic doll

instead of you.

True beauty is not

about artificial expectations

it’s about being confident

as you are

and celebrating

that your uniqueness

is beautiful.


birthday thoughts July 6, 2013

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:52 am
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Today I am half my father’s age.

We creep toward century and half century

No one believes either of us.

Thanks for those genes.

My body is rebelling

against my good nature.

There is a pain in my foot

new since yesterday.

I have no tolerance

for such nonsense.

Beautiful shoes

are essential to life!

Fighting the act of

stubborn hormonal

belly fat with half rations and

gym trips.  Getting stronger

but the scale remains


A celebration

is in order.

There are no

crinkles or wrinkles yet.

If my hair is grey,

it’s also blue, fuchsia,

and purple.

The nose I hate

sports a jewel.

Celebrate what you dislike,

turn it around.

Find diamond in coal.

Time to photograph

the evidence.

This is me.

Last year before

a half century pivots.

Dad’s second half was better

than the first.

All I dreamed is coming true.

My second half century

will be euphoric!



I have a photo shoot arranged for today for some new author photos.  I’ll post the results when they’re in.

July 13- click MEDIA KIT and ABOUT SHAWN for some of the shots.  A very talented photographer!


June 19, 2010

Filed under: Literature,Pondering — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:39 am
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It’s odd how you can leave a friend for nine years, then feel surprised when he turns up looking a decade older.  In fact, you feel betrayed, as if he’s aged you along with him, and personally dragged you a decade closer to the grave. (Ian Weir.  Daniel O’Thunder. p. 61)

I chuckled when I read this paragraph. 

I suppose it shouldn’t surprise us that our friends and family members are aging as the years go by.  It’s always a surprise when some young relative appears to have shot up several inches in height, dropped a voice an octave, or turned from girl to woman.  We ponder that we ourselves haven’t changed at all, and yet those kids prove just how much time is going by.

Gathering with old friends also reminds us how time doesn’t matter.  We may not have seen each other in a decade, but the relationships are easy and natural.  Shared history makes an easy link and conversations are picked up as if they were left yesterday. 

Time marches on, but what are we doing with the time?  Are we marching closer to the grave without anything to show for our time here, or are we making the most of the years, leaving a legacy for those who follow?


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