Shawn L. Bird

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

poem- feeling beachy November 18, 2020

Filed under: poem,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:18 am
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Crashing waves

Splashing children

Deep thinking trickles like sand

I’m seeking peace:

waves wash over me.
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Demo cinquain poem for class today. Kids chose theme of beach, and I wrote a line with a different poetic device in each: alliteration, assonance, consonance, onomatopoeia, internal rhyme. Turns out, it sounds better in reverse, so that’s the version you see here.

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poem-they’re thinning the trees November 12, 2020

Filed under: poem,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:56 am
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Pines and spruce tower

ninety feet into the air

a wall of green

a squirrel playground.

Broken by the last windstorm

Branches the size of adult legs snapped,

tangled,

blocking the road,

risking the roof.

With each roar of the chainsaw

years are cut away.

Now, we see the lights of town

glistening below.

Greenery sacrificed for urban beauty.

Our new view

comes with grief for the scent of spruce

in the waving wind.

 

poem-then they peeled back their faces November 5, 2020

Filed under: poem,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:00 pm
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then they peeled back their faces

Read this
you said to me.
I poured over words
with the focus of any girl
trying to impress her crush.
Oh, how the story spoke hidden horror!
Everyone in disguise.
No one revealing their true selves.
Forty years meditating on those masks.
2020! Society in masquerade!
Kindness, care, concern: all fake.
The true horror’s been revealed.

 

Poem- Stinky socks cinquains October 2, 2020

(These were fun demos written with my students as we worked through some poetry devices on “Poetry Friday-the Wednesday edition”)

Super stinky socks

So easily knee socks crease

Stinky socks stick to my shoes

They slurp when I pull them out.

But say! My socks still rock!

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Socks are mittens for feet

Comfort like a warm fire in winter.

My wooly socks hug my feet

My silent shout of happiness

declares my stinky socks the finest perfume in the world.

I like my socks.


(Can you find assonance, alliteration, consonance, hyperbole internal rhyme, metaphor, onomatopoeia, oxymoron, personification, simile, and understatement?)

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Poem-growing August 28, 2020

Filed under: poem,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:38 pm
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One small change today
One gift of time
One contribution to a cause
One life-lesson contemplated
One old idea reconsidered
One step toward wisdom
won each day.

 

poem- fade June 2, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:48 pm
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Certainty sits in my throat while

rain weeps uneasy farewell

to the ambulance.

She will not fare well.

She is failing, fragile.

Rain washes tenuous existence

down the street in ripples

and rivulets.

It’s all downhill from here.

 

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-flick May 28, 2020

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

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:52 pm
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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

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:25 pm
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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.

 

 

 
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