While you are shouting you’re right.
Check
who else is.
There’s always
more to
know.
poem-letter from the war office November 25, 2020
The first message is a head’s up.
Someone in the building has tested Covid positive and is off to quarantine.
“You will be contacted by an official in the health authority is there is potential that you were in contact with someone while they were contagious. Carry on until then.”
Potential: having or showing the capacity to become or develop into something in the future.
You know, like how two people in a building have the potential to pass one another, greet one another, use the same facilities, sit in the same chairs, use the same keyboards, sit next to one another at lunch, even though you don’t know them and they don’t know you. You’d identify them how?
I think the more accurate message would be “You will be contacted by an official in the health authority is there is likelihood that you were in sustained contact with someone while they were contagious.”
Let’s be real. Potential is everywhere. Give us the hope of less likelihood!
Several hundred people wait in our masks with bated breath, wondering who will be the ‘lucky’ winner of a lottery worthy of Shirley Jackson.
Pandemic adventures as we attempt to surf the second wave.
poem-pity November 23, 2020
Like Red Rose Tea:
only in Canada?
confused identity.
Reindeer
are just caribou.
Who knew?
poem-so like us January 31, 2020
Remember
the necklace you gave me.
Four golden strands I wanted to love
for your sake.
Every time I wore it,
it turned into a tangled disaster,
wrapped up in itself.
So like us.
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poem- Minus 26 degrees January 13, 2020
The moon lingers in blue sky,
listening to Styrofoam™ squeaking boots
on crispy, cold snow.
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poem- That Year October 30, 2019
She loves you
Diamonds in the air
Twinkling in
Street lights’ silence.
Just a snow shovel’s scraping
In the distance.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Leaf buds, bursting hope.
Unfolding pastel visions
Relief.
She loves you
Summer green
Heat hovers in the air
Living breathing furnace.
And you know that can’t be bad.
Golden light illuminates scarlet visions.
I will never say you’re beautiful
I’ll be your friend forever.
Yeah, yeah, yeah
poem- being Charlie Brown November 19, 2018
The football is set, with enthusiastic support,
This is going to be such a great help!
But instead of the football being held at the perfect angle for the kick that sends it through the goal posts,
Lucy has snatched it up again. She shrugs.
You wanted to kick for THIS game?
Oh no! The game you get to kick for is three months from now!
Just hold your foot up until then, will you?
poem-thou dost protest too much November 1, 2018
Each act ahead comes
from what’s behind.
We are all walking wounded
trailing bandages
that tangle us,
tie us,
trip us
into our future.
Wear a blind fold:
we cannot look into a mirror to see the pain
etched across our faces.
See the bandages?
Trip over them
leaving the bar.
Scream yourself hoarse,
stamp your feet.
Shout “I’m fine, fine, FINE!” *
Ah. Methinks,
The lady doth protest too much.*
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(*Allusions: In Louise Penny’s wonderful Inspector Gamache books, Ruth Zardo has written a book of poetry where FINE is an acroynym for F*cked up, Insecure, Neurotic, Egotistical. I’d say that applies here, too. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much” is from the play within a play in Shakespeare’s Hamlet).
poem-flying February 8, 2018
Fleance dreams of flight,
soaring on outstretching wings
into a moonlit night,
No day trips for him, he’s heard things
about flying too near the sun.
Day is for escape, for climbing,
Peaks ascending, journeys begun,
At sunset (it’s all about the timing)
he leaps into red glowing,
falls on moon rise
spreads his wings, catches winds flowing
embraces skies,
Wonders at all he does espy
and murmurs “Fly, Good Fleance! Fly!”
poem-reality June 21, 2017
Eventually
Reality has to intervene.
You’re not destined for the NHL
Or the corps de ballet
Your voice will not sell
A million records.
Simon sends you packing.
Reality can suck.
But if playing hockey
Brings you happiness
Why stop just because you’ll never hoist the Stanley Cup?
Dance like nobody’s watching
Sing until you’re smiling.
Don’t let reality rob you of the joy
Of the activity itself.
The rush of a beautiful pass and goal.
The beauty of a perfectly formed pirouette.
The harmony than hums in your ear.
Celebrate those moments for ten thousand hours.
They say ten thousand hours yields excellence.
Perhaps you’ll need twenty.
Or thirty.
Embrace the joy.
Share in a community of like minds.
Perhaps after forty thousand hours
Your reality will change
And if it doesn’t,
At least you’ll nurture your soul.
Like reality,
Success has many faces.
Shawn L. Bird 