Shawn L. Bird

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

poem-rolling February 1, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:06 pm
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I rolled into the room

delighted with engagement,

conversation,

company.

I rolled out of the room

on a high.

I rolled into the house

fell into my bed

and took fifteen hours

to recover from

intellectual curiosity.

.

.

Had my first big outing since I’ve been laid up with my broken ankle.  I was out 6 hours for medical appointment, grad school workshop, and transportation.  It was wonderful to talk to folks more erudite than my dogs, but apparently it was exhausting!  The ankle wasn’t thrilled, either.  I won’t be doing it again for a few weeks!

 

 

poem- droning October 8, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:00 pm
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Through distant waves of consciousness,

I could hear the bagpipes.

I strained to identify the tune:

Something familiar, but not quite

recognizable.

When Malcolm was five,

he longed to play the pipes,

and listened blissfully to recordings

of pipe and drum corps.

At twenty-five, it seems doubtful

he’s returned to this youthful passion.

And still I hear the droning buzz

through bleary wakening,

until with a click,

he turns his razor off.

.

.

(true story)

 

poem- journeys October 6, 2014

Like a stone on the beach

she picked him up,

and took him home.

He filled her with new life,

and they held companionable

hands, two became four.

Beneath the bubble,  

Poisons devoured him in relentless nibbles,

and the doctor said his only hope

was a healing journey

to a new way of life.

But toward,

is also away,

and children waved good-bye

to their skipping stone,

who crossed an ocean and

disappeared into time.

 

 

poem- pacing October 3, 2014

Filed under: Poetry,poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:30 pm
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You’re pacing

a circuitous route

from living room

through kitchen,

pausing each time to pass

to stare meaningfully at me

as I ignore your

four feet.  You’ve been fed,

you’ve been out.

I don’t have time for the fussing.

I have work to do.

Curl up, rest your head on my feet.

We can pick up the pace

together, tomorrow.

 

poem- wasted day October 2, 2014

On this day

I remember a ghost anniversary,

the day in 1976

when my sister was married.

My 12 year old figure was

encased in my mother’s girdle

beneath a hideous rust bridesmaid gown.

I sported a new Vidal Sasoon bob,

felt bold and grown up with

my uni-brow plucked.

I remember my father’s scowl

when a groomsman with waist length hair

obeying rattling spoons, bent to kiss me,

and the resulting blush.

The marriage lasted four years.

My daughter wore the hideous dress

when she was twelve.

She called herself a princess;

rust suits her.

Too bad my sister

never saw it.

.

.

.

You know, that whole girdle thing is really weird.  I was not a pudgy child by any reckoning.  I probably weighed about 95 lbs around the time of this wedding.  I recall it was my idea, so I must have been self-conscious of a little paunch, which at 12, was not paunch at all.  Very strange how girls are, isn’t it?

.

I looked for the wedding photos in the album, but it looks like I took them out of those photo eating ‘magnetic’ glued albums, and who knows where I put them.  Sorry!

 

 

poem- learning from history September 10, 2014

Filed under: anecdotes,Poetry,Teaching — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:21 pm
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She has a history

of running down unionists

With gleeful righteousness

she watched them bounce

off the hood of the car

back in the 80s.

Last dispute,

this sweet little old lady

offered the strikers

a most unlady-like

finger.

This dispute,

she has stared

down the road with

patent disregard.

Workers should work.

Today,

she waved enthusiastically,

and a victory dance

was held on the picket line.

One more newly informed person

waking up.

.

.

.

True story

 

poem-leaving August 31, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:44 pm
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The trucks are packed

tight with boxes and furniture.

You’re off to The Big City for university,

to earn the final credentials to begin your career.

.

Sorry to hear about the flat tire on the Coquihalla Highway, kid.

.

.

.

The Coquihalla Highway connects the interior of BC with the Lower Mainland and Greater Vancouver.  It is a high mountain pass.

 

 

poem- night music August 25, 2014

I was the lone

talentless one

in a room of musicians.

As each took his place,

at his instrument

I turned on the cassette

recorder, determined

to capture the moment.

I collapsed onto

the couch, in

blurry eyed reverie

as the music tangled

in my brain, filled the

basement, bounced

off the ceiling tiles.

The pianist glanced

into my starry eyes

and grinned.

The others teased

between their strings,

but words fell away

in the fog of my euphoria.

His lips curled upwards

on one side

as his eyes twinkled at mine.

When he packed to go

I rewound the tape.

I heard the

mangled mess of a

damaged tape.

Devastated, I

blinked through

tearful eyes.

Everyone  laughed,

but he draped an

arm around my shoulders

and guided me up the stairs.

As his ride arrived

he whispered,

“Don’t worry.

I’ll make you

more music.”

And

he

did.

.

.

.

(Is it any wonder I wrote a book about this? lol  Tonight, I had a flashback.  Thought I’d share.)

 

anecdote- I’ve discovered Goth Cabaret August 10, 2014

I meet the most interesting people.

After the banquet at When Words Collide Writing Conference in Calgary tonight (I’m there as a presenter) I was sitting cross legged on the floor in my long skirt, when I looked up and spotted two young, tall, handsome red headed men.  (The hair was quite glorious, though not discussed).  We smiled at one another and I asked, “Anyone ever tell you that you two could be brothers?”

They laughed and commented that they got that all the time.  I asked who was older and Nathan pointed at Alex.  “He is, by 8 minutes.”

I asked what school they went to, and learned they’d just graduated, but that next year, one is going to do another year to learn art, music, and sewing.  The other is going to university with the aim to become a neuro-surgeon.

Conversation carried on a bit, and Nathan asked what kind of music I listened to.  I told him I play the harp, and so I like folk and Celtic music.  He told me he really likes Goth Cabaret, but that “you’ve probably never heard of it.”  I was intrigued,because I hadn’t..  He went rifling through his iPad in search of examples.  Finally, he gave up, and said, “I’ll just sing you one.”  He sang a verse of a song and then stopped, because he couldn’t remember the rest.  He had a discussion with his brother, and then the two of them turned to me and launched into a tuneful rendition of “When You’re Evil” by Voltaire.  Alex even dived into a lovely deep bass.  They sang the whole, four minute and something song, with perfect intonations and accents on the funny bits.

I had a personal concert in the corner of a crowded foyer. A hundred people were milling around us.  Everyone else was conversing or checking their phones.  I had a moment of pure delight being entertained by a pair of talented eighteen year olds.

It was the highlight of the day, and perhaps the weekend.

Just to share the fun with you, here’s a Youtube video of the song.  Though not sung by Nathan and Alex, I can assure you, it’s pretty close!  It’s  a little ‘Sweeney Todd’ style mayhem in a jaunty cabaret tune.  Delightfully dark.

You never know what’s going to happen when you talk to young folks.

.

.

And here I am with these delightful young men.  Nathan on the left, Alex on the right.

.

WWCNathanAlex

 

poem-thanks November 23, 2013

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:41 pm
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I thanked the cleaner

in the hotel wash room

for her good work, and the pride

the staff showed in keeping a wonderful

establishment pristine.

As I left the room

a lady following me said,

“That was very kind of you,

cleaners don’t hear that often enough.”

But she did not

say thank you

herself.