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-then they peeled back their faces November 5, 2020
poem- leaving the keys for the new owners October 15, 2020
The house echoes.
Drapes she made hang on the windows,
the last pieces of her here,
except
the lingering scent of bread baked
months ago, as
her last messages of appreciation,
her last independent acts.
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!
.
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- walk on a foggy day September 30, 2020
The clouds have come to Earth,
obscuring our panorama
narrowing the perspective
until the view is simply you and me:
this nebulous emergence,
hope and mystery.
poem- hollow September 21, 2020
I can hoo-hoot in the empty rooms
a lost owl listening to an echo
where there used to be you.
poem- seeing May 31, 2020
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
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
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
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.
poem-falsifying March 10, 2020
Oh false friend!
Yesterday, blue skies smiling sweetly,
warm sun embraces,
led to
short sleeves and picnic tables.
Today, an inch of new snow tops the table
and sky is full of malice,
tiny shards of ice,
stabbing the heart of spring.
Winter wins another round.
Shawn L. Bird 