Shawn L. Bird

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

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.

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poem-wings November 23, 2016

Creeping along, devouring everything in sight,

unsatisfied,

wrapped up in strings of your own making

wound up in yourself

chrysalis

waiting for wings.

Patience is a virtue.

You break free, stretch,

the new you quivers with discovery.

You fly,  fill life with sweetness,

bring joy to those who watch you

waltz with the wind

until

you fall life-less.

The core of you crumbles,

but the breeze captures the wings left behind

and carries them,

curling and flipping

to the sky.

 

 

poem- broken May 25, 2016

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:21 pm
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If the broken pieces

didn’t blind him,

cripple him,

impale him,

perhaps he’d be free

to see her pain.

And seeing, to embrace it,

tame it, and more–

for her to show him

what she knows,

that slivers can be pulled,

that slats can be hammered,

that broken pieces can grow into crutches,

that the cracks of fractures

can be patched into a quilt

for a bed of nails.

Oh, he is broken, but

Comfort is where you find it.

 

 

 

poem- dead horse May 27, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:14 am
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You rode your high horse

to water, but you couldn’t make it drink.

You beat that horse

until its flesh was pulverized

and the putrid rot rose in a stench,

repulsing people you wanted to impress.

Still you keep beating

that equine cadaver,

imagining the rattle of its rib bones

is dressage music

for your one trick pony.

 

 

 
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