Shawn L. Bird

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

poem- named August 3, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:33 pm
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“Herb had to take me to the hospital this morning,” my mom said.  “My blood pressure was all wonky and I had a headache.  I was afraid I was having a stroke.”

Herb.  My father, who died last week.  I caught my breath.

“Stewart took you to the hospital?” I suggested.  My brother.

“Yes,” she confirmed, her tone suggesting I was being obtuse.  “But everything was all right.  They told me I need to get a massage.  I’m just tense, over the events of the last week.”

She didn’t even know she’d said the wrong name.

I didn’t point it out.

“I’m glad everything is okay, Mom,” I said.

 

poem-next week July 26, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:24 pm
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“I’ll see you next week, Daddy,”

I said.

“I hope I’m feeling better then,”

he said.

“I do, too, Daddy.  I love you,”

I said as I kissed his cheek.

This week, I hope he is feeling great,

playing tennis in heaven.

.

.

.

This was the 2000th post on ShawnBird.com  I’d celebrate, but I’m not quite up to it, for obvious reasons.

 

poem- gone July 25, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:50 pm
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My scheduled time to sit vigil by your bed

was one o’clock this afternoon.

I was there, but you were gone.

.

RIP, Daddy.

 

Obituary- Herbert Mosses Duguay

Filed under: Commentary — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:40 pm
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Herb93bday (2)OBITUARY:

HERBERT MOSSES DUGUAY

October 25, 1914 – July 25, 2015

Herb Duguay passed away peacefully Saturday, July 25, 2015 in his 101st year. Herb was a devoted father and husband.  He was the son of Charlotte Coombes Mosses Duguay and David Owen Mosses, but raised as the son of Joseph Georges Duguay in Montreal.  He was married to Alison MacMillan Duguay Baker for over twenty years.  He was married to his beloved Lalita Ortlieb Fuson Duguay for fifty-three years.  He had one daughter by birth, Shawn (John) Bird, and three children by the heart, Wayne Fuson, Stewart (Gail) Fuson, and Naomi Verbonac.  He had 8 grandchildren: Veronica, Shane, Lalita, Jolene, Trista, Charlotte, Nicholas, and Kyle.  He had 9 great-grandchildren.

Herb’s first memory was seeing the World War 1 soldiers coming home in 1919.  Around this time he was run over by a brand new Model T Ford. We are thankful for their high wheel clearance.

He was an avid Boy Scout and saw Lord and Lady Baden-Powell when they came to Canada in the 1920s.

In the 1930’s Herb worked in quality control at Burroughs Wellcome Pharmaceuticals. As a result, he was a lifetime believer in the power of Polysporin.

He built bombers at Fairchild Aircraft in Montreal during World War 2 because the army didn’t want him.  They said he had a bad heart.  They were wrong.  Herb was all heart.

He moved to Vancouver in the 1950s to start up Maco Industries with Reg Baker.  For the next thirty years he travelled through Western Canada selling their products to building supply stores.  He was proud of his ethics and the good relations that garnered him respect and openings everywhere, because he only sold products he believed in.  He was still selling in the care home, pitching his daughter Shawn’s books to staff and residents at every opportunity.

He was a travelling salesman who never missed a school performance or event of significance.

Herb never walked past a child’s lemonade stand without buying a glass and chatting.

He always had a good dog to keep him company.

He was an avid tennis and table-tennis player throughout his life.  Though blinded by macular-degeneration, he still played into his 80s with unerring accuracy.  In the last few years, he was the goalie for the award winning Bastion Care Home floor hockey team.  Until two weeks ago, he walked up 2 flights of stairs each day.

He was proud of the letter from the Queen for his 100th birthday.  He was prouder of the accomplishments of his children and grandchildren.

Herb was friendly, funny, honest, kind-hearted, and loyal.  The world is a less gentle place without him in it.  He was truly a “man of worth.”

Thanks to the Bastion Care Home staff.  You were his favourites.

Herb Duguay (age 85) and Teddy

Herb Duguay (age 85) and Teddy

Herb Duguay (age 70) and Shawn

Herb Duguay (age 70) and Shawn

( ^ In that picture he always reminds me of Maurice Chevalier.  Dad loved to sing Chevalier’s Thank Heaven for Little Girls to me when I was little).

Herb (age 40ish) behind Maco with Kinky the dachshund

Herb (age 40ish) behind Maco with Kinky the dachshund

Herb Duguay tennis champion

Herb Duguay tennis champion

He told me he’d won a big tournament in Montreal once.  I just received this photo which I had never seen.  I wish I could ask Dad about it!  No idea of year- somewhere between 1945-55 I’m guessing.  Let me know if this trophy looks familiar!

From the cast photo of A Nautical Knot performed Nov 30, Dec 1-2, 1939 by St Andrews Operatic Society Montreal

From the cast photo of A Nautical Knot performed Nov 30, Dec 1-2, 1939 by St Andrews Operatic Society Montreal

A Nautical Knot was a comic operetta by William Rhys-Herbert.  Dad could not sing a note, but he was filler on stage.  He used to laugh about it.  I believe it was put on by the St Andrews United Church in Lachine, which held its last service Dec 18, 2011.

Vincent Martin, Herb Duguay, Kenneth Dow Boy Scouts Montreal 1930ish

Vincent Martin, Herb Duguay, Kenneth Dow Boy Scouts Montreal 1930ish

Vincent Martin joined the Merchant Marine and was killed Sept 1941, age 26.

 

poem- in a minute June 22, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:41 pm
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In a minute

we can rage

strife chagrin

strife mend

In a minute

all can change

life begin

life end.

In a minute

In a second

Breath

Gone.

,

,

RIP Mickey. Can’t believe it.

(We lost one of our former grads today.  😥 )

 

poem-iris memories May 28, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:14 pm
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The bouquet of irises

is dessicated;

brown paper shells devoid of scent,

death displayed in a vase.

The purple blooms,

dripped inky streaks down the walls

and puddles onto the floor.

The stains leave a memory of floral glory

for tomorrow.

 

poem- murder May 6, 2015

Filed under: poem,Writing — Shawn L. Bird @ 4:57 pm
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It’s awkward

all this repeated death.

Everyone has the solution

to remove the trouble maker

Everyone has a special skill

that will do the necessary damage.

How would you…?

Count down.

3, 2. 1.

You could…

From every department

something new.

Murder is not hard to do

if it imaginary, and there’s

not practical follow-through.

.

.

I am presently writing a collection of short stories set in a high school.  The staff at my school keeps coming up with suggestions about the next murder.  It’s been quite entertaining!    I had no idea that apparently all teachers can come up with a scary death related to their subject area in under 3 seconds.  How about you?  My husband, (a Youth Probation Officer…) is appalled.  lol

UPDATE: This project became Murdering Mr. Edwards and was published by Coffin Hop Press April 2018 https://coffinhop.com/crime/murdering-mr-edwards/

 

 

poem-dreaming April 1, 2015

Filed under: Poetry,poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:47 pm
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Last night,

I wept over your broken body,

watching bloody pools expanding

beneath your feet.

Today,

you needed seven anti-anxiety pills

and still paced and cried,

your heart throbbing.

Were we dreaming side by side?

Did you see my vision?

Were you scared by day

from mother dreams

of death?

.

.

.

(The dog again.  Sigh.  Put him in the Gentle Leader halter after dinner and he calmed down.  Might try that during the day tomorrow.)

 

 

poem for Jack February 13, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:49 pm
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This poem was sent to me by my father-in-law, following the notice about Dusty’s euthanasia today.  It’s so lovely I thought I’d share it with you.  The author, Christopher Tatchell Winter, was my husband’s 2X great grandfather.  I will check, but I believe it would have been written around 1900. (Ignore the way WordPress mangled the spacing in the first stanza).

.

.

Dear, dear little Jack, my companion & friend

Few now are my years, soon cometh the end

And I thought to have had you until I depart
But no more will I lessen the pain of my heart

My dear little dog, so faithful & true
I never shall know another like you
Much that passes for love may be but a cheat
But your love was constant & full & complete

No more will you meet me & run half a mile
To leap in my arms & my sorrow beguile
If but for a moment it then would depart
And sunshine & gladness would enter my heart

Oh, dear little Jack, I call you in vain
But why should I sorrow, why should I complain
It can’t bring you back, I know that is true
And yet all the same I will sorrow for you

And now at my door, you rest in your grave
And over it many a flower shall wave
In winter the snow on it softly shall fall
But no more will you answer & come to my call

.

The sketch of a Winter dog, presumably Jack:

Winter's dog

 

poem- good dog haiku

Filed under: Poetry,poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:29 pm
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How long ’til I stop

Checking behind me for my

faithful dog shadow?

.

Good bye Dusty Dog.