I already knew.
In the photos
her smile flounders
before it finds her eyes.
She is missing,
though her body
moves, leaves the kettle
to boil dry, starts something
for dinner, while the last
idea burns.
poem- fade June 2, 2020
Certainty sits in my throat while
rain weeps uneasy farewell
to the ambulance.
She will not fare well.
She is failing, fragile.
Rain washes tenuous existence
down the street in ripples
and rivulets.
It’s all downhill from here.
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- blocked communication April 13, 2016
Dear Grandma,
No one
wants to know
about the state
of your
bowels.
Please save
your colourful tales
of abdominal distress
for your medical advisors.
Elimination is
NEVER
appropriate
dinner table
conversation.
.
.
.
(You’d think this was common sense, wouldn’t you?)
poem- mowing stereotypes May 26, 2014
The skinny old lady,
grey hair twisted into a bun,
leathery skin, artfully wrinkled,
roars around her yard
in her bikini top,
mowing in the rain.
Shawn L. Bird 