Shawn L. Bird

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

poem-what’s falling July 29, 2021

Filed under: poem,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:12 pm
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In the porch light

ash is illuminated

specks of falling sky

pieces of evergreen needles

drop onto my arm

leave lines of black.

It hurts to breathe this grey air;

forests blazing hurt the heart.

Pray for rain, or better, snow.

(because, you know, snow

doesn’t bring lightning
or more fire).

 

poem-where there’s smoke July 19, 2021

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:14 am
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she left the window open

woke to ash on the couch

mountains are obscured

noon light is yellow

armageddon glow

our expressions of worry

furrowed brows

above our masks

(N95 now)

don’t ask about our stress levels

as we check the lightning tracker,

the live stream wildfire map.

After the pandemic

seems we don’t yet have the knack

of acceptance; get the bag

ready to go,

make sure we know where

to rendez-vous, pretend

all this is normal.

What more can we do?

Bless the fire fighters

as the map clicks to fire number

one thousand one hundred thirty two.

 

poem-rainy reminders October 11, 2020

Filed under: poem,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 8:00 pm
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Something is missing from my life:

the crack of the ax

winter’s firewood piled high

wood smoke rising from a chimney

the snapping from the grate

heat sinking into the bones

live fire, primordial comfort,

on a cold night, its golden, spitting light

shadow painting a picture of all we

require.

 

poem-fire season September 6, 2020

Filed under: poem,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:00 pm
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Goldenrod sky

Fire in the distant hay

My stolen breath

 

poem- Worshipping anger April 15, 2019

Your pain bursts out the barrel of a gun

punches holes through community

explodes small town security.

Neutrality’s a liar.

And in world news:

Notre-Dame Cathedral is on fire.

.

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My own photo, detail around the main entrance of Notre-Dame. Paris, 2011.

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My own photo. Notre-Dame tower details. Paris. 2010

 

A poem should stand on its own merits, but I feel like a bit of clarification this time.  There was a shooting in my small, Canadian town yesterday.  Two people were shot in their church; one died. Our community has been reeling from this shock, and now another tragedy.  The loss of life. The loss of a building.  Can you compare the two?

 

poem-evacuated May 10, 2016

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:06 pm
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The city is empty

save for the fire fighters.

Lines of vehicles

…………..    ………wind past

……………………….         ………wind through

………………………..wind by

devouring  walls of  flame

fanned by wind;

neighbourhoods empty

except for the crackle

of destruction.

 

 

 

 

 

poem-compassion December 3, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:46 am
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She said, compassion is a light.

It attracts those in darkness who then devour it.

Oh what a sad and bitter theory!

No.

Compassion is a fire that burns freely

and radiates warmth and comfort to those who draw near.

Fuel for compassion is love and contentment, which renews the fire regardless if anyone has gathered to enjoy the heat.

Compassion can not be taken, it can only be given;

it is the essence of its fuel.

No one who is truly compassionate can be bitter,

because bitterness is the antithesis to love and contentment.

 

poem-ginger snap January 17, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 4:40 am
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The fiery flame of your hair

declares you.

You flash with fury and

unleash lashes of your tongue.

Light catches

in the disapproving flips

of your flickering locks,

We witness your scorching glare.

Viewed from a distance,

a bonfire is a beautiful thing

and I occasionally enjoy ginger snaps

while watching the fire.

.

.

Ah, it’s a stereotype, I know, but sometimes folks walk right into their cliché and live there.

 

poem- Ode to the @ShawFireLog December 23, 2013

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:18 am
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Oh beautious fire

Seeking to break

from the TV screen

and to devour

the drapes forever

out of reach.

I feel your pseudo-warmth

and hear your rich

crackling call.

Festive fire

Turned and fed

by the flannel

garbed arm,

you will not harm,

shoot cinders far,

force risk by axe

splitting logs, or

lugging them inside.

My floors are clean

but lack the lingering

scent of cold pine.

Yet still, you remind me

of fires from Christmases past

and fires yet to be.

You are quite festive enough

for me.

 

poem- fiery eyes November 19, 2013

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:41 pm
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Mist drifts on snowy mountains,

slash piles burning:

molten eyes in a ghostly face

glowing above us

 

 
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