He is
-potentially-
all he
is.
.
She is
-essentially-
all she
is.
.
They are
-exponentially-
all they
are.
poem- reminiscence November 2, 2013
.
The rain on this sky light
makes me long for
pattering on the tin roof,
a warm wood stove,
old friends
from then.
.
.
Ah. Our lovely acreage house when the kids were little, life was simpler, and close friends were near.
Oh look! It was for sale again! http://pglistings.ca/buy/17360_Woods_Road Wow. We purchased it for $126k in 1993. I personally tiled that fireplace and hung that (very dated!) oak towel ring in the upstairs bathroom. Lots is new though- from the beige everywhere to the wood floors and the side deck (built just as we’d envisioned it). I miss the stairs at the front of the deck to the front door- it’s weird to only have the back stairs! We also planted several dozen baby pine trees that are now 20 feet tall across the front and along the drive way. I wonder where their living room furniture is? >>sigh<< Such a beautiful place. Sometimes I still dream of this house.
poem- perspective October 31, 2013
Honey lips
wake me
to a dreamy reality:
Unexpected pleasures,
moonlight impressions.
Your laughter
invites me to discover
a new perspective.
.
poem- autumn ghosts October 28, 2013
City
streets
are graveyards
of summer leaves.
Their blood red corpses
crushed beneath our feet
ghostly impressions
on concrete:
art in
decay
.
(for Leena, in memory of our Yaletown adventures Sunday morning)
poem- lessons October 25, 2013
When my dad went to school
he knew the Brother would beat him.
The ruler would rap down across
his small knuckles
once for every spelling mistake.
He knew he’d always make a mistake.
He knew he’d be beaten.
It didn’t make him study,
it just made him drag his feet
on the way to school,
meant education was painful
meant inadequacy
and brutality
were part of every day.
It didn’t make him speed up
that he’d be whipped
for tardiness
either.
During lessons,
he watched boys fly
across the room
propelled by the fury
of the Christian Brothers
who didn’t understand
much about children,
faith
kindness
or the golden rule.
Dad kept his head down,
nursed sore
knuckles and learned
how not to treat children.
.
.
Happy Birthday to my dad, who celebrates his 99th birthday today!
One more year until the official greeting from the Queen!
PS. Dad attended parochial school in Montreal in the 1920s.
poem- dream weaver October 12, 2013
The warp of night
The weft of hope
Shuttle flying
Fabric of dreams
poem- thankful October 11, 2013
Warm home
Great job
Good friends
Cute shoes
Rewarding avocation
Healthy kids
Dependable partner
Old dogs
All parents
Your visits
.
.
Happy Thanksgiving, Canada.
Drive safely.
poem- farewell rose October 9, 2013
The leaves grow brown and fall
but between petals drenched with rain
blossoms still smell of summer sweetness.
poem- poem breath October 6, 2013
I breathe in a poem
inhaling words and images
savouring the rhythm, colour, and aroma
flowing through lungs, heart, veins,
capilliaries and arteries.
I exhale the moment
and the poem,
it goes
free.
poem- this was me October 5, 2013
This was me:
curls briefly permanent,
my pen poised on your promises
recording adoration,
lists of lingering longings,
the angst of my adolescence,
my imaginary reality,
of dreams carved from your
calls and letters.
Feeling freely at fifteen,
that was me.
..
I had written a lot of poetry for and about a boy I admired, and for his 18th birthday, I compiled them all into a book, in calligraphy, each was recorded in a blank red ‘leather’ book. In the top left photo you see the calligraphy pen I used. In the top right you see the book itself on my lap. The photo on the bottom left ended up as the ‘author photo’ in the book.
These portraits were taken by a young woman who worked for my mom. Her name was Lindy, and she was from Nova Scotia. I often wonder what she has done since returned to the East Coast.
In the bottom right you can see a bit of the 4″ wedge canvas Candies I wore to death that summer. Always a shoe girl. I loved those suspender jeans (by Pulse, my favourite brand). They’re probably still in a box around here somewhere, waiting for me to be 106 lbs again. Oh, those innocent teen years when I was still a brunette! 😉
PS. The more I think about this, the more I’m sure I lied in this poem. I got that perm after a dare from Mark, whom I met the summer I was 16, so this must have been the spring / summer that I was 17. Hmm. With necessary poetic licence, I’m going to keep the ‘fifteen’ in there. But you’ll know it’s not factual, okay?
Shawn L. Bird 