Shawn L. Bird

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

poem- matchless October 15, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:53 pm
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“I want a wood fire,” she sighed.

“Go light a match on the porch,” he said,

“and never say I don’t support

your dreams.”




Oh, the sarcasm!  But since they don’t have a fireplace in their house, I guess this is the best that could be managed.


poem- rumbling October 7, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:00 pm
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She arrives home exhausted.

“Ooh,” he says, nose curled.

“Those pants are terrible.”

She stares at him, deposits groceries on the counter,

heads down the hall,

and collapses into bed, too tired

to discuss appropriate comments,

respect, and positive encouragement.

She sleeps.

Hours later, she awakens, hungry,

makes some toast.

He comes upstairs.  “The kid is out,” he says,

heading to the bedroom.

Ah, she thinks.  That’s code for ‘Apology sex.’

Wise of him.

She bathes, listening to him preparing

in the other bathroom.

She climbs into bed,

to find him snoring.

She wishes she had eaten beans,


and cabbage for dinner.

She ponders delivering a two footed

kick to his backside, propelling him out of bed,

and into the wall.

(An easy task, since now she probably outweighs him).

Instead, she rolls over,

and sleeps.


poem- looking (an #Outlander poem) September 29, 2014

“I want to look,”

she says.

Finger outlining

the focus of

her attention,

she walks

a slow, studious circle

of analysis

and inevitable



“Fair’s fair,”

he says,

stepping back

with a glint in his eye,


thankful for circumstance

that made her





Another poem based on Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander;  this one based on Ron Moore’s TV series, specifically episode 107, “The Wedding.”


Poem-another sign of love- a kilt story July 17, 2013

She gets these notions, ken?

Strange notions.

That because my great,





grandfather was a Scot

I need a kilt.


I won’t wear a kilt,

I said.

I am not connected to

my Scot’s heritage

I said.

That’s all right,

she said,


eight meters of fabric

and starting to pleat.


I won’t wear a kilt

I said.

What kind of belt buckle?

she asked.

So I picked the clan buckle

of my great

great etc



I won’t wear a kilt

I said.

Which pleat design?

she asked.

So I picked the pleat to the sett

(or so she tells me)

and she ironed

and ironed

and ironed

late into the night

and then she sewed

and sewed

and sewed

each stitch by hand

for night

after night.


I don’t want a kilt

I said.

She sewed

a linen shirt

and knit a lace jabot

and created sock flashes

and sock garters.

I ordered the socks and

the sporran from


she said.


I really don’t want…

I said

Try this

she said

arranging a leather pocket

dangling from chains

around my waist.


I squawked

It can’t go like that!

That’s like saying

X marks the spot!

She laughed

at my dismay.


Just try it all

she said,



I sighed

but did.

Walk up and down so I can see the swing,

she said.


she said

and led me back up the hall.


For our anniversary

she said

will you wear your kilt?


I said

and did.



True story.

Outlander inspiration is clear.

Diana has a lot to answer for.

But most of it is good.

Verra good.


Here’s the proof:


and the more modern interpretation:


We should have taken some pictures from behind to show off…

(cough) the pleat to the sett.

It’s verra lovely.


Always remember “Happy Wife, Happy Life” or as Diana wrote him in the book plate for his copy of  The Scottish Prisoner, “No one looks better than a man in a kilt.”

Diana sign ScottishPrisoner kilt comment


FYI- Here are a few of the posts written back while I was making the kilt with photos of the process:

Note the dates- It’s been nearly 18 months since I finished.  He’s worn it ONCE before today, back for that final drooling fitting.  Plainly I caught him in a moment of weakness today.  Or else he’s been reading Outlander again on his own.  Good lad.

6 years later, here’s a lovely shot of the swing from behind! 🙂



she says, he says May 21, 2012

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:11 pm
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I’m sad, she says,

her head resting

upon his shoulder.

Words greeted by silence

that hovers

like a malevolent precipice.

Why, he says, are you choosing

to make yourself sad?

I did not choose to be sad, she says.

So then, why did you say, This is sad? he says.

What? she says.

You said, This is sad, he says.

I did not, she says.

I said, I’m sad. She says.

No. You didn’t, he says.

Yes.  I did. She says, sighing.

Silence weaves around them like water

filling between the cracks.


I’m angry, she says.


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