barriers to the outside
secrets
distance
privacy
safety
at a cost of claustrophobia
these walls close in
while we huddle
masking our smiles
nervous
hidden thoughts.
Poem- Summer storm August 1, 2020
This air is thick enough to drown in
Wading through your words
Lightning flashes in the hills like my
anxiety after the press conference.
Summer storm raging.
They announce back to school plans.
I’m watching the hills for forest fires,
fearing the burning.
Brief respite: rain splatters on the back deck,
before oppression descends again,
and our power goes out.
Poem- Pandemic sestina May 5, 2020
These days are quiet time
Our hectic lives forced to slow
We breathe,
thankful for lungs that work,
content to wait
until it’s safe out there.
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In some places, there
stands Death, taking its time,
poised with scythe, to wait
as heart beats slow.
The nurses do their work;
patients struggle to breathe.
.
Breathe
deeply. There.
It’s work.
Time
slows.
We wait.
.
The entire planet waits.
Even the wind breathes
in coughs and gasps. Fast. Slow.
No more rushing here and there.
Clocks are useless. What is time?
Stay home. Avoid work.
.
If you have savings and sick leave for your work,
you can afford to wait.
Money doesn’t equal time.
Some can afford to breathe
easy, but there
are folks who can’t afford to slow.
.
It’s hard being forced to slow
down, to re-think how we work,
to consider that there
comes peace in learning to wait,
in learning to breathe,
in resting for a time.
.
So slow down and wait.
Work on your breathing.
In time, freedom will be there.
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A sestina is an old, French poetry form made up of 6 stanzas of sestets ending with a 3 line ‘envoi.’ Each stanza re-orders the end words of the first stanza (lexical repetition) in a specific pattern.
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poem- In the world beyond my windows May 1, 2020
The White Crowned sparrows fill
the yard; they butt striped heads at
the feeders, but they sing for their supper.
The sky is brilliant blue,
clouds hover around the edges of my sight, fringing
the hills.
Mount Ida is still white-capped,
the fire-dead splinters bristle through
the snow line above
a carpet of spruce and fir. Across
the street someone has left
a painted rock beside
the mailbox; we’ve all earned its
purple heart.
Bursting buds,
New green leaves on spring awakened
trees.
The House Finch in
the blue spruce announces his
new family, but warbles his warning,
No visitors allowed!
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This is a list poem. Sometimes they are numbered, though this one isn’t, obviously. 🙂 I don’t think I’ve seen one with enjambment like I’ve used here, but hey, it’s my poem. What good is a poetic licence if you don’t take advantage?
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poem- isolation moment April 21, 2020
Small dog,
heavy on my foot.
Scent of baking muffins
wafts down the hall.
Buzzer calls at last
poem- celebration April 21, 2019
Gathering
pretend belonging
watch for signs of genuine affection
play the game,
be the same,
absorbing affectations
whispered longings
Gathering
connection.
poem- headphone man May 16, 2018
Hey, headphone man
with your head cast down,
I drive past you each day as you soldier on your way,
Always in the same place, unless you are late,
or I am early.
I try to catch your eye, but you march with determination
toward your destination.
I want to share our small connection, give a wave, or smile,
but you just stare at the ground, absorbed in the sound in your head.
Hey headphone man!
Look around!
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I’ve been working on this one for ages, as I do pass this guy every day on my way to work.
poem-lonely June 17, 2015
He’s in the man cave
staring at the tube
occasionally laughing
When he emerges
he ignores her as she does
her thing in
her space.
He’ll walk past and head to bed
without a word,
and she’ll watch him in the hall
wondering whether
everyone feels lonely.
Shawn L. Bird 