I can see your end, tough kid. Oh so, glib.
You’ll pick a fight, thump your mighty tiny chest,
find yourself arrested. That mouth will get you
an ankle bracelet in your house, or maybe
a solid punch from some drunk’s big fist
or a slice from a knife that puts you on a slab.
So sad. Too bad.
Hamartia, dude. That fatal flaw hot temper, you know?
Choices you make now could change how it goes.
Being tough is rough.
Choose a more mellow groove!
poem-to the bantam rooster October 28, 2022
poem- belittled January 10, 2018
Short temper erupts
Tiny trouble surrounds
Small smiles: faked.
Insidious misogeny ignored
We knew.
#MeToo told us nothing new.
Those men want us to
Be little.
But something’s brewing.
It’s going to be big.
poem-virtous August 12, 2016
Men waiting outside the fabric store
young men
old men
Sitting in cars, humming to the radio
Standing with a cigarette watching traffic go by
Sitting, eyes glazed.
Leaning, napping.
These are the patient men,
the blesséd men,
who wait while colours are contemplated
drape is determined
possibilities are dreamed.
These are the rewarded later men,
who chauffeur home happy wives,
smile vacantly, and say
“Yes, dear.”
thankful their wives know nothing
about the cost of tools.
poem- swing February 17, 2015
So why does a kilt catch all the girls’ eyes?
The risk that men run and what she might spy,
Should breeze catch a pleat and lift to the sky?
No, what catches the eye and makes hearts sing,
what makes her desire her own highland fling
is the lad’s stance and the way that kilt swings!
A man in a kilt breathes confidence, aye?
So don that kilt, laddie, make the girls sigh
when you swing those pleats as you saunter by!
.
.
A little rhyming for you today. 😉
“It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing, doo wah doo wah, doo wah doo wah!”
Baby boy June 14, 2013
Baby boy,
blue blanket tucked into your chin,
Thumb in in mouth, jaw moving tch-tch-tch-tch.
Perfect tiny face,
an animated melon
beneath the blanket,
immersed in the sweet scent of diaper powder.
I blink.
Baby boy,
Body stretched across the mattress,
Toes draped over the edge,
blankets splayed across your waist,
whiskers bristling your chin.
Mouth agape: GRZZZZ-GRRRRZ-GrrrrrrZ
in the pungent scent of sweat.
Baby boy.
.
.
.
(Even when they’re men, their mothers see the babies they once held in their arms.)
what is vs what could be October 20, 2011
In the acknowledgements at the beginning of Drums of Autumn, Diana Gabaldon observes that her husband says, “I don’t know how you keep getting away with this. You don’t know anything about men.” That made me laugh out loud.
Gabaldon might not really know men (though I think she captures them very well, myself), but she definitely understands what women WANT their men to be! Strong and tender, proud and humble, wounded and capable, physically arresting and self-effacing, full of desire and faithfully devoted, a gentleman and a serf. Her main character, Jamie Fraser, may not actually exist, but he is the complex bundle of contradictions that women desire.
This should be a consolation to the men: Jamie’s weaknesses are at the root of his strengths, and he is adored for them.
Shawn L. Bird 