You sit,
back against the Merge sign
inviting convergence
. connection.
I see,
the next sign, No Hitchhiking.
Pick up is illegal.
I drive by.
poem-The Poetry Retreat is Over July 9, 2017
The Poetry Retreat is Over
I am the last to leave.
The GPS battery is dead;
I don’t know where to go from here.
poem-reality June 21, 2017
Eventually
Reality has to intervene.
You’re not destined for the NHL
Or the corps de ballet
Your voice will not sell
A million records.
Simon sends you packing.
Reality can suck.
But if playing hockey
Brings you happiness
Why stop just because you’ll never hoist the Stanley Cup?
Dance like nobody’s watching
Sing until you’re smiling.
Don’t let reality rob you of the joy
Of the activity itself.
The rush of a beautiful pass and goal.
The beauty of a perfectly formed pirouette.
The harmony than hums in your ear.
Celebrate those moments for ten thousand hours.
They say ten thousand hours yields excellence.
Perhaps you’ll need twenty.
Or thirty.
Embrace the joy.
Share in a community of like minds.
Perhaps after forty thousand hours
Your reality will change
And if it doesn’t,
At least you’ll nurture your soul.
Like reality,
Success has many faces.
poem-storm June 8, 2017
Another storm warning.
Cotton clouds turn into coal smoke,
Flashes splice the sky.
We’re drenched by pelting rain,
until it blows by again.
Wouldn’t it be nice
if the newscaster flashed
storm warnings
about flashes of temper
and drenching tears,
so we knew to stay indoors
or prepare our rain gear?
Poem-Weed June 4, 2017
What’s the difference
between a weed and a flower?
It’s an old one
and a new one.
A blue bell, dandelion yellow one.
A weed
is flower seeding in an inconvenient place.
It just takes its space to put down roots.
It stretches its sights to the sky.
A weed has petals for joy,
nectar for bees,
and pollen for sneezes.
A weed is a flower in an inconvenient place,
Weed is just a label.
It doesn’t alter the beauty, the scent, or the colour.
Flower is just a snooty torment of summer name games.
Let the flowers be free!
Let their promise fly like weeds on the breeze!
Let’s be free of our labels,
be enabled
to bloom through the gloom.
What’s the difference between a weed and a flower?
Perspective.
Indeed.
.
.
(With thanks to Sheri D Wilson who asked the question, and Blu Hopkins who offered an old line)
poem-light May 30, 2017
You’re a beacon, baby
Oh yeah.
You flicker like a flame
and I come to you.
I’m a lost ship.
I’m a moth.
You’re a candle
when the power’s out.
You’re a flashlight
slicing through the night.
You’re a beacon, baby.
Bring me home.
.
.
.
Hmm. Sounds like it wants to be a song, doesn’t it?
poem-cure May 26, 2017
The demons are hiding around corners
lurking in the shadows
watching you.
I know you feel the weight
of their gaze
hear the clink of their weapons
every day.
On the sunny days,
you outrun them
find smiles to return to those
around you
in their circles of care.
Other days,
smiles are barred growls,
the glow of sinister eyes pacing
around you,
squeezing life and hope
as their circle crushes in,
suffocating you.
Your demons on their unwitting backs
Your demons in their unwitting smiles
Your demons on their unwitting feet
Your demons in their expectations
Your incessant demons
invisible to others,
writhing,
circling,
just
there.
poem-blood and stone May 10, 2017
They say
you can’t get blood from a stone,
but there you are
grinding
and bleeding from the effort.
There you are
releasing your hard heart
and weeping change.
Oh sure,
it hurts to be stoned
It’ll kill you, if the impact
hits the right place,
but a bloody stone
is only a reminder
of your strength.
Stones were once mountains
Worn by time and pressure
your mountain has become a stone,
and from your tight grip
drips
blood.
poem- The Bird by Patrick Lane April 28, 2017
From The Collected Poems of Patrick Lane (Harbour Publishing, 2011)
The Bird
The bird you captured is dead.
I told you it would die
but you would not learn
from my telling. You wanted
to cage a bird in your hands
and learn to fly.
.
Listen again.
You must not handle birds.
They cannot fly through your fingers.
You are not a nest
and a feather is
not made of blood and bone.
.
Only words
can fly for you like birds
on the wall of the sun.
A bird is a poem
that talks of the end of cages.
.
I’m attending a poetry retreat with Patrick Lane this summer, so I’ve been reading his work. I’m looking forward to the opportunity to study with him!
poem- stretching April 26, 2017
Some days
I feel like a little kid standing against a ruler:
“You must be this tall to ride.”
Stretching beyond all comfort,
but still coming up
short.
Shawn L. Bird 