Poems crowd together,
being sorted
like kids in PE class.
Popular kids first
Intelligent kids next
Then intuitive, quirky kids.
But after that?
Many sad poems
that didn’t make the team?
.
.
.
(compiling poetry for collections.)
poem-partners March 6, 2015
Sometimes
when your shoe is hurting,
it’s because of the seam
on the sock.
poem- limping March 5, 2015
The physiotherapist
rolls, stretches, and manipulates
my ankle joint.
Push here.
Pull there.
Between parallel bars
re-learn to walk:
roll from the heel,
flex that joint.
Let go.
If you rely on the supports
and are too tender with the joint
you’ll continue to limp.
Your body will think it must,
even when the joint is healed.
How many other ways
am I limping in my life?
How many other ways
should I re-learn to walk?
.
For Jody and Anita
poem-anxious sovereignty March 4, 2015
You and I are independent souls.
I move through the house;
You rest comfortably in contented sovereignty.
You do not need to dog my heels
to glorify each moment at my side
or expect me to worship at your feet.
You ignore me for hours,
sleeping in peaceful, self-sufficiency.
We are independent souls,
until the moment I step outside the door,
and calamity explodes in barks and whines.
It pants, scratches, and pees displeasure
at this, your desperate circumstance,
wailing at the injustice of loneliness,
vomiting up fathomless grief.
For the hours I am present, I do not exist;
for the hour I am absent, I make your world
a cavernous void.
Dog ironies
amid anxieties.
,
,
OJ is not doing well since Dusty went to the Rainbow Bridge. We’ve tried swaddling as per Thundershirt. We’ve got the Rescue Remedy. He’s in his safe, contained space. We fill the Kong with goodness. Still the dog thinks the world is ending when I walk out the door. Got any other suggestions? Except a new dog companion. Hubby imagines a dog-free household in our near future. (I’m allergic to cats, so that’s not an option either).
poem-equal definitions February 26, 2015
love
≠
tolerance
dutiful service
.
love
=
tolerance
dutiful service
poem-proximity February 23, 2015
Once,
next to my hair salon of choice,
there was an amazing jewelry store.
Before an appointment,
I’d peruse the sparkling wares,
and occasionally I’d be captivated,
to leave a great percentage
of my pay cheque there,
in exchange for lasting, glistening baubles.
Now,
next to my hair salon of choice,
these is an amazing chocolate store.
Before an appointment,
I peruse the creamy, sweet wares,
and always I am captivated,
to leave a small percentage
of my pay cheque there,
in exchange for momentary ecstasy on my tongue.
poem-expansion February 19, 2015
Swelling protectively
Guard against weakness
Pretend to be bigger
Ache inside.
poem-stretch February 18, 2015
This joint needs stretching.
Lean into the pain,
just a little push.
Hold there,
on the edge of the agony.
Relax back.
Lean again; push
just
a little
further.
Stretch the joint;
flexibility is necessary,
when you may need to run,
eventually.
poem- waiting February 11, 2015
2:50 a.m.
I’m getting to bed at a decent hour for once
(well, decent for me).
I let out the dogs.
One’s back in a minute, tail wagging,
as he heads to his bowl for a quick snack.
No sign of dog two.
I whistle.
I call.
Were I bi-pedal, I would put on boots
go in the back yard and bring him in,
but I’m mono-pedal and the office chair
isn’t up for a snowy back yard
never mind the slope I’d never get up.
So I’m waiting.
and waiting
and waiting.
This dog does this a lot
at 3 a.m.
Never at 1 a.m.
or 4 a.m.
What’s that about?
At 3:30, I shut out all the lights
and decide he can sleep on the porch.
until hubby get’s up at 5:00.
Then I see a ghostly shape on the other side of the glass door.
Oh, hello. You’re back already? Grrr.
I steer him down the hall, and he hops up on my bed
with wet, dirty feet. I growl, and smack his butt.
I pick up dog one, who has dry feet, is about to die,
and pees promptly when I put him out and then returns to the door.
In the dark, dog two lies on the dog pillow and I hear cats yowling.
In my bedroom.
In his belly.
Mewling, and yowling, and squeaking, and meowing.
He shifts uncomfortably.
His stomach gurgles and growls.
He can have breakfast later.
I’m going to sleep with the good dog
at my feet.
.
.
(No. He didn’t really eat cats, despite what it sounded like).
Shawn L. Bird 