That squirrel
is ranting like a
furious squeaky toy.
Ten minutes of
castigating harangue
from the willow tree
and no audience but me.
Sometimes
it’s not about a solution;
it’s just about
being heard.
poem-shapely August 22, 2014
I was a line
a squiggly line
a wiggly line
that grew
and grew
into a sphere:
a bubble floating
a tire rolling
I bent elliptically
under pressure,
curves contained
in shapely strain.
poem-crow on a hot tin roof August 21, 2014
There’s a crow
on the hot tin roof
of our shed,
tap dancing
and glancing around
the yard
in search of applause.
The dogs catch his eye
but turn away,
well acquainted
with the vain ways
of crows.
poem-window salvage August 20, 2014
The iridescent cellophane
of dragonfly wings
would make excellent
windows in an
insect cathedral.
The colony queen
could sip nectar
from the jeweled flagon
of dragonfly body
and make a benediction
to beauty and sacrifice.
poem-wading August 19, 2014
Wading through
trash
in search of gems.
Letters from you
lost in the
dump
since Yahoo
decided everything from
WordPress is spam.
I’m journeying
into a black
Carpal tunnel.
poem-jaundiced August 16, 2014
Your photo
sends me back thirty years.
In your place,
I see your old man:
his suspicious eye
pot belly
and bald head.
He was nearly eighty
and always angry.
You hardly look younger
with your belly and baldness,
and you’re wearing
his discontent
like an inherited suit.
It’s ageing you more
than your years are.
poem-fickle August 9, 2014
Weather,
when in Calgary
changes her clothes
with the dizzying
rapidity of a thirteen year old
trying to figure out
what to wear to the school dance,
then rushes off
leaving chaos in her wake.
poem-there
There
in that alley
was the beginning
of dreams
of possibility
of wishes.
There
in that alley
was where imagining
became the tool
for all that was to be.
There
in that alley
was the first place
I was me.
poem-scribble August 8, 2014
This unending line
describes a metaphor for life,
our unending spinning through
the routines of daily life,
dark moments where we’ve
gotten stuck in a groove,
and there,
where it leaves the paper,
departure for
another plane.
.
.
.
.
(This might be fun to try as a shape poem)
poem-migraine August 3, 2014
Claws in the hall,
a staccato jack hammer,
burrow into my brain.
The A/C unit
roars and reverberates
in my skull.
Dull morning light
pierces through my eyelids
burning like a laser.
A storm roils
in my stomach washing up waves of
star studded agony.
Heat washes over, steam rises.
A freezing blizzard follows.
Desperately I seek
the peaceful
oblivion of sleep.
.
.
.
(Not having a good day!)
Shawn L. Bird 