Shawn L. Bird

Original poetry, commentary, and fiction. All copyrights reserved.

poem-weeping December 2, 2019

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:56 pm
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He, loved filled,

would be caught weeping.

The first time,

graduation.

The second,

over broken relations,

feeling her pain, worried

she’d be okay.

Later,

from loneliness,

from frustrated, infirmity,

he would weep, “Please come!”

I’d wrap my arms around him,

sit beside him,

share those moments of fragility,

so thankful for love,

so thankful for him.

She’s never shown a tear.

Year after year,

muttering,

grumbling,

no personal responsibility,

dark heart.

Her rages

call for no sympathy.

At least,

from me.

 

poem- laughing eyes April 30, 2018

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:17 pm
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A poem for Cheryl: 1964-2018

.

In every photo

you’re focused on those you love:

eyes gleaming,

radiating joy.

You wrap your arms around

grinning little girls,

smother them in kisses,

tackle them with tenderness.

Mother, mother, mother

in every fibre.

And now the children are bereft,

and your laughing eyes

have left the world.

We will look for your smile

in children who will never know you,

and see your laughter through your daughters’ eyes

as they embrace their babies.

 

poem- My daughter says July 8, 2017

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:55 pm
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My daughter says

.   my hair’s too long;

.   it drags my formerly too round face

.   down.

My daughter says

.   my car’s too girlish;

.   pastel seats and butterflies

.   are frivolous.

My daughter says

.   my voice is too strident;

.   her ears are are hurt

.    by their happy cadence.

To my daughter I say

.    life’s too short to be

.    a fuddy-duddy*

.    before you’re thirty.

.

.

*fuddy-duddy: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuddy-duddy

 

poem- letting go December 6, 2016

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:33 am
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Mother’s fingers

always gripped tightly to your small ones

amid the crowds.

Now she’s letting go

and you wish your grip was tight enough

to make her stay.

.

for Lori.

 

poem- Mom September 14, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:46 pm
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Today is my mom’s 86th birthday, so I wrote her a poem:

.

My mother is a sewing machine

Stitching life together like a quilt.

She can make anything grow

as the needle whirs and punctures

Creating history.

 

poem- Mom May 10, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:05 am
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So many mothers:

mine with her great gardening gams

independent and active, just like always,

and I with my empty nest

working, writing, studying and more.

Busyness channeled in different directions,

but independent.

I always said, “I’m raising independent children,”

like my mom

I did my job.

Far away my children lead their independent lives

and only rarely feel the need to call home to update us

on the latest news.

Other mothers,

keep their chicks under their skirts,

want to be involved in every aspect of their lives,

with weekly dinners, frequent phone calls,

dependent interconnectiveness whatever their ages.

‘Not better,

not worse,

Just different’

like the exchange student mantra.

Family is the place you begin.

Family is where they have to take you in.

Family is many things

and there are many mothers.

 

poem-mother January 27, 2015

Grade eight.

Horror.

Mother is her substitute teacher today.

“Do not

acknowledge

that you know me!” she hissed.

But when her name was called for

attendance, and teacher-mother

looked around for

whichever student would raise her hand,

she glowered,

unhappy

with anonymity.

 

 

 
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