Shawn L. Bird

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

poem-pick axe March 14, 2016

I am a pick axe.

I grimly focus on the patch of ground

in front of me, and chip, chip, chip away

at the rocks that block my way.

I will wear down this mountain

day by day.

I will find a seam and harvest value.

Today, it may seem too hard to do,

but I will chip, chip, chip away anyway

until I’ve made a hill of this mountain,

and have found the other side..




I’m smack in the middle of my penultimate grad school course.  I’m finding it hard to concentrate, what with the recent family deaths and illness and related stress.  After a long day at work, I just want to curl up in a warm corner and snooze. This is a required course, so there’s nothing for it but chipping away at readings, chipping away at assignments, chipping away at papers, and then it’ll be over.  One month until the last paper is due, and then it’s through!  The end is nigh!






poem- mountain climbing August 29, 2013

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 8:01 pm
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I thought I was at the base of the mountain, ready to start climbing,

but I realise that I am actually

at Mountain Equipment Co-op

looking for supplies.

I have to be on the mountain

ready or not

and I need ropes,

and crampons,

and carabiners.

I need to know how to climb.

I want to climb

I want to see the view from the heights

know I’ve conquered my fears

risen above

fought a good fight.

So I am heading to

the base camp, looking up,

and starting the climb,

armed with attitude




and desire.

I will climb this mountain





Okanagan Mountain Fire evacuation, August 2003 August 9, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:37 am
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This was my second entry on the theme of fire for the Burnaby Writers Society poetry contest. One more month until winners are announced.  I played around with stanza parallelism here, sometimes using strict rhyme, sometimes consonance.  I had never seen this done before, so I was impressed with how well it worked.


Okanagan Mountain Fire evacuation, August 2003


A crimson hill glows above.
High from here, grey clouded skies
shower us in ghosts of pine needles
that dissolve at my touch
into powdered ashes,
while I load the van with memories.


Glisten, fill, flow out of,
My father’s grave, clouded eyes.
Cowering and aghast in pain, he huddles
and revolves as he’s nudged,
disempowered, ashen.
While I lead the man, his tremors ease.



This poem was linked to the Poetry Potluck on the theme of history and events.  If you are visiting from the potluck, please include a direct link to your poem in a comment below.  Thanks!  It makes it easier for all participants that way.



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