Shawn L. Bird

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

poem-the dark side of the moon August 24, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:56 pm
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too much new

tensions wrapping around psyches

tugging

we’re choking on the changes

fruitlessly fearful

waiting for someone to hear us

Relief.

A sensible plan

Workable ideas

Deep breath.

This might just work

 

Poem- Pandemic sestina May 5, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:37 pm
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These days are quiet time
Our hectic lives forced to slow
We breathe,
thankful for lungs that work,
content to wait
until it’s safe out there.
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In some places, there
stands Death, taking its time,
poised with scythe, to wait
as heart beats slow.
The nurses do their work;
patients struggle to breathe.
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Breathe
deeply. There.
It’s work.
Time
slows.
We wait.
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The entire planet waits.
Even the wind breathes
in coughs and gasps. Fast.  Slow.
No more rushing here and there.
Clocks are useless. What is time?
Stay home.  Avoid work.
.
If you have savings and sick leave for your work,
you can afford to wait.
Money doesn’t equal time.
Some can afford to breathe
easy, but there
are folks who can’t afford to slow.
.
It’s hard being forced to slow
down, to re-think how we work,
to consider that there
comes peace in learning to wait,
in learning to breathe,
in resting for a time.
.
So slow down and wait.
Work on your breathing.
In time, freedom will be there.

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A sestina is an old, French poetry form made up of 6 stanzas of sestets ending with a 3 line ‘envoi.’  Each stanza re-orders the end words of the first stanza (lexical repetition)  in a specific pattern.  

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poem- In the world beyond my windows May 1, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:57 pm
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The White Crowned sparrows fill

the yard; they butt striped heads at

the feeders, but they sing for their supper.

The sky is brilliant blue,

clouds hover around the edges of my sight, fringing

the hills.

Mount Ida is still white-capped,

the fire-dead splinters bristle through

the snow line above

a carpet of spruce and fir.  Across

the street someone has left

a painted rock beside

the mailbox; we’ve all earned its

purple heart.

Bursting buds,

New green leaves on spring awakened

trees.

The House Finch in

the blue spruce announces his

new family, but warbles his warning,

No visitors allowed!

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This is a list poem. Sometimes they are numbered, though this one isn’t, obviously.  🙂  I don’t think I’ve seen one with enjambment like I’ve used here, but hey, it’s my poem. What good is a poetic licence if you don’t take advantage?

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poem- suspicious April 3, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 8:26 pm
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Somebody is messing around

sprinkling snow on the ground in April!

Too late for the fool. There should be rules about this!

We’re stuck inside, forgetting to wash, dress, or sleep.

Dealing with stress by baking and crafting, making new courses.

Things are seriously off-track, keeping distance with my hacking coughs,

but then outside the window, the final straw: snow.

That’s it.

This is shit.

 

poem- I planted them a decade ago April 1, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 7:15 pm
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What an unexpected gift

revealed by retreating snow:

crocuses planted so long ago

Finally bloom when w most need

symbols of hope.

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(True story.  I planted a couple of dozen crocuses into the front lawn in the early 2000s when we first bought this house.  The bloomed on their own for three or four years before they stopped – likely victims of hubby’s herbicide.  Suddenly, after so many years, 2 popped up this year!)

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