Who knew
when love first entangled
that rapture yields both
blessing and anguish?
Anticipated joy
dashed by disability,
disease, dread,
death.
Watching beloved baby
suffer
and the love that begat
all the suffering
lies so tangled
in anguish
that it’s difficult to
find it at all.
This is a found poem, using lines from a variety of Pete Seeger songs, in tribute to a troubador whose tunes were fuel to action:
.
I hear the music ringing
There is a season
Where have all the flowers gone
They all look just the same
How can I keep from singing?
A time for peace
And kind understanding
A time for every purpose under Heaven
God bless the grass that grows through the crack
‘Cause that’s what life’s all about
Treat them with patience
How can I keep from singing?
my world is there
A time for love
Long time passing
When I say always I mean forever
I promise you I’ll never say good-bye
learn to laugh
My life flows on in endless song
How can I keep from singing?
Writing a novel is like baking a birthday cake.
First, you figure out what kind it is
chocolate, vanilla, spice, angel?
historical? horror? teen? romance?
What is your audience?
Three toddlers? Fifty seniors?
Then you add the ingredients in some order
flour, eggs, milk, sugar
protagonist, conflict, plot, setting
Then you mix them all together and add some heat
from an oven
an editor or first readers
It cooks, changing from ingredients into cake.
It’s edited from a manuscript to a book.
When it tests as being done,
it has to sit a bit to cool
Then it is shared with a small group, or a huge crowd
People celebrate with candles, smiles and songs
A cake lasts a moment, but the memory can linger.
A book lasts longer, but the memory of the first moment lingers.
Night breathes
its peace in
shimmering air
dusted with winter.
.
Night breathes
its silence in
rustling wishes
between sheets.
.
Night breathes
an invitation in
a lingering look
over the shoulder.
.
Night breathes
a promise in
peace,
silence,
invitation.
He is
-potentially-
all he
is.
.
She is
-essentially-
all she
is.
.
They are
-exponentially-
all they
are.
I’ve been asked to submit a couple of poems to an anthology, and I have no idea what to choose. There are hundreds, and I like so many of them. So, do you have any suggestions? What’s your favourite?
Here’s the link to all the poetry on the blog, if you need to search through a few:
https://shawnbird.com/category/pondering/poetry/
Thanks for any help you can give!
The
lampposts
.
.
are
invisible
.
.
in
this mist
.
.
and
so the
.
.
haloed
bulbs,
.
.
floating,
glow:
.
.
UFOs
above
.
.
the
road.
.
.
.
My Christmas lights
are stars reflected
in a black lake
My Christmas lights
are the twinkle
in laughing eyes
My Christmas lights
are glistening in
your smile.
Best laid plans
A good surprise
Gone wrong.
An earnest effort
Hug cures
anguish
frustration
Making right
Rewind
Start again
Free rein
Shawn L. Bird 