There is always an excuse
for not meeting expectations.
Someone else is always to blame
that you couldn’t meet expectations.
Everyone else is expected to leap
to meet your expectations.
Could you please just accept
responsibility for your actions?
.
.
Just a little venting. 🙂
Today you would be 101
Three months gone
Grief still takes me by surprise
a slice of pain hidden in the guise
of a song, or a day, or a vision.
I still see your sparkling eyes,
I hear your voice saying my name,
You became a hundred and one
times a hundred and one memories
and grief still weeps off each one.
Writing a paper
Still writing a paper
Tired of the paper
Still writing the paper
Which will end first? It or me?
(UBC-O Grad studies
micropoetry)
Daughter, wife, mother, student, teacher
each role I embrace in the search for myself
poet, writer, dancer, seamstress, preacher
constrained by expectations, trying to excel,
battling responsibilities, expanding my reach.
Stop.
I’m tired of being caught in this box!
I need to be free of these responsibilities;
I need to find me.
I don’t fit in this box, in this space or this place,
where I have been a chrysalis.
Now,
I a m o u t s t r e t c h e d,
gossamer wings unfolding from this abyss of my history,
from what they said I had to be–
what I thought I had to be–
I am embracing destiny;
accepting all the facets of my identity,
I have discovered
me.
Sickness weighs heavy
body aches as if it is encased in cement
limbs do not want to move,
throat scratches,
eyes droop,
incision throbs,
skin shivers.
Every part of me weighed down
and longing to fall into sleep.
.
.
.
I’m definitely coming down with something! Yesterday I was falling asleep at 8 p.m. Tonight it wasn’t even 6 p.m. Good night!
What a day, so much fun
but energy reserves are done
I drag myself into the house
wrap my arms around my spouse
Write you a poem, and then I’m gone
heading to bed with a jaw cracking yawn.
For years I’ve been waiting to be in this place
where creativity, exploration, and delight for the job
make every day a fulfillment of what I wanted it to be
Where traces of our joy leak from the doors and windows
Where faces laugh and there is genuine care and knowing,
so going the extra mile feels like walking home,
because each of us belongs.
Maybe, they told me. Maybe.
For stretches, for weeks, it’s a same old day,
but my brain starts to hum whenever I remember,
Maybe, it tells me. Maybe today.
.
.
Oh! The anticipation! Will it be? Won’t it? It’s like waiting for lottery numbers to be drawn.
I don’t understand
why you choose to be blind,
wrap the mask across your eyes,
I don’t know if you realize that hell is lined
with those who chose not to see the bullies,
who tear apart school yards, countries, and economies.
I hope your misguided vote is overwhelmed by kinder souls,
who are not manipulated by lies, who put on a helm and smote
the evil despot, those who decide to keep our country whole.
There was something.
There was something in that bombastic laugh
that set a tingle up my spine,
something not quite right that climbed out from behind your eyes,
incised the benefit of the doubt.
There was something that kept me holding back
long before your strange attack.
Perhaps my intuition,
just knew it wasn’t safe to trust?
Shawn L. Bird 