The weight of my thoughts of you
compresses my chest into aching,
takes my heart and makes it pulp
crates the hope with
crushing waits.
.
(just a little play with words).
poem- named August 3, 2015
“Herb had to take me to the hospital this morning,” my mom said. “My blood pressure was all wonky and I had a headache. I was afraid I was having a stroke.”
Herb. My father, who died last week. I caught my breath.
“Stewart took you to the hospital?” I suggested. My brother.
“Yes,” she confirmed, her tone suggesting I was being obtuse. “But everything was all right. They told me I need to get a massage. I’m just tense, over the events of the last week.”
She didn’t even know she’d said the wrong name.
I didn’t point it out.
“I’m glad everything is okay, Mom,” I said.
poem-Micah August 2, 2015
Micah has questions
about ereaders and
the value of studying Shakespeare.
Micah has opinions
about math education
Stephen Harper
minimum wage
immigrant involvement in government
and politicized school districts that don’t put kids first.
Micah is young
but he is the future;
his critical thoughts
will shape a new nation.
.
.
.
Sitting above the UBC Rose Garden today watching the ocean traffic, and reading while I waited for the art gallery to open, I met this thoughtful young man, and enjoyed an hour of conversation with him. Don’t you just love those brief connections with intelligent, inquiring minds?
poem-curses August 1, 2015
When very riled my dad would curse
“Sugar!” he’d cry with vehemence.
Remembering now makes me sigh,
t’was a perfect curse for such a sweet guy.
poem-road trip July 31, 2015
Oil checked
Tires checked
Rad fluid checked
Windshield washer fluid checked
Windows washed
Trunk packed
Tunes loaded
Seatbelts on
Drive
Talk
Laugh
poem-old dog July 30, 2015
It can’t be comfortable
in that convoluted position
but since you assume it more and more often
I can only presume that normalcy
is more painful than contortion.
poem-lost July 29, 2015
Small voice calling;
creatures crawling.
Hopes are falling.
She’s left bawling,
Must stop lolling
and start hauling.
poem-naked July 28, 2015
The line of naked men was long, snaking along a corridor
in the recruitment centre, with whispered jokes and camaraderie,
then the naked line was shorter,
then just one naked man standing awkwardly alone,
in the line of now clothed young men.
He fought flaming cheeks as they studied him punctiliously.
“No, you won’t do,” the army medical team announced. “Heart murmur.”
Shame.
A great escape, that. The boys who went to war never quite came home.
But that heart murmured along for another three quarters of a century,
serving his country by staying alive..
.
.
.
My dad had a lot of stories.
Apparently I’ll be working through my grief setting them down as poems.
poem-next week July 26, 2015
“I’ll see you next week, Daddy,”
I said.
“I hope I’m feeling better then,”
he said.
“I do, too, Daddy. I love you,”
I said as I kissed his cheek.
This week, I hope he is feeling great,
playing tennis in heaven.
.
.
.
This was the 2000th post on ShawnBird.com I’d celebrate, but I’m not quite up to it, for obvious reasons.
poem-summer noise
Oh, if only those
air conditioner fans would stop
then I could listen to
the summer serenading
of the frogs.
Shawn L. Bird 