Shawn L. Bird

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

poem-grey June 8, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 8:20 am
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The first day

my mother did not see

dawned grey and heavy

with dew.

But still the finch greeted me

with its joy at waking to

the new.

 

poem-wind June 7, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:58 am
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The crows auk auk their condolences

The finch assures that life goes on.

My mother is now spirit in the breeze,

(or the stiff head-wind,

’cause she was stubborn like that).

 

poem-song June 6, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:25 am
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It is my mother’s second

dying day.

I awaken, heart heavy,

to the house finch’s

happy song.

An accompanist,

as a spirit dances its

release

into eternity.

 

poem- slow June 5, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:22 pm
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How is this day only half over?

Only six hours since I told the doctor

palliation would be her choice,

a life-time is dragging by.

Each minute means more

than those before it.

An infinite embrace

unfolding, a somnolent

soul journeying

forward.

 

poem- identity June 4, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:50 am
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Your name drips heavy irony:

joyful, playful, desirable.

Was that a youthful you

I never knew?

What carved through

who you were meant to be

and left such an antipode

behind?

 

poem- fade June 2, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:48 pm
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Certainty sits in my throat while

rain weeps uneasy farewell

to the ambulance.

She will not fare well.

She is failing, fragile.

Rain washes tenuous existence

down the street in ripples

and rivulets.

It’s all downhill from here.

 

poem- seeing May 31, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 8:22 pm
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I see a new person now.

The years’ baggage-

so much bitterness and resentment-

has disappeared like lost luggage.

She stands at the Baggage Claim,

befuddled

then teeters down the hall,

oblivious to its loss.

This peaceful creature

is new.

There is no room to hold the past

against her.

 

poem-flick May 28, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:51 pm
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Strike the match;

light that candle;

defeat the dark.

Spark.
Sputter.

That tiny wick

won’t brighten

anyone’s despair.

Spark.
Sputter.

Little wicks are a waste of wax.

Candle melt-down.

Find a wick you can trim

For light that won’t dim.

 

 

poem- homunculi May 27, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:52 pm
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Oh, those little men,

stomping about.

Ranting!  Raving!

Poor persecuted poppets

lacking conscience and self-control.

“No! No! No!”

“Mine! Mine! Mine!”

Mothers roll their eyes,

send intractable toddlers

back to bed.

 

poem- it’s raining May 6, 2020

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:25 pm
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I’m chilled to the bone.

I wish for a wood stove:

that crackle and flash,

heat that sinks in deep,

defines cozy comfort,

makes me want to sleep.

I can hear my mother,

If you’re cold, put on a sweater!

I want a wood stove:

the summer scent on  logs,

I want

warm feet on a hassock,

hot cup of tea,

well-written mystery.

Fine, Mother.

I’ll get a sweater, too.

 

 

 
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