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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
Poem- Pandemic sestina May 5, 2020
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.
.
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.
.
Breathe
deeply. There.
It’s work.
Time
slows.
We wait.
.
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
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- My watering can has a leak April 30, 2020
I race through the living room
hand cupping drips
rushing toward the sink,
but my right foot finds a puddle
and flings itself forward
I contort in a frenzied downward dance
still clutching that can,
twist an ankle,
stretch a thigh,
descend in slow motion
as husband stands agog,
an astonished witness.
Look! I skinned my knee!
We wonder together how that
particular injury came to be.
I limp to the sink, feeling four once more,
glad not to be picking gravel from the wound,
Look for leak-free watering options,
and try the task again.
Battered and bemused,
life goes on.
Shawn L. Bird 