Silent chatter
clattering through her mind,
shouting thoughts,
whispered shrieks,
speaking do
don’t
do
don’t.
Can it be?
Will it be?
Should it be?
Yes.
No.
Make it so.
Stuttering possibility
silently.
poem-first snow November 9, 2018
Grey morning:
sky falls in fragile pieces
past my window,
lies,
white clouds upon the ground.
This morning
I can touch the sky.
Cold comfort.
poem-seeing November 8, 2018
We fight to see
through blurs,
double vision,
colour corrected, blue filter.
Which is better, one
or two?
One?
or two?
Where do the eyes track
as you read this text?
What games does your brain play
with your eyes?
How are you blind?
Through which lenses can you see?
.
.
.
Due to my ongoing concussion symptoms, I had a visual therapy evaluation today. Fascinating stuff. Got me thinking about sight.
poem- destiny November 7, 2018
They say our traumas get encoded in our DNA,
and travel through the generations,
How much of our destiny
is granddad’s addiction, or
grandma’s depression?
Daddy’s tortured in the war,
the screams of his dreams
choke his children’s children,
how is this so?
We see reverberations
of nature, but seek solace in nurture.
Can education and positive choices
eradicate the history?
Wash clean old wounds?
Slowly nurture the nature of the DNA
to create a new playbook?
It may.
poem-this moment November 6, 2018
This is not a test.
One chance.
One.
It all counts.
This is it.
Go.
poem-crush November 5, 2018
Small pieces of hope
held tightly,
nurtured gratefully,
smashed out of my hands,
fall,
fall,
fall.
poem-forgiveness November 4, 2018
This is forgiveness.
Left alone, forgotten, until you
became a dessicated husk.
Discovered, remorse poured on you,
and you rested, recovering,
absorbing all you needed to heal.
One year.
Regret poured onto you.
Two years.
Faith surrounded you.
Three years
You offered a single bloom to give us hope.
Another year.
Patience. Trust.
This is what time and forgiveness bring:
full flowering!
Ah, the anticipation of your full celebration
makes me dizzy.
.
.
![20181104_103441[1]](https://shawnbird.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/20181104_1034411.jpg?w=368&h=207)
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True story. Took my Christmas Cactus outside to enjoy some summer sun (2014?). Forgot it there. Come fall, it was a wizened shell. It’s taken years to recover, but it HAS! What a metaphor for tragedy in our lives and the patience we need with our recovery.
poem-gathered November 3, 2018
Three
gathered around a table,
finding worlds
in words.
Three
gathered in a moment,
plotting destinies,
with pens.
Three
gathered in contemplation,
changing everything
with imagination.
poem-squish November 2, 2018
The band around the head
compresses.
Waves,
lost ideas,
press in,
squish out.
Opportunities extruded
and left behind.
.
.
(Expect more than a few concussion related poems this month)
poem-thou dost protest too much November 1, 2018
Each act ahead comes
from what’s behind.
We are all walking wounded
trailing bandages
that tangle us,
tie us,
trip us
into our future.
Wear a blind fold:
we cannot look into a mirror to see the pain
etched across our faces.
See the bandages?
Trip over them
leaving the bar.
Scream yourself hoarse,
stamp your feet.
Shout “I’m fine, fine, FINE!” *
Ah. Methinks,
The lady doth protest too much.*
.
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(*Allusions: In Louise Penny’s wonderful Inspector Gamache books, Ruth Zardo has written a book of poetry where FINE is an acroynym for F*cked up, Insecure, Neurotic, Egotistical. I’d say that applies here, too. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much” is from the play within a play in Shakespeare’s Hamlet).
Shawn L. Bird 