Summer here,
choking heat
forests fill the sky
as ash.
poem- performance art July 22, 2017
I know,
that sometimes my performance faltered.
I reached down or up for notes that would not be seized.
I fumbled at times with pitch, tune, entrances, but
every time
I believed.
I believed I was selling crumbs to birds
who were going to die horrible deaths
without them.
I believed that every person
within the sound of my voice should buy
just a small bag for the ‘ungry young ones.
My voice trembled with my belief, as I gazed out at the faces,
beseeching each and every one to part with a tuppence.
.
You believed.
Stranger, how you clung to my arm,
when me met on the sidewalk, months later,
eager to tell me how you’d heard my voice
in your head weeks afterwards. How beautiful it was.
How it made you wept.
I, who knew every vocal fault,
struggled to believe
that my believing,
had been enough to reach past my inadequacy.
Thank you
for reminding me,
it’s the only thing that connects
in the end.
.
Image (c) Evan Buhler used with permission. “Feed the Birds”. Mary Poppins Shuswap Theatre 2016.
Me, being The Bird Woman November-December 2016.
I met a fan of the show yesterday and struggled once again to come to terms with the fact that our art has its own life and power. It can transcend us to speak poignant messages to receptive ears.
quote-attracting poets July 17, 2017
From The Colour Master by Aimee Bender:
…part of trying to attract those poet-men was to look a little like I had wandered onto campus by accident after having spent 10 years with the wolves behind some farm house, living off scraps and reveling in the pure air like a half-girl Mowgli, half-woman Thoreau.” p. 76
I found this quite amusing, as I had just come from the Honeymoon Bay Poetry Retreat and had spent some time with a few poet-men.
poem- leavings July 15, 2017
Reaching inside the chair
. deep in the cushions
. I am sliced by a workman’s
. lost staple pack
. sharp edges up.
. It tears my flesh,
. leaves my blood on the leather.
Sometimes, behind us
. we leave words
. meant for construction.
Sometimes,
. our leavings
. bite.
poem- Hwy 19: missed connection July 14, 2017
You sit,
back against the Merge sign
inviting convergence
. connection.
I see,
the next sign, No Hitchhiking.
Pick up is illegal.
I drive by.
poem-The Poetry Retreat is Over July 9, 2017
The Poetry Retreat is Over
I am the last to leave.
The GPS battery is dead;
I don’t know where to go from here.
poem- My daughter says July 8, 2017
My daughter says
. my hair’s too long;
. it drags my formerly too round face
. down.
My daughter says
. my car’s too girlish;
. pastel seats and butterflies
. are frivolous.
My daughter says
. my voice is too strident;
. her ears are are hurt
. by their happy cadence.
To my daughter I say
. life’s too short to be
. a fuddy-duddy*
. before you’re thirty.
.
.
*fuddy-duddy: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuddy-duddy
poem-reality June 21, 2017
Eventually
Reality has to intervene.
You’re not destined for the NHL
Or the corps de ballet
Your voice will not sell
A million records.
Simon sends you packing.
Reality can suck.
But if playing hockey
Brings you happiness
Why stop just because you’ll never hoist the Stanley Cup?
Dance like nobody’s watching
Sing until you’re smiling.
Don’t let reality rob you of the joy
Of the activity itself.
The rush of a beautiful pass and goal.
The beauty of a perfectly formed pirouette.
The harmony than hums in your ear.
Celebrate those moments for ten thousand hours.
They say ten thousand hours yields excellence.
Perhaps you’ll need twenty.
Or thirty.
Embrace the joy.
Share in a community of like minds.
Perhaps after forty thousand hours
Your reality will change
And if it doesn’t,
At least you’ll nurture your soul.
Like reality,
Success has many faces.
poem-momentary June 14, 2017
I’m walking away from this rain
The painful splashes digging out the flowerbeds
splattering on my head.
I’m walking away.
I’m walking toward the glow
The sun shining joy of divining
possibility. Live ’til you’re dead
I know you know time folds
when old friends meet.
I’m walking toward the momentary
treat of seeing you.
Dreams in mind, I’m walking ahead.
poem- wonder June 13, 2017
There is power in wonder
in gratitude
for the miracles of everyday.
There is power in wondering
in curiosity
for what could be.
There is power in what we say
There is power in wonder.
Shawn L. Bird 