Shawn L. Bird

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

poem- he said she said April 14, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:55 pm
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That scarf was a ridiculous purchase, he said.  I don’t work for you to buy gauzy strips of gratuitous fabric.

I don’t know why, she sighed, you insist upon these games

Because, said he, games are fun.  His lips quirked up on one side. His eyes were dark

Not always, she said.  Take chess, for example.

Racing is fun. Speeding around the track, outmanoeuvring competitors.  I never liked chess.  All that cornering the king.  It’s unbecoming.

Oh I know, said she.  She touched the damned scarf to a lit a taper and tossed it out the window as it flared.  Oops. How clumsy of me.

His eyes grew wide and he rushed to the window to see flames rapidly licking the dashboard of his Aston Martin convertible.

You always forget that the real power on the chess board is the queen’s, she said, as he raced shouting from the room.  Check, mate.

.

.

Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt is to write a dialogue poem.

 

poem- games December 16, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:33 pm
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Boy games

Aim young,

Convince the girls to give it up

believing that you love them

Dump, Laugh, put another notch

on your belt.

Leave broken hearts

and bad kharma behind you.

Girls can be devious,

don’t be surprised

when the downtrodden

rise, and eliminate the cause

of your pleasure.

Live by the sword

Die by the sword

after all.

 

poem-exploding you March 4, 2014

Filed under: Poetry,Writing — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:20 pm
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Oh, belligerent woman

at the gas station.

You know you are wrong.

You see the arrows.

Instead of backing up

You drive forward,

and make obnoxious remarks.

The other ten of us

can follow directions.

One of these things is not

like the others.

You’re embarrassed.

I get that.

So apologize, and back up.

Don’t yell at me.

I’m going the right way.

I am an author, though.

So while you rant,

I have the satisfaction

of seeing the bomb

the terrorists have set

that you accidentally trigger

by going the wrong way.

As your car explodes in a fiery

conflagration,

the ten cars that are secure

in our rule following

are protected by our bubble of sanctity.

We smile contentedly

knowing karma is at work,

as the litter of your dissatisfied life

rains from the sky,

bouncing off of us and

our aligned automobiles.

As you back out,

muttering a chastened,

“Sorry,”

I am glad that imagination

trumps aggravation

every time.

.

.

It’s a popular saying, “Don’t mess with authors.  They will put you in their novels, and kill you.”  Today, I discovered the poetic equivalent. 😉

 

 
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