Shawn L. Bird

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

poem- crows October 3, 2016

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:47 am
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The yard is speckled

with black spots

as if a coal train tipped on a fast corner

and sprayed lumps.

Twenty or thirty have spread out and bob

in search of hidden meals

or trouble

as is the nature of crows.

They’re strangely silent this morning,

like blurry eyed truckers

who’ve driven all night

and just want some breakfast

before the day begins.



poem-rocky July 11, 2016

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:41 am
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He says she’s not a pebble.

He says she’s more like an interesting rock formation.

Ah, but rock formations were once mountains

as mountains become pebbles

in time.


This mountain fills all we can see

I step this way.

You step that way.

Distance grows until we have disappeared from view.

From where we are now, we can each squish

a mountain between our finger and thumb.



poem-blackbird tree March 19, 2016

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:59 pm
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The tree is heavy with red-winged blackbirds

like early black fruit,

strangely silent gathering

before the territorial grumblings begin.


poem-hearts January 3, 2016

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 8:24 pm
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Isn’t it strange

how what you imagine will captivate you forever

can become stale and disgusting with time?

Like fruit fallen too ripe,

stinking beneath the tree,

time sometimes does no favours

to distant hearts.



poem-white November 16, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:46 pm
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Streaks of white flash past my windshield

like I’m entering hyper-space,

hoping not to be hit by space debris

(or other cars)

’cause that’d end my trip real quick, wouldn’t it?

No one really likes  driving the highway home

through a snowstorm.

Where’s Han Solo when you need him?


poem- Mom September 14, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 6:46 pm
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Today is my mom’s 86th birthday, so I wrote her a poem:


My mother is a sewing machine

Stitching life together like a quilt.

She can make anything grow

as the needle whirs and punctures

Creating history.


poem-simmering September 1, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:36 pm
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Your disapproval simmers,

irritation bursting in exclamatory bubbles,

mutter, mutter, mutter

like a lid bouncing on a pot.


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