I’m stringing together words
connecting us like beads
winding threads
capturing beauty that flashes in the light
I’m stringing us tightly together
knotting now so we can
recreate this moment
when we fear we are unravelling.
poem-shy June 13, 2015
The idea
like a shy child
peeks from around a corner
hoping you will notice it.
If you’re too busy to pay attention
it fades away and you are left
trying to find the picture you can’t
quite bring to mind.
.
.
.
Twice this morning, while busy with something else, an idea fluttered up. Twice I thought, “Oh! That’s good. I must remember that!” and twice it disappeared into the ether. Darn. Darn.
poem-flames February 7, 2015
She’s caught between the flames
of inferno and ice
Accusations of blame,
of who’s not playing nice.
She’s caught between the fury
of defeat and aggression,
For neither is sorry
and all leads to depression.
She’s caught between love
crushed between hate
a magician’s dove
that is stuffed then must wait.
She’s caught between threads
stuffed up their sleeves
’til she’s dangling her head
beneath the nearest trees.
poem- weight January 24, 2015
Grey weight
drags me down
velcro-ed to cement
hobbled like a donkey
held together
by hope.
poem- flying November 20, 2014
Sometimes,
my CPU revs up
like an airplane,
races down the run way;
my typing thuds unexpected spaces,
but my words take off
and fly around the world.
.
.
.
(old computer, noisy fan. It does sound like a revving plane!)
poem-spun October 22, 2014
They can not see beyond the fog
that is all they seek.
Escape.
They fall altered into pharmaceutical
reality.
Mist like creeping mustard gas
poisons their future
stealing their hopes
ruining their dreams.
They fill their days
seeking nebulous security
altered beyond
recognition.
.
.
For those kids and their families battling with addiction who most need education and school supports to develop health and security.
poem- pickled October 3, 2014
Mrs. Pickle
taught me much about
acidic Southern charm.
Vitriol dripped from her tongue
like garlic scented vinegar
stirred into syrup: bitter honey.
Against her absurdity, laughter made a bulwark.
A champion rose up,
waving a sword of words that
sliced that pickle into tiny pieces.
A memory to relish.
poem-warrior weary September 16, 2014
(I was just called a “Warrior Teacher Knitting Goddess”
I think that might be my favourite compliment ever).
.
.
I am weary
Warring with words
is exhausting work
Protect democracy
Fight one battle at a time
under emotional
and financial strain
Ready to go the distance,
and now they announce
a truce, a treaty, an agreement.
The evil despot smiles
and claims a mutual victory
With narrowed eyes
I doubt.
I have seen lies
pour like water from those lips
and I will never trust that truth
comes from her tongue.
The generals say
it is over, if we weary warriors
say it is over.
I am setting down my
metaphorical sword
cautiously
with looks over my shoulder
ready to pick up the picket
and battle again
if the conditions of surrender
prove unpalatable.
Democracy is worth
personal devastation,
but it is exhausting work
being a warrior.
Shawn L. Bird 