Shawn L. Bird

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

poem-#IReadCanadaDay February 19, 2020

I have been reading through your story

in short bits.  Your words hurt

my heart. It is so much work for some

people to survive from day to day. They

don’t deserve their painful realities, and my

opportunities are so apparent,

under my reading lamp.

.

.

#firstnationsauthors #indigenousauthor

.

.

.

.

.

(ignore WordPress ads)

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

 

Poem- folded April 13, 2017

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:59 pm
Tags: , , , , , ,

You’re creating a story

folded into the pages of the book

It’s not the story the author intended.

It’s not what people expect to see.

But your folds and cuts

tell your story,

and your story

is enough.

 

 

poem-taped December 17, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:25 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Once upon a time

you sent me cassette tapes in the mail,

one sided conversations taped in the car

on your commute to the radio station,

elucidating the state of our universe

and illuminating that eternity

I was so fond of,

while people glanced from their vehicles,

confused or amused as you talked to yourself

but really me.

Once upon a time,

I talked to you,

but really myself,

elucidating the state of an imaginary universe

that would not become real,

no matter how many words wrapped around it,

or how many miles of magnetic tape professed it.

Once upon a time

we shared a fairy tale,

and when I listen to us now, I wonder that we ever believed

in the intensity of the narrative we told ourselves.

 

poem-naked July 28, 2015

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:33 am
Tags: , , , , ,

The line of naked men was long, snaking along a corridor

in the recruitment centre, with whispered jokes and camaraderie,

then the naked line was shorter,

then just one naked man standing awkwardly alone,

in the line of now clothed young men.

He fought flaming cheeks as they studied him punctiliously.

“No, you won’t do,” the army medical team announced.  “Heart murmur.”

Shame.

A great escape, that.  The boys who went to war never quite came home.

But that heart murmured along for another three quarters of a century,

serving his country by staying alive..

.

.

.

My dad had a lot of stories.  

Apparently I’ll be working through my grief setting them down as poems.

 

poem-welcome November 17, 2014

Filed under: Poetry,Writing — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:22 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

You came on evening light

uttered soft greetings,

“Tell my tale,” you whispered,

and so begins

another

adventure.

.

.

.

This weekend, as I was drifting off to sleep (see yesterday’s poem), I was introduced to Dustin who wanted to tell me the story of his life with Lydia.  I had not intended to start a new novel (if that’s what this is) before finishing the projects already on my plate, but Dustin was pretty insistent.  So, instead of doing what I planned today on my Sunday off, I lent my fingers to Dustin.  I have no idea where this will lead, but it looks like it will be an interesting journey.

 

 

poem-writers’ bed November 16, 2014

Filed under: Poetry,Writing — Shawn L. Bird @ 11:54 am
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

The poetry is loud tonight,

smashing and crashing through

synapses of my neocortex,

drowning the bovine bellows

of my bedmate.

Short stories are shouting.

Poetry is proclaiming itself.

Words are wailing.

They are insistent

in the seams between sleep,

and will not quieten

until I write them down.

.

.

(This is post 1717 on the blog.  It was very loudly proclaiming itself when I tried to go to bed last night, and would not stop until I got out my little book kept beside the bed, turned on the little book light, and wrote down the essentials).  Do you have this problem, too?

 

poem-vicious October 26, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:57 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Gathering evil intentions

Hell hath no fury

for 

what will people say

behind your back?

Consent.

Safe words.

He said.

She said.

You’re high on a pedestal

Scorned lovers

can be vicious,

Even if they’re crazy.

It’s not the falling off

the tall pillar that hurts,

it’s the sudden stop

at the

end.

 

 

 

 

Monday Meme in Newfoundland August 18, 2014

Filed under: Monday Meme,Writing — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:38 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

The return of the Monday Meme!

On Facebook, one of my former students, all grown up and living in Newfoundland, posted this photo of her daughter  that just cries out to be a Monday Meme, and so, with her permission, now it is!

The rules:

  • You use this photo as a prompt for some writing.  Poem, story, memory, it doesn’t matter.
  • Copy the photo onto your site, leaving the text.
  • Link back to this post AND submit your link in the comments below.

Note:

While I post the photo on Mondays, you don’t have to post your writing on Mondays.  You can post whenever you choose.  If you enjoy this one, click ‘Monday Meme’ at right, and respond to any of the old posts.

MondayMeme2014-08-18Alison

 

poem- city lights November 22, 2013

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:01 am
Tags: , , ,

Every light

moving on the streets

blinking in the buildings

Every light

a life

story.

 

quote- Jodi McIsaac on truth in storytelling November 7, 2013

Filed under: Literature,Quotations,Reading,Writing — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:03 am
Tags: , , ,

“So it’s not just stories you want, then” Maggie said, eyeing Cedar keenly.  “You want the truth.  Well, there is truth to be found in stories, that’s for certain.”

“Not all stories are true,” Eden piped up from her father’s lap.

“They’re always true about something, little one,” Maggie said, passing Eden another cookie.  “If not about what actually happened, then maybe about the person telling the story–or about the person hearing it…”

(Jodi McIsaac Into the Fire p. 136)

I particularly like the last sentence there, because half of the story is in the reader, and the connections s/he makes with it.  More than that though, is the very fact that the reader picked that story says something, as does that the writer wrote that story.  Subconsciously intentional choices are all around us. 😉

 

 

 
%d bloggers like this: