Time has pleats.
While years may stretch them out.
They enfold when old friends
meet after years,
touching as if only
hours have passed.
poem- reading a historical mystery April 24, 2014
Small gawky boy
Nose like the beak of an eyas,
I pass a glance to his hands
bronzed and thin upon the table
and find myself time travelling.
Immersed in visions of those hands
Stroking keys, coaxing music,
Mesmerizing me. Those hands
On other arms years ago.
I blink back to now and stare as he stumbles,
Endearingly uncoordinated, into a wall.
I watch him in a crowd, catch the flash of his smile
And am transported into that smile
Gleaming at me in another time
from another face.
Wondering at my sanity,
I check his files,
Find the name I know from long ago
and understand:
History is written in our blood
And carved upon our bones.
The tilt of our heads,
The rhythm of our laughter
The angle of our shoulders,
the shape of our souls,
Are revealed in the genetic mystery
That can be read through time,
by those who see the story.
poem- blinded March 8, 2014
Nearly 100 years old
Macular degeneration stolen sight
Ears failing
trapped in a blurry, muzzy world
When I am his age
will the genetics he passed along
place me in his world?
Will I be able to do what I love without sight or sound?
So I practice
typing this poem without my glasses.
Hoping for the best
like aging.
poem- gifts January 30, 2014
It’s a moment
a tiny time gift
break for a breath
a rest,
closed eyes.
Empty space
on this snowy day
to fill as you will
or
not.
poem- distance does not change the feelings September 26, 2013
The distance does not change the feelings.
the reeling,
wheeling,
squealing of my soul,
no longer whole.
The space between us stretches
and in the distance you grow small
and old,
But time has folds
in dreams I hold
you close
My soul finds healing.
Though space and time change feelings,
you haven’t changed at all.
.
.
.
,
First line compliments of
Captain T @capt_blueson Twitter
poem- time tree August 11, 2013
The tree outside my bedroom window
was the diameter of my skinny child legs:
smooth skinned trunk,
sweet green leaves.
Now, I reach my mother arms
around rough bark,
scrape my wrists as
I stretch to touch
my finger tips together.
There’s summer sun in the scent
of poplar leaves.
I look into the window
searching for my youthful face
gazing out at the future.
Baby boy June 14, 2013
Baby boy,
blue blanket tucked into your chin,
Thumb in in mouth, jaw moving tch-tch-tch-tch.
Perfect tiny face,
an animated melon
beneath the blanket,
immersed in the sweet scent of diaper powder.
I blink.
Baby boy,
Body stretched across the mattress,
Toes draped over the edge,
blankets splayed across your waist,
whiskers bristling your chin.
Mouth agape: GRZZZZ-GRRRRZ-GrrrrrrZ
in the pungent scent of sweat.
Baby boy.
.
.
.
(Even when they’re men, their mothers see the babies they once held in their arms.)
There is no time between hearts June 6, 2012
Yesterday I was blessed to have a visit from dear friends of my teenage years. It has been over 20 years since I last saw them, because they now live in Ottawa, some 4000 km away. We keep in touch through letters (the paper kind!) and Facebook, so we have exchanged photos and life events, but we haven’t seen each other in lifetimes (those of 3 children between us, I think)
The door bell rang, they stepped inside, and it was as if our last visit was yesterday. It gives a glimpse into the concept of eternity. If our own experience is that time folds upon itself when old friends come together, a life time is measured in a blink.
I’m reminded of Joe Abernathy’s comments to Claire with respect to high school reunions in Diana Gabaldon’s Dragonfly in Amber. He says, “you see all these people you haven’t seen for twenty years, and there’s this split second when you meet somebody you used to know, when you think, ‘My God, he’s changed!,’ and then all of a sudden, he hasn’t—it’s just like the twenty years weren’t there. I mean”—he rubbed his head vigorously, struggling for meaning—“you see they’ve got some gray, and some lines, and maybe they aren’t just the same as they were, and you have to make yourself stand back a ways to see that they aren’t eighteen anymore.”
I sure wish Ottawa was a whole lot closer. The worst thing about seeing someone you haven’t seen in 20 years is how much you wish you could spend more time with them. Good-byes are extra sad.
Thank heaven for Facebook. 🙂
Shawn L. Bird 
tree time March 21, 2013
Tags: forest, haiku, Redwood, time, trees
Centuries go by
in whirling winds, in rustling rains
in silent snow
.
Centuries go by
Moccasins tread silently,
worship towering boughs.
.
Centuries go by
Path’s pounded into road and
jarring engines rush
.
Centuries go by
.
Stout Grove Redwoods
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