Shawn L. Bird

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

poem-slice December 4, 2019

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:55 am
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What invisible edge

slit skin on finger tip,

inserted pain into this day?

Blood dripped.

Every typed word

reminds me

danger lurks everywhere.

I face the consequences

alone.

 

 

Concussed September 14, 2018

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:20 pm
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This concussion is a constriction

squeezing my head like a snake

hugging my eyes closed.

Light pressure. Dark daylight.

Just a little inconvenience.

 

poem- there October 14, 2016

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:46 am
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I’m crafting a world

and living in it.

You’re part of the narrative,

if only,

you were there.

 

poem- Tech Lament February 11, 2016

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:22 pm
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Once more our tech is down;

Our secretary wears a frown.

Without access to the school network

Her computer has a little quirk:

It’s become a desk decoration

So she delivers colourful oration

On the difference it has made

To get these awesome tech upgrades.

We can not print. We can not copy.

We miss the days when disks were floppy!

We can not file. We can not type.

Improvements? Man, that’s all just hype.

They haven’t improved our telephone

It still works ‘cause they left it alone.

While twiddling our thumbs at least we’re paid

To celebrate these tech upgrades.

 

This year has been remarkably frustrating for us.  Our school district has ‘upgraded’ its technology so everything runs through a network- all our DVD players, copiers, printers, projectors, and computers.  This would be fantastic if the network was stable, but it’s not.  At least half a day each week, and often two or three days, the network is down and we can’t do *anything.*  Students can’t access their work.  No one can research.  We can’t access our presentations.  We can’t show a movie.  Our photocopiers run through the network, so we can’t even copy a paper if we have it in our hand.  We are BEYOND frustrated with these ‘improvements’ and wish they’d just left us alone.  Last year, every thing worked!  We have a innovative school doing amazing things, except when the network shuts us down.  >>>sigh<<<

 

poem- marble August 21, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:16 am
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From the rail siding

in Carrera I see

Michaelangelo’s

cold white mountain

sliced block by block.

What once created

La Pieta and David

now reduced to

slices of counter tops.

.

.

.

 

poem- ancient understatement April 7, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:23 pm
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My father,

born 1914,

grumbles about his sore eye

and sighs,

“I guess

I’m getting old.”

.

.

(True story).

 

poem-spring melt March 9, 2014

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:54 pm
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The snow is melting!

I hear water tumbling like a waterfall

dripping into pool.

Cascading down my window blinds

puddling inside my door.

The snow is melting!

and I need a new roof.

.

.

.

 

poem- Havasu December 25, 2013

Lunar landscape

miles upon miles

of dust,

red rocks,

and sky

stretching wider than a sky has business stretching

then a surprise:

startlingly blue lake

reflects cloudless blue sky

and London Bridge.

How odd.

.

.

.

Lake Havasu City, Arizona, is set beside the lake formed by Parker Dam on the Colorado River.  The city is accessed via historic Route 66.

 

poem- sunset November 26, 2013

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:28 pm
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The lake

is a puddle of pink paint

reflecting  clouds glistening Klimt gold

in a sky fixated on fuchsia.

 

farm wives June 27, 2013

I was listening to the audio book of Diana Gabaldon’s A Breath of Snow and Ashes on the way home from work when a line was casually tossed into the narrative, that made me burst out laughing as I drove.  Such brilliant understatement!

“…somehow one never translates the strength required for daily farm life into a capacity for homicidal fury.”

Well no, we don’t.  Not from sweet, docile, farm wives who spend most of their time around the stove, at least.

However, given that Mrs. Bug (who just exhibited the homicidal fury in question) is an 18th century Scottish Highlander, it does make it more likely!  ((cough)).

 

 

 
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