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Joseph E Bird

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Poetry

The Porch

She sits on the porch alone

as we drive by.

Stop on your way back.

Past the house,

we turn up the hill that’s almost too steep.

The trees reach out and touch the car.

as if to comfort, as if they know.

In the clearing, faded flowers lean

in front of slabs of stone,

forever marking the place

where we visit those

we can no longer visit.

Gospel music from across the hollow

filters through the trees.

Dusk is creeping closer.

Has it been that long already?

We leave because we must.

 

She sits on a swing

built by her husband’s father,

so many year ago.

We sit in rockers

and talk.

The porch is painted white,

the floor boards brick red.

Once-sharp edges are now round

from years of touch

by those who rest on

the hill above.

The swing creaks back and forth,

a soothing lullaby.

 

Nearby a bird calls in strong song.

Farther away, another answers.

Still another sings the song of

the solitary bird.

A frog croaks.

Just one, for now.

Others will follow later.

A cool breeze brings relief

from the hot, muggy day.

The serenity of the world

from the porch

is comforting.

 

All things of youth

are memories now.

He is gone.

Though there are friends,

though there is family,

she is alone.

She embraces the solitude.

I love this porch, she says.

In the mornings

on the swing

by myself.

I am blessed.

The Lord

brought him

to me.

And he brought me

to this house,

this porch.

And now,

though alone,

I am blessed.

copyright joseph e bird, 2016

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Plato’s Academy

St. Albans native David Hannan dropped by the Shelton College Review the other day to raise the academic level of our group. It’s a rising tide lifts all boats kind of thing. David is studying Creative Writing and Statistics at Marshall University and this summer will spend three weeks at the University of Oxford where he’ll delve into the works of Shakespeare. Also on his agenda while in England is a visit to the Eagle and Child pub (also known as the Bird and Baby, or simply, the Bird) where the Inklings literary discussion group would sometimes meet. The Inklings included C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, among others. Quite a summer ahead for the young Mr. Hannan. We’re grateful for his presence in our humble gathering of scribblers and ink-slingers.

His writing career is off to a good start. He’s already had a poem published in the Marshall literary magazine Et Cetera. He’s kindly agreed to allow me to post it here. Enjoy.

Plato’s Academy

Replace a toga
With holey blue Dickies overalls
Sandals
With sole-less Walmart moccasins
Olives
With jalapeño cheese Munchies
And the Greek amphitheater
With my grandfather’s garage

Amidst the aroma of spray paint
Stale Columbian coffee
And greasy Suzi’s biscuits
I absorbed the arguments of old men

From petty politics to polemics
Pontiacs to Buicks
Cosmology and Corvettes;
From Indian deities
To Oldsmobile leather seats,
Their words spilled amongst the oil on the floor

My grandfather, a man who could bend words
As well as fenders
Welded me into an academic

When his friends would trickle out
Like the last drops of coffee
Our dialectic would begin
Question and answer
Until one was silent

The man who never hugged my father,
Who recoiled from a touch
Reached out
And embraced me with his mind
To try and make me Aristotle.

copyright 2015, David Hannan

2

Hope springs.

seedling 2 for web

As he awakened to the passing of time, his mind skipped over fall, passed by winter, and envisioned signs of a coming spring. Not outside the window of the conference room, where the shadows of the morning and the afternoon grew longer, and the mountains in the distance transformed into an impressionistic painting, but within himself, where the seeds of optimism and hope that had been planted by so many people over the years, were finally growing.

excerpt from A Prayer for Rain, by joseph e bird, copyright 2016

2

i am a mist

Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.

from the Book of James

2

Red

Red is real.  I don’t know his name, though I did at one time.

When I first saw him, he was probably 15. Maybe older. It was hard to tell because he was big for his age. He was a least six feet tall then, but I knew he was young because his face was youthful. He rode a bike. One of those BMX-type bikes that kids that age ride. Yeah, and a blazing shock of red hair. He had the kind of unconventional good looks that could have landed him movie or television roles. In another life.

I live in a very small town, population around 10,000. Maybe less. I work downtown, such as it is. Downtown encompasses a few blocks. My office faces an alley that’s on the route from the soup kitchen at St. Mark’s to points elsewhere, like the GoMart a block away. Across the alley is a house that’s been converted into a duplex. Renters come and go. There have been good people living in the house, some just starting out, trying to save money and build a better life. There have been others not so well intentioned. Over the years, the police have been called to the house many times.

It was when the house was occupied by others that I first saw Red. He would cruise in on his bike, have some contact with people in the house, then ride away. I sort of knew what was going on, but I had hoped that this kid was just sowing oats, that maybe he would mature and take a different path. There was life in his eyes and something told me there was pontential for great things.

Then I didn’t seem him for a while. Months. Maybe a year or two.

Then his picture in the paper. Busted for something, I don’t remember what. I know it was drug related, but it was more than just possession. It was obvious to me that he hadn’t taken a different path and that he was doing what he had to do to feed his addictions.

I started seeing him on the street again. No bike, just walking. He seemed ok. I wondered if he had gotten help. Maybe he was turning his life around.

Then last night I made a trip to the store. It was raining hard. I sat in my car listening to Ben Sollee on Mountain Stage before going inside. When I came out, Red was walking along the drive in front of the store. He was oblivious to the rain. Then he stopped. He started circling his left wrist with his right hand. Back and forth. I thought maybe he was trying to get something off his arm. Then I saw there was nothing there. He was muttering to himself. He had that look. Frustration. Anger. Fear. In his world, not ours.

Then he started walking again. The look was gone, and he was just a guy walking in the rain.

We see people like this all the time. Seemingly too far gone to help so we just drive by.  Like I did. I look back and wonder if I should have offered him a ride, but I know that wouldn’t have been very smart. He was obviously unstable and given his past, even talking to him might have been a mistake.

But I can’t help wondering what life is like for him. That’s the point of the story. He’s tragically broken.

But he’s still a person.

Every now and then we all need shelter from the storm.

 

 

2

keep walkin

i’m not dead    i don’t think i’m ded    my head is killing me    if i were dead there be fire    but i’m wet    water everywhere

thirsty hungry

damn sun hurts my eyes    i must have slept all night    got to get up

what the hell is this thing    heavy    can’t push it    dumpster    its a dumpster

its not the sun in my eyes    streetlight    railroad tracks    must be behind the stores

gotta get some    gotta score

legs are stiff    got to go to jimmers    just one hit    then i get my hed together    do a score of my own    steeal some cash    neeed cassh

dumpster smells sweet    like food    yeh haf a donut    burger bag    maybe some fries    dammit

jimmers is a long way

its rainin a little    ok    just walk, red    you be ok    just walk

people ever where    pay no mind red    i must be somethin    they look at me and scared of me    i aint hurtin nobody    i aint taking you money    not now    better be out here than in the jail    i score out heer

somethin on my hand    its covered in wire    cant get it off    im wrappin the wrong way    get off!    other way    no other way    get off!

someone blowin a horn    guy in a truck    he looks mad    waving at me    the horn blows    up yurs i tell him    get outta you truck and i beat you good    yeh    i didnt think so

keep walkin red    just keep walkin

rain comin down real good    so wet    cold    keep walkin red

road is black and wet and shiny    cigarette butts    i hate that people be so inconsiderate

where am i    the bridge    shelters down the road a piece    maybe get som ssoup

Hey, Red. You ain’t lookin so good.

weeble    weefle    weasel    weasel, got any smack

I don’t do that stuff, Red. I give you a drink, though.

whats this    it aint taste like nuthin

Vodka. Take it easy. I said a drink, not the whole bottle.

thanks weasel    they got food down there

They won’t let you in looking like that.

im going to jimmers

No you ain’t. Jimmer done got hisself killed.

jimmers dead

Yeah, man. Got into it with one his dope heads. No offense.

i need a score

You ain’t gettin it from Jimmer. You get outta this rain, Red. Go on down under the bridge. They’ll have a fire going tonight.

i need a score

Damn, Red. You gonna be dead yourself if you don’t slow down.

so

Take my bottle. It’ll get you through the night. I’ll get more.

thanks weasel

Get down there, now.

weasels all right    straight up dude    i hate the bridge    all them weirdos    but i gotta get dry    all this rain    all this rain    all this rain

copyright joseph e bird, 2016

0

Words matter.

One of my writing mentors, Sol Stein, once told me to avoid melodrama in my fiction, melodrama being characterized by exaggerated scenes or characters that are intended to appeal to the emotions.  The damsel in distress tied to the railroad tracks. The villain twirling his mustache.

I’ve been editing A Prayer for Rain, and even after great input from several readers, my manuscript is covered with red marks of my own doing.  Much of what I’m finding are sentences and phrases that make me cringe. Phrases that I thought were good when I wrote them, but now jump out at me as melodramatic. Even a simple word choice can make a sentence melodramatic.

In one scene, Trevor has an exchange with Jess, a young woman who works at a convenience store. Since his accident five years before, he has had very little physical contact with anyone, and when they shake hands for the first time, he has this reaction:

He took her hand in his and though it was only for a moment, he relished the soft touch of her skin on his.

The word in question is relish. By definition, it’s accurate enough. It simply means to take pleasure in something. But in reading it afresh, it strikes me as a little bit of an over-reaction.  I picture Trevor going “ahhhhh” and quivering like a bowl of jelly. Come on, man. Get a grip. It seems melodramatic to me now.

Here’s the current version:

He took her hand in his and though it was only for a moment, he appreciated the soft touch of her skin on his.

I’m not sure appreciated will be the final word choice, but it definitely takes away the melodrama. Trevor notices her in a unique way, but he’s not about to melt into a pile of butter.

I said to the guys at the Shelton College Review the other day that sometimes I’ll open my manuscript to a random page and read a couple of sentences and get embarrassed by the poor quality of the writing. I think what I’m seeing when I do that is the amateurish, melodramatic passages. Recognizing the problem is the first step to recovery, right?

That’s why there’s red ink all over my pages.

Words matter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

13

Walkers.

Our house is a little backwards from most houses, where living rooms face the street and kitchens face the backyard. Ours is just the opposite. We have a pleasant view from the kitchen as neighbors go by on their daily walk. Some I know, some I don’t.

Larry, a writer, walks in the early evenings. He’s an athletic guy, so his gait is purposeful and steady. He walks, eyes ahead, and you get the feeling that he’s working something out in his mind. My guess would be that he’s nurturing an idea for a story, or finding the rhythm for a verse.

But I don’t really know.

Jim walks slowly, head hung down. Like his dog died. But I don’t think he has a dog. And I know it doesn’t die every day. That’s just how he walks. When he stops to talk, he’s very pleasant and friendly, as if life for him is good.

But I don’t really know.

My father is eighty-six. He walks like he’s fifty-six. His fast pace keeps him healthy. He’s suffered loss in the family, but doesn’t talk much about it. Like most men, he’s good at compartmentalization. He’s strong and self-sufficient and seems to be getting along well. He looks forward when he walks. I think that says a lot.

But I don’t really know.

A young man walks wearing a ball cap and an extra shirt over his shoulder. He’s walking to work. I don’t know where his walk begins or where it ends, but it has to be measured in miles. He seems so responsible.

But I don’t really know.

A neighbor walks in the evenings. He does laps up and down the sidewalk, obviously exercising. He’s very quiet and makes no attempt at conversation. I wonder why he is so reserved. I could speculate.

But I don’t really know.

A woman walks in the morning, long strides, arms swinging vigorously. A power walker. Other times I see her simply walking. I imagine that she lives her life like everyone else. Maybe she works. Takes care of flowers in the yard. Television in the evening. And then I see her with a special needs child. She holds his hand as he measures his steps carefully. There’s more to her world than I thought.

But I don’t really know.

It’s hard to know people. It’s hard to know beyond the fleeting picture we get as they pass by, or take our order at the restaurant, or sit in front of us in church. It’s hard to know what people are dealing with when they don’t return our phone calls, or snap at us at work, or say inexplicable things in line at the market.

When our own thoughts are muddled, when our hearts are sick with worry, when we wish we had someone to talk to about our problems, a little understanding goes a long way. We would do well to treat others with that same understanding.

Because we don’t really know.

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

12

Almost

desk b&w grain for web

One brick.
Another.
Carefully.
Thoughtfully.
Almost.
Just a few more.
Stop.

Forty years ago.
Graphite lines
on vellum
give shape.
Buildings begin
with a stroke
of my pencil.

Turn off.
Unplug.
Gather.
Solemnly.
Almost.
Just a few more.
Stop.

Forty years now.
Wisdom guides
the architect
and builders
so kids
can play
in school.

Resume’.
Send.
Wait.
Anxiously.
Almost.
Just a few more.
Stop.

copyright joseph e bird, 2016

 

 

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