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Joseph E Bird

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One of my favorite artists, Sharon Lyn Stackpole, just posted this image on her site. It reminded me of a girl on a swing I saw a few months ago as I drove by a little roadside park. She was maybe 15 or 16 and was giving it all she had, oblivious to everything around her. She was in her own world, and you could tell.

It made me want to go home and do the same thing.

There’s something about a swing. You can take it nice and easy, or you can go scary high. Maybe it’s the weightless feeling you get at the apex. Maybe it’s the centrifugal force that gives you a rush. Either way, it just seems to make all the troubles of the day float away.

Image copyright, 2016, Sharon Lyn Stackpole, republished with permission.

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sunday prayer

The door is not finished.

it needs a sweep,

a strip of rubber.

Protests and hatred and intolerance

of the ignorant heartland

where I live.

The car is 15 years old,

though it’s still good

by most measures.

Eight years ago

all were proud,

but now ashamed.

I check my work,

review the numbers

hoping my mistakes will be innocuous.

Children see the

courage and cowardice

and will be our future.

I’ve saved,

my time is near.

Is it enough?

Unrest and upheaval,

climate and virus,

are living in the shadows.

Have I been reasonable?

Have I been kind?

Have my sins been forgiven?

Dusk is upon us,

but the darkness

will yield to the soft morning light.

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

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Robert Zimmerman

sometimes I hear a guitar player like Tommy Emmanuel or Stevie Ray and I think, what’s the use?

i came across this article about Robert Zimmerman’s songwriting. you know, the guy who just won the Nobel Prize for Literature. and i’ve come to the conclusion that i’m no more than a monkey at a keyboard.

cool stuff in the article, if you’re into great writing and poetry, anyway.

Bob Dylan

 

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Sunday Morning

church-for-web

church-sign-for-web

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

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the great white north

cranberry-glades-for-web

Actually, no, it’s not Canada. This is the Cranberry Glades in West Virginia. They say that eons ago a glacier created a geographic and climactic anomaly in the high mountains of Pocahontas County. As a result, plant and animal species are found farther south than conventional wisdom would suggest. There are, in fact, cranberries growing in the bog, but if you’re expecting those two guys in hip waders surrounded by thousands of red berries, you’re going to be disappointed. Still, the scenery in this area is spectacular.

And watch out for bears.

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

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Our Exotic World

Many of you who stop by here for a word or two are from this area (West Virginia) or near enough to be familiar with the locale. Some of you visit from lands far away. This occurred to my friend, fellow writer, and neighbor a few doors down, Larry Ellis, and he has written a nice little essay about our neck of the woods. You might enjoy getting to know this area through his words and photos.  If so, click here and jump on over to his site.

 

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You Are My Sunshine

This just popped up on my Pandora station and now I can’t get enough of it. Morgane and Chris Stapleton with their take on a classic. No fancy video, just music. If you have headphones, plug ’em in.

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grass over graves

good-grave-for-web

Some day, a preacher will stand before a few people and say nice things about me.

Depending on when this occurs, the preacher may not know me very well and have no choice but to sprinkle generic platitudes in his eulogy. Not that it really matters.

Consider this quote from M.L. Stedman’s The Light Between Oceans:

“Soon enough the days will close over their lives, the grass will grow over their graves, until their story is just an unvisited headstone.”

A bit too gloomy?

That’s not my intent.

My wife is not a regular reader of this blog. She’ll log on every now and then and see what I’ve done. She took a look several months ago and was surprised at how much I had written. “You certainly have a lot to say,” she said.

Maybe.

But why all the words? Why do I do it?

I started because everyone was saying that to be a successful writer, you need a platform, a way for readers to get to know you and your work. I guess I still hope for that, but as time goes on, I find myself expressing things that no one really cares about but me. Yeah, it feels good when something I do connects with other people, but that’s becoming less important. Maybe it’s an age thing, maturity making itself known after sixty years.

I subscribe to more than seventy blogs, though most are inactive, so it’s not as daunting as it sounds.  There are a dozen or so that I look forward to reading, and as I do, I get to know the people behind the blogs. Some are writers, some are poets, some are photographers, some are artists. I don’t always comment on their work. I don’t always Like. (Which doesn’t mean I don’t like it, but if you Like everything, you devalue the Like itself.)  Most of my blogger friends will not find fame and fortune, despite their wonderful work. But several times a day, they make my life a little better by what they do.

If I can do that every now and then for someone, that’ll be icing on the cake. Even if I don’t, there’s something about being creative and having the nerve to put it out for others to see that is fulfilling. Like maybe there’s evidence of a life lived in the pursuit of purpose and meaning. Evidence that may endure after the last visit to my headstone. That would be good.

And who knows, maybe the preacher will find something to use.

photography copyright 2016, joseph e bird

 

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Brender and Eddie

I love songs that tell stories. This one will take you back.

Brenda and Eddie were still going steady in the summer of ’75.

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