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Joseph E Bird

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beauty

A young woman dances.

A young woman dances.
She sees her future
and the possibilities
seem limitless.
Her joy is exuberant
and must be expressed.
So she dances.

A young woman dances.
I becomes we,
dreams are shared
and the path is changed.
Her joy is deep
and must be expressed.
So she dances.

A young woman dances.
Her life is not
as she thought
and there are limits.
Her joy is mature
and must be expressed.
So she dances.

A young woman dances.
She creates art
with pigments and
fabric and clay.
Her joy is in beauty
and must be expressed.
So she dances.

A young woman dances.
She is carefree and
moves with rhythm
and vitality.
Her joy is alive
and must be expressed.
So she dances.

A young woman dances.
The years have passed
but hope lies ahead
for all that is
good and pure.
Her joy is her faith
and must be expressed.
And so she dances.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

7

A young woman stands in line.

A young woman
stands in line.
She is tired.
Tired from the kids.
Tired from work.
Tired from walking.

A young woman
stands in line.
Her hair is pulled back.
Her t-shirt is
stained from breakfast,
or last night’s dinner.

A young woman
stands in line.
She glances at the
beautiful people
on the magazine covers,
their lives a dream.

A young woman
stands in line.
Her young boy
tugs on her pant leg.
He holds a piece of candy.
No honey, put it back.

A young woman
stands in line.
Her buggy is full
of dollar store bargains,
and a cake mix
for dessert.

A young woman
stands in line.
At her side
a stroller cradles
her sleeping daughter.
The boy smiles.

A young woman
stands in line.
She will likely never
own a business
or empower other women
or be held in high esteem.

A young woman
Stands in line.
She is tired,
But her love
is patient and kind
and endures all things.

A young woman
stands in line.
She is a mother.
Nothing else matters
And her children
will call her blessed.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

2

A young woman sits at a table.

A young woman
sits at a table.
She is not alone.

A young man
sits at a table.
He is not alone.

He glances her way.
Again and again.
She notices.

She smiles.
He smiles.
There it is.

Her friends don’t see.
His friends don’t see.
But they see.

Do I know you?
Have I seen you?
Maybe running?

She learns his name.
He learns hers.
And that is all.
.

A young woman runs
along the river.
She is alone.

A young man runs
along the river.
He is alone.

He sees her.
His pace is quicker.
His strides are longer.

He is almost beside her.
He’s not sure.
He glances her way.

She hears his steps.
She doesn’t see.
But somehow she knows.

She answers the question
which he never spoke.
Yes, it’s me.

A young man runs.
A young woman runs.
They are not alone.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

0

A Young Woman

A young woman

works at a fast food joint.
One of the old brands,
struggling to stay relevant.
It’s not hip.
It’s not cool.

A woman who looks like
she could be her grandmother,
who looks like a grandmother
wearing an unflattering fast-food uniform,
is her manager.

The young woman
wears a similar uniform,
but she is different.
She is blessed with features
that could grace a magazine cover.
A smile that is perfect,
and eyes that match.

She is friendly.
As if she knows me.
But she doesn’t know me.
Not at all.
No,
you can’t have a soft drink,
she teases.

If I weren’t old and wise,
I would think she flirts.
But she doesn’t.
It’s just her way.

I won’t charge you
for the drink, she says.
I’m confused.
Is she teasing?
Charge me, I say.
She laughs.
She says,
I owe you a penny,
as she hands me my change.

If I weren’t old and wise,
I would think she flirts.
But she doesn’t.
It’s just her way.

A child approaches.
The young woman smiles
her priceless smile.
Would you like to work here?
she asks the child.
You could make lots of money,
she says.
The child says, yes,
I think I would.
The child is smiling.
We could hold you by
your feet and you
could clean all of the
tiny spaces.
The child thinks.
Maybe not,
she says.
They both laugh.

The child and her grandfather leave.
They wave.
See you next time,
the young woman says.

She brings my food.
Again she smiles.
Have a good day.

I’m old and wise.
She doesn’t flirt.
It’s just her way.

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

0

The garage.

I recently attended the Design and Equipment Expo in Charleston and met a local photographer, Emily Shafer, who specializes in industrial photography. She has a creative sensibility and transforms ordinary images from the blue collar world in to works of art. Like a set of greasy Craftsman tools.

The next day I walked across the street to the mall and saw signs outside the Sears store announcing its closing. I went in and browsed a little, but there wasn’t much left. Empty shelves where the Craftsman tools used to be. With all of that, I couldn’t help but think of a scene I had written in my novel, Heather Girl.

Heather is traveling to Texas to see her father, who has just been paroled. She stops for gas in Montgomery, Alabama and has car trouble. A man and his son are watching (and eventually offer to help). As she’s trying to figure out what the problem is, she remembers learning about cars in her father’s garage.

She turned the key and the engine turned slowly a couple of times but didn’t start. She turned the key again. Same thing. And again.

She popped the latch on the hood and got out of the car. The boy looked up, then looked away. She opened the hood and looked at the battery.

Always start with the battery.

Her father’s voice. What was it now, thirty years ago?

Easiest thing to check, easiest thing to fix.

The smells of the garage came back to her. Warm, oily smells. There was a gas heater on the back wall and in the winter, there was always a hint of unburned fumes, but most of the time it was tools and parts and greasy rags that made the garage feel heavy and comfortable. The same garage that now is more of a storage locker. Her father’s tools went with him when her parents moved across town, then were sold when they moved south to escape the cold winters of the mountains. She and Robert bought the family home.  Robert took over the garage as his own workshop, complete with a table saw and other carpentry tools. His tools are still there, but are never used. Boxes of boys’ forgotten toys and yard sale finds make it nearly impossible to even see them. She keeps the lawnmower by the door, along with a few garden tools, and every spring makes the same promise that she’ll never keep to throw out the junk and put some order to the mess.

Despite everything, she found it hard not to think back to when the garage was truly a place for parking the family car, and for the weekend project of rebuilding the brakes or cleaning the carburetor or putting in a new radiator. Her dad had a natural genius for such things, part of the reason he was a good engineer. She loved being around him when he was working. It was when he seemed most content. Anything could be fixed.

She learned by watching, and when it became apparent that her brother Wayne had more interest in music than cars, she became her father’s tomboy grease monkey. She never learned enough to really diagnose a car’s problem, but she could change the oil, put in new spark plugs, and even tinker with the timing. She also learned why he enjoyed that kind of work so much, aside from the peace of the garage. Parts that didn’t work properly were thrown out, never to be seen again. Repair manuals didn’t lie. And the tools were always faithful.

If she had one of those old crescent wrenches, maybe the big one that had been used so much that the brand imprinted on the handle had worn away, she could tighten the nuts on the battery terminal. Though she knew that wasn’t the cause of the problem. She looked at the engine and tugged at the battery cables. They seemed tight. Not much corrosion. More than likely the battery was dead.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

6

Music of my day.

guitar 2-6-16 for web

Listening to the music of the Wonder to escape
Digging words and stories cause he always tell it straight
Life be scarred and dogs bite hard, to that I can relate
Soulful grooves, the spirit moves, tells me it ain’t too late

Driving horns lay down the tune, I’m hearing now the Tears
David Clayton Thomas sings, it’s not the dying that he fears
Spin the wheel, cut the deal, find wisdom in the years
Blues sung hard, and hope stands guard, a triumph for the ears

Singing with a nasal twang and tangled up in blue
The poet tells his story ‘bout the people that he knew
Stars are crossed and loves are lost, his heart we see straight through
A simple song to sing along, to change our point of view

A banjo picks the intro with a groovin’ upright bass
A nice and easy song of love, till the breakdown sets the pace
Toes are tapping, hands are clapping, the cello plays like grace
They sing of love and God above, our worries are erased

I play the C, I play the G, play the A chord in the minor
I write the words, scratch out a tune, plan it out like a designer
Find the truth, a touch of youth, up the beat to make it finer
But truth is cold, cause it ain’t gold, I know I ain’t no rhymer

Thank God for voice and stories told and those who came to play
The soft piano soothes the soul and carries us away
They give the beat and words complete, to speak what we can’t say
Turn it up and fill my cup, play the music of my day.

Copyright 2017, Joseph E Bird

6

i hear the voice

i hear the voice
it’s yelling at me
i hear the voice
but i don’t agree
to argue is pointless
our words are in vain
i can’t understand
and you can’t explain
can we sit and be calm
and maybe break bread
i’ll listen again
perhaps i misread
and i hear the voice

i hear the voice
calling me to speak
i hear the voice
to say for the weak
is anger so righteous
that respect doesn’t matter
our cause is just
it’s yours we must shatter
walk with me now
let’s talk and be friends
to find the true answer
we must make amends
and i hear the voice

i hear the voice
telling me not to fear
i hear the voice
saying peace is still near
the strife of the world
is now and has been
and will be tomorrow
again and again
so let’s stand for the lost
and fight the good fight
but let’s do it together
for that is what’s right
and i hear the voice

i hear the voice
it’s soft like a dove
there’s no sound that i hear
does it come from above
i hear the voice
and you hear it too
let’s listen together
there is so much to do

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

0

Writer’s Log – You think you know your characters?

I’ve been writing about Heather for a couple of months now.  You remember Heather, the woman with the two boys, living alone now that they’re out of the house. She studied Avery’s photographs in the coffee shop until she learned that her father was being let out of prison.  I thought I knew her, too.

But when she leaves for Texas to get her father settled in with her brother, she takes a detour to stop and see her ex-husband three states away.  I didn’t know she was going to do that until she started driving. And on the way there, she reveals a little something about herself that I didn’t know. Something a little disturbing.

How can I not know these things?  She’s an invention of my imagination.

There are fiction writing gurus who will tell you to plan your characters meticulously, to know their history, their families, their personalities, their moral standings, even which toothpaste they prefer. I can see the advantage to writing that way. There is less likelihood that your character will do something, well, out of character. These same gurus will also advise you to allow for the possibility that your character might surprise you along the way.

In my previous work, I’ve tried to outline my characters as much as possible. With Heather, as well as the other characters in my story, I’m completely winging it. It’s kind of like I’m along for the ride. What better way to get to know Heather than to spend three days in the car with her?  So, yeah, I was surprised at what I learned.

Then there’s her ex-husband.  I had some thoughts about what he might be like.  Some thoughts about why they weren’t together anymore.  But Heather hasn’t really told me anything about all of that yet, not even in the four hours it took to get to Charlotte.

It wasn’t until they were face to face that I started to see some things.

The front door opened when she was halfway up the sidewalk.

“I’ll be damned.”

He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt and looked like he hadn’t shaved for a few days. His once-blonde hair was mostly dark brown now with just a little gray around the temples. It was long and unruly and made her smile. He was aging very well.

“Hi, Robert.”

“And out of sky she fell, like an autumn leaf floating on a cool October breeze, my beautiful Heather Girl.”

He was off the porch and had wrapped his arms around her before she made it to the steps.

“It’s so good to see you.”

His voice was almost a whisper, but not quite. A true whisper would have been out of place, maybe a little threatening, a normal voice would have lost the sincerity. It was the perfect intonation, the kind of thing that came natural to Robert Scott. She had no choice but to believe his words.

And so on.

Robert is as much of a surprise as Heather.  I’m glad I didn’t plan these guys out. I really think it would have stifled the creativity.  All of this may be a complete train wreck before it’s through, but I sure am having fun writing it.  Which for me, is the whole point.

5

We need to talk.

a glance of the eye, the innocent look
the curl of your lips, was all that it took

That’s the first two lines of a song I wrote a few weeks ago. The narrator is beguiled by a look, a smile. It’s a wonderful thing, even if upon reflection, it seems a little superficial. Though the moment may come and go, like so many moments in a lifetime, it might be the beginning of a relationship.

we talked without words, there was so much to say

In this case, it was just the beginning. They moved beyond the magical, natural physical attraction, and they talked. They had a real relationship. Because the conversation is the relationship.

In the case of the song, it was a romantic relationship. But the conversation is also the platonic relationship. The familial relationship. The business relationship. The political relationship. The faith-based relationship.

If you want a relationship, you need to have the conversation.

Years ago I had a friend with whom I had one thing in common: our faith. We had long conversations about the fundamentals and the subtleties of our faith. Because of that, we were friends. Our situations changed, however, and he moved away and we lost contact.

Twenty years later, the contact was restored. I quickly learned that we no longer had common ground regarding faith. But there were other things. He was (and still is) an excellent writer. So we had conversations about writing. The relationship was maintained. But over the past few years, we have come to realize that our viewpoints had diverged too far to maintain meaningful conversations about anything. Neither of us said it, we just quit talking. Which is ironic, because he was the one who first articulated that fundamental truth to me. The conversation is the relationship. I still consider him a friend, but we no longer have a relationship.

That kind of thing happens all the time. Maybe Chauncey Gardner was right. Maybe it’s seasonal. Spring, summer, fall, and finally winter, when things go dormant.

And then there are all of you out there in internet land, most of whom I will never meet. At various times, we have joined in conversation about many things: music, writing, faith. Any given exchange may be only one or two sentences, but over the course of weeks, months, and years, we get to know each other because we talk. Sure, it’s in bits and pieces, but we talk. And because of that, we have relationships.

Weird how you can have friends, yet never sit across the table from each other. Never see an expression of surprise or concern or contentment. Never know what their laugh sounds like. Never hear the sound of their voice, even while you’re having a conversation.

Maybe it’s not weird at all. It’s just good.

Here’s wishing for more of the same in the years to come.

Footnote: The author Susan Scott is credited with the concept of the conversation being the relationship. In her book Fierce Conversations, she discusses the importance of the conversation in all relationships.

3

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