Search

Joseph E Bird

Let's talk about reading, writing and the arts.

Open Search
Tag

poetry

fly on the cornbread

I just returned from a trip with my family to the mountains, and yesterday, I had the pleasure of attending the reunion of my wife’s family.  The following was inspired by those two events.

Point of clarification: the cornbread, as well as all of the food, was outstanding.

there’s a fly on the cornbread
and bees in the tea
the chicken’s getting cold

but it don’t matter

the wind has a chill
the sun ain’t been shining
it’s looking like rain

but it don’t matter

.

photographs on paper
memories that are leaving
we talk about what we knew
and laugh with little grieving

we share a cup of coffee
make plans for our tomorrow
we bring our families with us
and know that love will follow

.

weary from the journey
too tired to do the hike
we just want to sit a spell

but it don’t matter

we tell the same old stories
and add some new ones, too
the conversation is light

but it don’t matter

.

photographs on paper
memories that are leaving
we talk about what we knew
and laugh with little grieving

we share a cup of coffee
make plans for our tomorrow
we bring our families with us
and know that love will follow

.

a brother or an uncle
a sister or an aunt
it’s hard to keep them straight

but it don’t matter

be it birth or be it marriage
they bring us in the fold
to share the food and time together

cause that’s what really matters

.

photographs on paper
memories that are leaving
we talk about what we knew
and laugh with little grieving

we share a cup of coffee
make plans for our tomorrow
we bring our families with us
and know that love will follow

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

5

Family

Larry Ellis wrote this the other day and it struck a chord with me. Maybe it’s the poignancy. Maybe the familiarity of place, of people, of family. He said I could share it with you, so here it is.

Walking With My Father

 

As usual, he has the television up loud

And we watch our bottom-dwelling team

Go quietly in the third inning

“It’s nice out,” I tell him. “Alright,” he says

“We’ll go.”

The doorway, the step down to the porch

The step down to the walk

Are all obstacles now

Me holding the storm door open

He pushing his walker over the threshold

For a moment he is without support

But he stands

 

It is early evening and cool

And we step slowly along the driveway

The smooth concrete that he himself poured and finished

Thirty years ago

And then on to the blacktop road

Shuffling. The walker sticking in every crack and hole

Such effort. I wonder is there some better way

And yet we both know that every step is Grace

Every moment we have is Grace

A neighbor sees us and comes alongside

With encouragement and news

We reach the end of his road.

“You want to keep going?” I ask.

He nods. “Let’s go on.”

And we turn onto the sidewalk

As the sky turns from Robin’s egg to cobalt blue

“You remember the first time we fished Anthony Creek?”

“I’m not sure I remember the first one.

“Did we catch fish?”

“Yeah. A whole bagful. We caught fish we didn’t even know

What they were.”

“I do remember that. Andre took us in the truck

And we had to scoot down the mountainside.”

 

We go on and I wonder how far is too far

I tell him that we’ve gone farther than ever

Farther than ever since he got sick

But he wants to go on

“We’ll go on up to that streetlight up there

“Then we’ll turn around

“That be enough for you?”

 

On the way back we stop

And he rests

“Who lives in that house right there?”

“I don’t know who lives there now,” I say

“But when we were growing up

That was the church parsonage.

That’s where Dr. Weaver lived.”

“He was one of a kind,” Dad says.

 

As we reach home again

I point to a sprinkle of stars above the trees

Pure points of light from fires

Eight-thousand years old

“Look there, how beautiful.

There’s nothing like it.”

 

Copyright 2016, Larry Ellis

4

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

 

2

why – a poem for the artists

Hiker for web

Why
do you do
what you do?

.

You see the fall leaves
a season has passed
you pen the good words
and hope it will last.

A memory is shared
it once was so clear
your poetry speaks
to those who will hear.

.

You comprehend shadows
you understand light
you capture the feelings
of what’s lost in our sight.

Your pictures are poignant
of people unknown
they look faraway
they look so alone.

.

You see a petal
with colors of fire
you paint what you feel
it sings like a choir.

Your brush touches paper
like a gentle caress
the colors transform
become a child’s dress.

.

You hear the heart cry
of love gone away
you make it a song
to ease your dismay.

Or light fills your life
and burns off the haze
you sing of the beauty
your song is a praise.

.

Why
do you do
what you do?

It’s not for the fame,
or to hear accolades
such things are so fleeting
they’re just a charade.

You do it for you
and maybe to share
to give what we need
and to show that you care.

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

0

just another day

druggers dealin
thievers wheelin
no one feelin

it just another day

 

money grubbin
bangers drubbin
killers rubbin

can’t turn my head away

 

stars is skyin
skin be vyin
eyes aint lyin

they just a tired cliche

 

body slowin
days be goin
we be knowin

dem bones they will decay

 

songs we singin
ink we slingin
life we bringin

tomorrow on its way

 

can’t stop movin
still be provin
always groovin

it just another day

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

2

and it was

and it was on nights as this

hot but not quite as hot

as it had been

a few brown leaves on the ground

promising those

cool nights

when the windows can open

 

and it was on nights as this

the voices of joe and marty

crackling over the radio

on the floor of the porch

my grandfather stretched out

on the glider

listening

 

and it was on nights as this

that I envied him

though I had no cares

I was just a kid

with my own radio

waiting for johnny or tony

to win the game

 

and it was on nights as this

I would stay up late

alone in my room

with the voices I knew

but would never know

their easy cadence

three up three down

 

and it was on nights as this

I knew my grandfather

would be smiling

content with his family

with his faith

with his gardens

with his life

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

2

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.

0

Brian Wilson

If I could write like this, I would.

Please Let Me Wonder, by Larry Ellis.

 

 

1

Time

Lantz LUmber 1 for web

Time, it swallows everything.

From the mighty to the meager thing.

It’s as dark as it is comforting,

to play along.

— from the song What’s Been Going On, by Amos Lee

Lantz Lumber 2 for web

Signal for web

photographs by joseph e bird, copyright 2016

8

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑