Raining down on you.
Raining down on me.
Raining down so hard, but you can’t see.
I’m looking for you.
Please talk to me.
It’s raining so hard, but you can’t see.
Copyright Trevor Larson, 2015
Another random paragraph from my novel in progress.
He turned to look at Dani.
The glow from the street lights moved across her face, highlighting her features before leaving her obscured in shadow. As if there were two versions of the same person. The woman of light who quickens his heart and brings forth thoughts that he had willed himself to suppress. She of ankle boots and smooth skin and hair of fire. And the one who lives quietly in the dimness, who understands his thoughts and challenges his mind, who without even trying is as alluring and comforting as a soft song in the evening.
A friend.
copyright joseph e bird, 2015
This must be what it was like back then.
When windows were always open.
We’ve been without air conditioning for a few days now.
I’m sitting in my room trying to write with the window open.
Every car that goes by grabs my attention.
Across the street, kids are playing.
A train blows its whistle and heads for the tunnel.
The cicadas buzz in their pulsing rhythm.
A cool breeze blows across my feet.
My keyboard is different, but it’s a keyboard.
This must be what it was like back then.
They say
that millions of years ago the earth was flat and covered by the oceans.
Then the tectonic plates moved and collided and crinkled and pushed up mountains.
Rivulets of rain water formed a brook, then a stream, then a river,
taking with it small particles of the mountain,
until now we have
craggy peaks and deep, dark valleys.
They say.
There were no witnesses.
The evidence is circumstantial but compelling.
Exempli gratia: southern West Virginia.
copyright joseph e bird, 2015
I have played in the creek.
Built a dam.
Swung from the vines.
Climbed the lightening-struck tree.
Built a fort.
Hid a treasure.
Those were the days.
.
I saw JFK
the day before he was killed.
And then it was Martin Luther King.
And then Robert.
I watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon.
The world changed so fast.
Those were the days.
.
I grew up.
I dated girls.
Went to college.
Dated girls.
Got a job.
Dated girls.
Those were the days.
.
I helped build a company.
It grew and I grew.
I made mistakes.
We won awards.
I got married (again).
I made friends for life.
Those were the days.
.
We were young.
Or so it seemed.
We dressed to the nines.
We danced till midnight.
And toasted the promise of tomorrow.
Old friends, new friends.
Those were the days.
.
My hair is thin.
I’m always tired.
No dances now.
Friends have disappeared.
But the sun shines.
And blessings flow.
These are the days.
.
These are the days.
.
Copyright: joseph e bird, 2015
My shoes will pat the pavement,
In rhythms strong and sure,
Though miles to go and hills to climb,
I’m certain to endure.
The sun is soft, the air is cool,
And gentle on my face.
The wind blows light upon my back,
As if to speed my pace.
One mile, two miles, feels so good,
Then I start upon the climb.
The legs move slow, but steady still,
My strength is past its prime.
My breath comes hard and labored,
My body screams for air.
I pump my arms and power on,
And pray unspoken prayer.
*
Were life the flats on sunny days,
We’d run the course with ease.
As if we knew the answers, all,
To questions as we please.
There’re hills and rain and dogs that bark,
There’s worry that won’t end.
There’s snow and wind and knees that ache,
And sadness for a friend.
The body’s weak, the spirit flawed,
Ourselves we will betray.
But we’ll keep on running up the hill,
To have another day.
Rejoice, give thanks, the summit reached,
The effort strong and pure.
Though weak and tired and tested now,
I’m certain to endure.
What is important?
What is necessary?
What can wait?
Where do the steps lead?
Who will walk them?
Will they care?
Do I care?
I do.
I will tend to them.
But first things first.
SOMETIMES WINTER IS SNEAKY and rides in quietly on the coattails of fall, cooling the evenings ever so slightly until one morning, there’s snow hiding between blades of grass. But on this particular Saturday, the Saturday before Thanksgiving, the wind blew hard and cold from the west, declaring an end to the mythos of the endless summer, and languid, hopeful nights.
copyright 2015, joseph e bird
Joseph E Bird 