I guess
I should remember
the curve of your cheek
the reach of your arms
the pitch of your voice.
I remember
the imprint of your fingers
against my thigh, rising scarlet.
I remember
the strident screech
that foretold your speeches
about the unfairness of life.
I remember
the flash of your eyes
the thud of the door
being poor.
I guess
I remember
you.
.
.
(FYI- written in persona)
From my backyard swing
I see you on your journey
flying high above me.
What joy or sadness will you bring
in a public celebration
when you arrive at your destination?
.
View from the swing in my backyard.
I bought a yoga block today
To help me do those trickier positions.
I have the yoga mat in a nice new case
at the top of the stairs.
I bought a couple of yoga CDs
and a stack of yoga magazines.
Occasionally I stretch my arms and think
first position of the sun salutation!
Someday, I going to turn on the CD
or go to a class
or take the block from its package.
I have faith in me.
I’ll do it.
Eventually.
I toss you to the grass
You bounce back to the deck.
I toss you to the grass
You bounce back to the deck.
I toss you to the grass
You bounce back to the deck.
I toss you to the grass
You bounce back to the deck.
I toss you to the grass
You race across the lawn
a bullet, a shooting star, a dragster
turn tightly around the pine tree.
You race across the lawn
a bullet, a shooting star, a dragster
turn tightly around the row of pyramid cedars.
You race across the lawn
a bullet, a shooting star, a dragster
turn tightly around the shed,
then stop and squat.
Ahhhhh… success.
You bounce back to the deck
supremely proud of yourself.
Puppy business done.
You’ve packed the flourishing greenery
Back inside this box you’ve made
A green house cube
stuffed with verdure seeking escape
Seeking opportunity to bloom again
To scatter seed
To create the future.
But you are heedless of this dream;
inside your cube tender greens are safe
From weeds.
I’m weary of tunnels.
Closing in around me,
narrowing the future
to a pinpoint of possibility
ahead of the foreboding train.
“You can’t be an art teacher until you’re an artist. Duh.”
~Annie Liebovitz
Your wits are dull
Your eyes are glazed
Your ambitions are low
You are dull
There is nowhere
for you to go.
Shawn L. Bird 