creating ourselves means choosing
if I want to be a person whose home is full of original art
I must begin by buying supporting artists
if I want to be a person who is confident enough to wear red lipstick
I must put the lipstick on my lips.
If I want to be a person who dances in the rain
I must head outside during the storm.
Whatever I desire
I must dare.
Someone has to care enough
to do the grunt work.
Haul up the tree
Heave. Grunt.
Whip up the shortbread.
Beat. Grunt.
Dig out the toboggans, drive to the hill.
Wheeee! Grunt.
Cook the turkey. Shop. Wrap the presents.
Grunt
Grunt
Grunt.
Some years the off-stage magicians are silent,
but this year you can hear us
grunt.
Those best laid plans
family coming from afar
creating traditions, warm hearts,
remembering those lost this year.
Everything is ready here, gifts piled up
waiting for wrapping.
Public health says stay home.
We must be lonely holiday islands.
There’s no time for parcels to arrive by the
assigned festive day
amid the mail delivery crisis.
No one to gather around our table.
So everything will be different.
We must make something new, a Zoom festivity?
Re-thinking that nativity when a stable had to do,
just like for the Holy Family, things don’t always go
according to
our best laid plans.
I am awoken (What now?!)
by roaring outside
rasping, growling, rushing creature.
Oh, damn, I think, as I return to sleep.
The plow.
in the story I read
every family was the same
and every person took off their mask
of sameness at the end of the day.
.
in the story we’re living
every family’s struggle’s different
we put on our masks each day
to save each other
This is not the year
for adventurous rambling
for party-down fun
for braving new experiences
for exploring new ideas
This is the year
for settling in
for warming up
for holding close
for safe hidey holes from which
to weather the barrage.
On the outside:
calm, controlled, confident.
Beneath the surface:
quivering, quaking, confused.
How many stress-based illnesses
tension fueled troubles
surface in our bodies and minds?
How hard do we fight
to carry on?
What is this woodblock in my chest
beyond kilos and pounds to tons (or tonnes)?
Quivering, it vibrates my spine,
my foggy head,
all’s aching weight,
anguish and dread.
Tonight’s sunset
is a thin strip of pink ribbon
in a vast blue sky
.
One wispy cloud
reflects the fading sun:
a sliver of bright beauty
to stab devouring darkness.
It is a wearisome year
Each new day weighs heavier
than yesterday.
Shawn L. Bird 