I’m sculpting an image of you
molding and twisting clay into your likeness.
You emerge from mud as a miniature relief
and I sigh that I remember your face at all.
I’m sculpting you, creating who I wish you were
You emerge determined to be yourself,
no matter my intentions.
In the end, clay is inadequate for both of us.
Lord Baden-Powell had it right when he advised the Scouts to Be Prepared
especially in summer paradises, the drop in visitors are far from rare.
But while the public zones might meet pass inspection
the bedrooms require some interjection and disinfection
Explosions of laundry piled in the guest room
Slow motion quandry to solve in a hurry
Hang up the phone, fly into a flurry
Hang up the clothes; Come we must hurry!
In just twenty minutes make this space habitable
for twenty minutes we must be indefatigable!
Make up the beds. Whip round the vacuum,
then answer the door bell crooning, “Good afternoon!”
Your touch
peels off the layers
and leaves me new.
.
.
.
.
(This is a sunburn poem, but don’t tell anyone. It sounds so much more romantic if you don’t know!)
It wouldn’t do for you
to behave that way;
we have expectations
requiring regurgitation of
regulations. Speak as told
don’t be bold, just hold this reeking
treatise of broken society for me
and do what you are told to do.
Small re-locations reveal borders
Dust thick upon the mantle
My dust
Your dust
Road dust
the universe converging
amidst candlesticks and glass birds
settling on the surface
of my listlessness.
Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, they say
and all around me is grey.
The hills are obscured by haze
the acrid scent of it bites my nostrils
creates an ache in my throat, until
I want to go anywhere but here, where
there is fear of fires leaping valleys
razing the city. July in BC, seems to mean
burning bushes, without any sign of divinity.
The weight of my thoughts of you
compresses my chest into aching,
takes my heart and makes it pulp
crates the hope with
crushing waits.
.
(just a little play with words).
“Herb had to take me to the hospital this morning,” my mom said. “My blood pressure was all wonky and I had a headache. I was afraid I was having a stroke.”
Herb. My father, who died last week. I caught my breath.
“Stewart took you to the hospital?” I suggested. My brother.
“Yes,” she confirmed, her tone suggesting I was being obtuse. “But everything was all right. They told me I need to get a massage. I’m just tense, over the events of the last week.”
She didn’t even know she’d said the wrong name.
I didn’t point it out.
“I’m glad everything is okay, Mom,” I said.
Micah has questions
about ereaders and
the value of studying Shakespeare.
Micah has opinions
about math education
Stephen Harper
minimum wage
immigrant involvement in government
and politicized school districts that don’t put kids first.
Micah is young
but he is the future;
his critical thoughts
will shape a new nation.
.
.
.
Sitting above the UBC Rose Garden today watching the ocean traffic, and reading while I waited for the art gallery to open, I met this thoughtful young man, and enjoyed an hour of conversation with him. Don’t you just love those brief connections with intelligent, inquiring minds?
Shawn L. Bird 