We are waiting.
The cloud reclines darkly above the lake.
The snow line drops lower.
The cold creeps and seethes.
Inside, bricks channel the chill.
Children vibrate, “It’s coming! It’s coming!”
It’s so hard to sit still and concentrate.
Adults sniffle and cough, mutter, “Soon. Soon.”
They dream of freedom, warmth, of sleeping in.
Christmas holidays can’t come
quickly enough.
Max and Jenn were in our grade eight classes
and our grade nine classes,
but then, they were not.
Where are they? asked the teachers.
Whispers replied to one another in the back rows,
I saw them outside The Royal Anne.
They’re turning tricks. Doing drugs.
We blinked at one another that our peers
would make such choices,
muttered, How terrible.
We slowed down our lives to peer into the
accident scene of their lives
from a safe distance,
but did any of us go downtown,
and offer them a different option?
.
.
.
This is a forty-year old memory. Where are they now, I wonder?
I’ve fallen into a fog
that fills my head with cotton
and adds sandpaper to my throat.
Bed sounds like such a good idea,
but work requires my presence.
Mentally, I’m home, buried under quilts.
Physically, I supervise workers,
who all wish they were home in bed.
We may lack spirit for spirit week;
but today is pajama day.
How apropos.
Draw from the bowl your persona.
Choose your labels.
Proclaim your choices.
I’m a slut!
I’m a slacker!
I’m a star!
No confirmation analysis.
No concerns for stolen
identity.
The never ending circle
of expectation raised
no effort was applied
of failure achieved
makes me want to scream.
What makes the difference
between students who give up
and those who persevere
to find success?
Perhaps it’s in their mantras:
I don’t care
versus
I care.
Those who say they don’t care, do,
but they simply don’t believe
they can.
Boy hiking out of bounds slips into acidic hot pool at Yellowstone
dies.
Huge flock of snow geese land in an old, acidic open pit mine
well over ten thousand birds
die.
She lands into a relationship, ripe with promise, is tripped
by his acidic wit, and a bit of her
dies.
One never knows when the innocuous will turn
perilous.
.
.
.
http://gizmodo.com/thousands-of-snow-geese-die-after-landing-on-toxic-mini-1789760515
http://time.com/4574226/man-dissolved-yellowstone-park/
Mother’s fingers
always gripped tightly to your small ones
amid the crowds.
Now she’s letting go
and you wish your grip was tight enough
to make her stay.
.
for Lori.
Snow hugs the hills and
draping lower with slow purpose.
Flakes flip and fall, settle for a moment
Their white crystals paradoxically painting pavement black.
Winter is coming closer with every flake.
Image (c) Evan Buhler used with permission. “Feed the Birds”. Mary Poppins Shuswap Theatre 2016.
In the wings,
tickling throat,
I’ve been coughing all day.
Self-talk.
This is going to be awful.
What if I crack on the high notes?
What if I can’t find my first note?
Oh, no. None of that.
It’s going to be great. You can do it!
Enter to the cue.
Gaze around the stage at imaginary birds.
Take the mark, spotlight on.
First note. Yay! Perfect.
Look at the audience. Let’s make them feel the pathos.
Okay.
This is going surprisingly well.
Uh oh.
That means I’m bound to screw up something soon.
First section over.
Other actors dialogue.
I am miming in my space.
Next section is the high section.
I’m doomed. My sore throat will catch.
You’re going to find that tricky start note.
You can do it.
Other actor finishes beautifully.
As usual.
She passes the song back to me.
Will I get it?
Oh, yay! That was it!
Perfect!
The wide interval, the interval, the interval.
I hate this interval. I always flatten it.
No! You’re going to hit it tonight.
Oh! That was fantastic!
That was the best I’ve ever done it with an audience.
I’m going to screw up the end now.
Stop that! It’s going to be fine.
You’ve done it a thousand times!
Other actor sings her part.
Breathe.
You got through the hard part.
Just the high note for the ending to find.
Whew. That’s the note. Send this note to the back row.
Up. Up. Up.
Oh, crap. Here comes the harmony section. How does it go again?
I DON’T REMEMBER!
Relax! You know this.
There.
Hear the chord? Lovely.
Timing on the ending. Arg. This is always a crap shoot.
You can do it. Listen for the beat.
There. Nailed it. There. Nailed it. There. Ha.
Soar up to ending.
Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold.
Gaze out to the audience.
Deep breath.
That was amazing.
Don’t rush off. Listen. Take the applause. Embrace this moment of success.
Off the stage.
Fast costume change.
Shed one persona, don another.
Inside grinning, grinning, grinning.
I was GREAT tonight!
That was the best rendition I’ve done for an audience.
Sigh.
.
.
.
In the midst of my performance last night, I noticed the commentary happening in my head. It was as if there were two of me or maybe three in there commenting on the action! I thought it’d make an interesting poem. I’m not sure I’ve managed what I was aiming for, but that’s the general idea, anyway.
Outside
crunching air announces autumn’s
departure.
Inside
your frosty glare says
winter has arrived.
Shawn L. Bird 