Spinning circles
mother
daughter mother
daughter
father
son father
son.
.
Apples falling
from apple trees
.
Same old punches
Same old stories
Same old shouts
Same old glories
.
Grandmothers,
mothers, daughters
grandfathers,
fathers, sons
.
No one steps out of the centrifuge
Spinning in
generations.
Tap tap
Oh?
Mmm,
No B. O.
Hmm?
Big guns!
Big guns?
Yo!
No.
Oh?
No.
No?
No.
Oh.
`
It’s hard to love you
when you shred me,
slice my skin on the sharp tips
of those needle teeth.
It’s hard to love you
when you track mud,
make puddles, and leave
stinking pellets behind you.
It’s hard to love you
but your eyes twinkle,
and your tail wags
and you keep trying to climb into my lap
It’s hard to love you
but the hard things are worthwhile.
I’m building a love story
with training and time.
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.
Perhaps it is
some sort of survivor’s guilt
that the fractured fragments
the twisted tableaux of warped memories
those bêtes noires barely contained within your brain,
burst in sullen silence, tremulous terror, or
most disturbing, that zombie calm
of a human automaton.
Perhaps it is
just chemistry asserting its superiority:
neuro-biology exposing itself
as a short-circuiting electric conduit
for daily conduct.
Perhaps it is
an allegory for transformation
or
perhaps it is
futility that demonstrates fallibility
and ultimately, profound humility.
The bell rings for two weeks of freedom.
Free of schedules.
Free of expectations.
Free of responsibilities.
Except those embraced
freely.
What went before
What went between
What went around
What went above
What went contrived
What went controlled
What went inspired
What went
where?
Perhaps, because I’m reading
Dust bunnies scamper across my floors
hiding beneath tables, gathering behind doors.
Perhaps, because I’m reading
Dishes stack into tall piles
and papers are exploding in spurts, beyond their files.
Perhaps, because I’m reading
I ignore the telephone,
but then, because I’m reading,
I’m content within my home.
Once upon a time
you sent me cassette tapes in the mail,
one sided conversations taped in the car
on your commute to the radio station,
elucidating the state of our universe
and illuminating that eternity
I was so fond of,
while people glanced from their vehicles,
confused or amused as you talked to yourself
but really me.
Once upon a time,
I talked to you,
but really myself,
elucidating the state of an imaginary universe
that would not become real,
no matter how many words wrapped around it,
or how many miles of magnetic tape professed it.
Once upon a time
we shared a fairy tale,
and when I listen to us now, I wonder that we ever believed
in the intensity of the narrative we told ourselves.
Shawn L. Bird 