Byron Birdsall - "Street View" 1981

Time has graced the trees with sound and color. Their bark, once silent, is marked with beauty and thought. Time has formed the clouds into letters and has now spelled out words across the message board of the sky. "Faith." "Random." "Coincidence." Time did all of this, and there is beauty in that also. Below, on the green earth, children write these words in spiral bound notebooks and carry them to their teachers. In turn, the teachers share the magic and blessing of meaning. Time has taught us that the teachers are themselves blessed, and they then bless and grace the children. They take the children outside into the sunlight and see that there is one more word written with clouds in the thick blue of the sky. "Kindness." One child smiles, and then they all smile.

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A phalanx of flying swans
Leaving vapor trails across the western sky.
A kaleidoscope of butterflies that explode,
Turning into eagles.
A blue thunderstorm with yellow rain walking
Across the broken fields at dawn,
The raindrops sizzle when they hit the earth.
The hiss of a rumba of rattlesnakes, one thousand strong,
Each one with your mother's face,
No, each snake has your father's face,
No, it's the face of Jesus.
A sneak of weasels telling the fable of Prometheus
Bringing fire to mankind, in multi-voiced harmony,
To the music of a chamber quartet.
The end of days.
A darkness that covers the earth,
Bone-cold and bitter-hearted.
Pulling the covers up over your head again,
And refusing to leave the bed.
Footsteps in the long, wooden hallway,
Although you're sure that you're alone.

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That I might see myself for who I am, without

listening to others tell me who I should be.

That I might always be working to pare away

the false layers of who I am not,

layers that have built up over time.

That I might find and remain truly myself.

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Bless me, mother, I am but a simple man. Time and the tide sweep the sleep from my eyes, mother. What am I made of? Something that counts these scars and forgives these sins. I have cut the cloth and cast the dye, and I find my answers above, in the sky. And the questions, mother? Those I find everywhere. In the eyes of the people without a roof or even a crust of bread. Also in the eyes of the parents whose children are dead, lost in the war that never ends. In the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Understand, I do not lack for food but still I hunger -- for something more. Something without a name or an understanding. Something joyous. I need the night to hold me close, and the daylight to free me. I need the warmth of death and the kiss of life. Bless me, mother, I am just a simple man. And I am trying very hard to find my way.

James Lee Jobe

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