The Birthday Poem
(For Dennis Sheffield, a friend)

10/15-17/03

For each time

the steamy air

wonders of a

clearing for recognition.

It pushes like a river.

The day that quenches to quiver.

So much is the focus.

The intentional rump of jumping and stomping,

as each person purposely takes another step;

Jar visions to slack.

Turn and see each occupant, those junior

look-a-likes tempered brighter.

There's nothing ahead of you until you

get there - if you get there - and turn

around and wait to do it again.

(If fate continues to befriend)

Place yourself a year ago behind you.

That one is through.

When it's all about you.

So much is the process:

From a wet blanket

To a gift, a quilt;

That baby handkerchief held,

Then wipe away your own stains

With something more stern and stiff.

A need to commemorate.

The touching occurrence

dangles glaringly as

a woman's piece of

expensive jewelry,

waving to all the

public.

Twirling, there is no dispute.

Yes, there may be a surprise.

Happy with your joy, joy?

This is relevant until the word "goodbye."

To see it all or see not all

Looms to possibilities of at

Least one wonderful moment, or even one

moment to observe yearly

occasions momentous.

Look, all of your friends.

Look, presents.

What would it be like? Describe the ambience?

What about the weather? How many people?

Will there be a blindfold? Could it go on forever?

The day is double-glazed, full-throttled.

The day is calm and memorable.

Collection of faces picked from duration,

and there is a quiet relation with a voice

that may have been faded, rampantly

evaded of an invite.

Exactly jaded.

There is the evaluation.

The query in the eyes of each elder;

Do you feel that you're, now,

moving on up there?

Do you feel grown up yet?

No, let me guess?

Can I count on you, now

that you're mature?

Do you grasp what

responsibility is for?

A party, a party!

There could be a party!

Imagine all the guests.

A party, a party!

If there is a party,

Please, be the best dressed.

Move onward, young thing.

(Something a teacher would say)

You'll stand for all the days

and feel a bit strained.

Scarce weren't grays that lowly crept.

They appeared before the rule of time.

It's possible the grand entrance

appeared while you slept.

Youth, you may think, has committed a crime.

Silent, as it rightly occurs, but the years

they roll and roll.

Roughly, age can afford to be vital or petty.

Each in humanity decides the poll.

You're enlarged.

There is a symbol of praise.

The realization of your creation.

Worlds imply the emergence of an important day.

An excitable tremble.

It is an absolute endeavor.

Remember, remember.

Conceivable to the greatest physical pleasure.

Back and forth, invade the earliest memories

of a favorite family member.

Ask him or her if they recall you earlier.

Endure the heaviest of their words

and the most elongated of their words.

They'll paint a picture.

They'll tell how far you will grow.

(Even if they don't know)

They'll tell you things you should have known.

The long-beaked bird flew away.

Had flown to the air of sweet earth.

The long-beaked bird could hardly stay -

Hardly stay for the day of your birth.

Definite the rite.

A twenty-four hour legend.

All the lights flash

to create the incredible,

But little is less of the burning light -

it's haunting, so brilliant when born.

A joy that spawns beyond common sight;

never to leave any lovelorn.

© 2003 Jarrod C. Lacy

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