Freedom Road

The overpass stuck in the middle

of my house and the world,

clearly read

in deep blue-lighted imperfection

Freedom Road.

Once noted I kept on going.

Only slowing to admire.

Wander within unfamiliarities,

reveling in strange made-up similarities.

With my stride never broken

 I just kept going.

To the beckoning beauties’

soft skin and flowing hair,

and somehow I got tangled up in there.

So I cut myself loose

and grabbed for a boost

again into my Captain’s Chair.

With little time to spare,

and adventure beyond every

 self-motivated dare,

I resume my ride,

upon my under-foot’s hide,

and looked up to the sky

to read Freedom Road.

Then lengthened my stride

towards a childhood glide

with thoughts of blue skies

and careless goodbye’s.

Flying down Freedom’s Road

with open eyes and no lines to guide

but repeating signs

of “Welcome Home”. 

- Jordan R Shaver

Poised for Play: Interactive Prose

The photograph of this piano was taken behind a church / school / catering service in Seattle, WA. Signs of weathering and location makes one automatically give this piano an elaborate back story, piecing together clues of its captivating lifespan, which will continue. For all we know, the history of this piano is locked away in the mind of a stranger who would love to share the fascinating truth behind this old piano, but is sure no one is interested, so they choose to carry the burden with the life and experiences this piano endured.

Since the true history of this piano is now inaccessible, it is everyone’s right to give this instrument purpose, give it a life it may have never had. Create memories with the image of this piano – isn’t that the greatest accomplishment of a life? To be remembered favorably?

So we ask, why wasn’t this piano discarded? Torn apart. Separated from its whole into manageable parts and tossed in a heap? Maybe its parts are more manageable as one piece. Maybe It’s endurance in this place is with purpose. And, maybe this purpose is greater than any imaginary back story we could conceive. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.

Two haiku – In Memory of this old Piano:

          Anticipating                                                       The keys don’t know the

                       the touch of nimble fingers                               hammers lay slack, severed, frayed.

       ivory keys a-glow.                                                   Keys stay poised for play.

Photograph, Story & Haikus by: Jordan R Shaver

                                                                              

The Quickest Way to a Man's Heart Through Strategic Architecture & Design

We did some remodeling.
The food preparation area faces the television.
Cookies galore.

Jordan R Shaver

On the Fringe of the City

I used to see this man;

grey haired,

slightly grizzled

a healthy stature,

like an aged tree with a sturdy stump,

and frail branches falling around itself.

I’d always see him sitting on his steps.

His blue house stood tall,

proud,

holding the man with comfort,

as if the house knew what the man did for it.

As if the man knew what the house did for him.

As if they could feel each other’s appreciation.

You could tell they had always been together.

His porch was barren.

No place to sit but a step.

But the urge for the porch to sag

was always overcome with the weight of the man

and his love.

Sitting in the center step.

Neither of them showed it,

But they were smiling.

He secretly admired the autumn birds

peppering the skyline.

But when they came to rest on the roof

of his blue house

he would try to shout.

Frustrated his words

fell from his mouth like pouring slag;

deep with grit and dropping too soon,

he always ended up with a broomstick,

and rapped it against the pillars

until the house shook them free.

At night the windows would remain unlit.

Without window coverings

everyone could see

the porch had to be

his favorite place to sit.

I stayed in the car

too embarrassed to join my mom

on the day she felt overwhelmed with courageous goodwill,

to approach the old man

sitting on the steps of his blue house on the fringe of the city.

We pulled in.

The slam of her door seemed violent,

and I could see him raise his head

as she approached his porch holding a small fern.

She was overly excited,

and spoke too soon

as she delivered a warm HELLO

coming out with a nervous shiver

not making eye contact

as her confidence withered.

His curling grey brow

furrowed to disguise

the fear in his old hazy eyes.

I stayed bundled up in the old, cream mini-van.

I saw him raise his hand,

preparing to grab his broomstick

to tell the house to shake my mom from itself,

and I could feel my heart pound faster,

knowing how the house could shake off thousands of birds.

What could it do to 1 woman?

She kept smiling.

Persisting to give the man a gift.

And in a muffled tirade

I could tell

he needed nothing more than his middle step.

I could tell there just wasn’t time

for the plant to earn his respect,

and my mom returned to the car with the fern.

Her pride injured.

Still concerned.

The man hasn’t been seen on his porch for years.

Yet I water his plant,

waiting for the blue house to call upon it

so I can place it on the center step.

Only after I clearly see

the plant has earned it’s respect.

Jordan R. Shaver