Not the Stuff of Poetry - July 23 2026

 

Not the Stuff of Poetry

July 23 2026

I did nothing today.

Some reading, puttering, a desultory walk.

A sandwich was made

the dogs fed.

But no clock was watched

phone scrolled.

The day passed

more quickly than you’d think;

another one

crossed off the calendar

and forgotten just-like-that.

Wasted, one might sniffly dismiss,

since we’ve all been told

that whatever isn’t quantified

doesn’t count.

This is not the stuff of poetry.

No angst

longing

wonder,

no beauty in the small things

or awe at the divine.

No unrequited love

rejection to nurse

or lover to admire,

nothing to confess

and nothing to aspire to.

No artistry

when what one writes

simply says what it says.

Yet there are times

when you need a day like that,

unscheduled, open-ended

spent all by yourself.

When I didn’t overthink

or explore how I feel,

did not introspect 

retrospect

or worry what comes next.

Didn't stop to notice.

Which is what poets

can’t help but do

  —  noticing.

Smelling the roses, yes,

but also taking in the leaves

and their perfect beads of dew,

lustrous little spheres

like mini-magnifiers.

So we are not so much wordsmiths

as exposed nerves

quivering with all our senses,

receptive to the world

both inside and out.

But instead, I just let go.

I was a leaf,

circling slowly down

to a stop so soft

I didn’t even know.

Content to ride the wind

wherever it goes,

end up

wherever I’m dropped.

A lush green leaf

lying untouched

in the dull brown duff of the forest floor.

A fallow day, but hardly wasted. 

Yet I feel days like this need to be justified. So for those keeping count, does getting a poem out of it at least go some way toward redeeming my indolence?

An attentive reader will be amused to see how the poem contradicts itself. Because there’s all kinds of noticing going on. Even when there’s nothing to notice, it not only takes self-referential note, but comes up with a metaphor to embellish it. In my defence, the poem was written after the fact. The day really was pleasantly brain dead! Or at least inasmuch as I can ever stop myself from introspecting, retrospecting, and ruminating.

The Wolf in Them - July 20 2026

 

The Wolf in Them

July 20 2026

The dogs’ default is sleep.

They are predators

who, when prey is scarce

don’t expend energy

they conserve it.

Because nature is frugal,

the calculus of survival

intuitive.

But these coddled wolves

didn't learn to hunt

and never killed.

Preferring table scraps and chew toys

to newly downed prey,

they acquired no taste

for steaming viscera,

brains jiggling with fat,

eyeballs freshly plucked.

So they sleep,

snoring in their warm soft beds

like little plush toys,

content to wait

until dinner is served.

The wolf in them rests,

their claws trimmed

teeth constrained

legs lazily out-stretched.

Instead of pursuing prey

they've perfected puppy eyes,

have learned to lurk and beg,

can expertly sniff out

the kibble that fell.

Good dog, we say

and pat them on the head.

They look pleased,

happily wagging their tails

then trotting off to bed.

In the mood to write, but nothing comes to mind. So a little nonsense to satisfy the urge. I guess my default is a dog poem!

Not worthy of Billy Collins, of course, but at least we have a shared sensibility.(https://books.google.com/books/about/Dog_Show.html?id=QaJREQAAQBAJ)

My dogs are really gourmands, not gourmets. So they’d happily eat guts, brains, and eyeballs. Along with their more familiar fare: shit, vomit, garbage, and used condoms.  But then not all dogs are Labs! (Who, if you're unfamiliar, have insatiable appetites and cast iron stomachs.) Some dogs -- hard as it is for me to believe -- actually do have discerning palates and delicate guts 

Rufus and Peanut taking a well-earned rest

Exercise Book - July 20 2026

 

Exercise Book

July 20 2026



When I pawed through the archive

of my ephemera from school

I unearthed some rumpled scribblers

from the cluttered box,

3-ring folders

of lined foolscap

in softly creased covers.

Exercise Book 

was printed in official looking letters

on each of them.

What they contained

 — bad poetry

pretentious essays

and math that didn’t add up,

chemical formulae

that could have turned water into wine

for all I now know —

struck me less than the name.

Exercise,

as if school work

was like working out

 — repetitive,

generating sweat,

building mental muscle.

I remember being exercised

all through school.

The hormonal angst

of bad skin and hair days

unattainable girls.

Of the high marks

I was sure I needed

to earn my parents’ love.

Of failing to make the team,

or barely making it

and blowing the big play.

Adolescence

exercises everything

a young person can muster.

Who knows why I kept this stuff.

My future biographer?

Because it was timeless, masterful, one-of-a-kind?

Or because the young

are the centre of the world,

solipsists

preoccupied with their own small dramas

and shaky certainties.

Who despite feeling invisible

as well as powerless 

also feel spotlit

and unsparingly judged.

But to throw it all out

seems like renouncing myself;

who I was,

the path to what I’ve become,

my insecurities and struggles

and the minor triumphs

that meant that much more.

Not that it won’t all be tossed

the moment I’m gone.

Not even worthy

of the Goodwill or Sally Ann,

it will be left at the curb

with that week’s garbage

to be carted off;

no ceremony

no guest list.

Because you can only hang on

to your one precious life

for so long

before you’re consigned to forgetfulness. 

And even if it isn’t junked

  — left mouldering

in the corner of the basement

where it sat all those years

waiting to be disinterred —

mould will get it,

water seep in,

the ink fade

eventually.

Yet we hang on regardless

hoping for posterity.

And if hope is never false

who knows?

Even the stuff you laugh at

to cover your embarrassment,

the stuff you’d rather forget

but hate to dishonour.

And anyway, can’t,

because the past is always present 

box or not.

This feature in this weekend’s Globe and Mail by Ian Brown inspired this poem. Although we’re of the same vintage, and a cover like this — according to the illustration accompanying his piece — emerged from his trunk, mine were always Hilroy brand. I guess private schools had fancier supplies!

The name immediately struck me: Exercise Book.  I never used that term. Nor Scribbler, for that matter. (Mostly, I used loose leaf paper and Duo-Tangs. Not even the tried and true Hilroys.)

https://globe2go.pressreader.com/article/282265262198209

I’m not sentimental. And I’m a nihilist when it comes to there being any point in saving things. So while my mother squirrelled away some stuff (there wasn’t a lot of it) and passed it on, I haven’t kept any. But if I had, I’m sure I would have been as disillusioned as Mr. Brown about my juvenile conceit of being a writer; or at least becoming one.

Not a Word - July 19 2026

 

Not a Word

July 19 2026

No vow of silence.

No voice to save.

No silent treatment,

like a stubborn spouse

nursing a grudge.

Yet I haven’t talked all day

  . . . not a word.

Nothing to say

and no one to say it to.

My voice will not grow old,

the high notes

will not break it.

My throat will be smooth

cords tumescent

larynx supple.

I will be startled

to hear myself speak,

surprised by a sound

that surely couldn’t be me.

Might grope for words,

stumble over my tongue

or self-consciously stutter,

like a shy 5 year old

hiding back of his mother’s legs.

Yet there is much to be said

for silence.

To not use words

for self-protection

or as weapons in a duel.

To not feel the need

to assert myself;

as if my presence here

needed defending,

I needed reminding

that I exist.

To not disturb

a settled world,

stirring the air with my noise

and dropping sentences

in capital letters

that keep shouting too loud.

Nor risk words

emerging from my past,

haunting me

like zombies from the grave.

Instead, I listen

take in

consider.

And even though words pour through my head

I keep them to myself.

After all, there is more than enough cacophony

to fill the ears

of a fidgety world,

contradicting

interrupting

and outshouting each other.

Or simply words

to fill the awkward silences,

small talk

before the panic sets in;

anything

from weather

to thoughtless blather

to jokes your dad would tell.

Solitude

becomes me,

and silence comes easily

in this peaceful place

far from the noise.

So I will speak again

only when there’s something worth saying

and someone anxious to hear.

"To See Oneself"- July 16 2026

 

To See Oneself

July 16 2026

In the autopsy suite, death is sanitized

on stainless steel gurneys

under cold harsh light.

As is the name

 — not morgue, but Suite,

as in Presidential

or Honeymoon.

The bodies are not just still, but inert,

their skin

waxy and pale.

The eyes are either closed

or stare blankly

at the white tiled ceiling

that looks impassively back.

The light has gone out of them

and the bodies have taken on weight

as if some buoyant force had leaked away,

the blood

had pooled and thickened

like in a ship’s turbid bilge.

Autopsy,

from the Greek “to see oneself”.

Because we are all rough copies,

and because we can see in them

our future selves.

They are here to answer

how and when

and sometimes who.

But the why is never questioned;

best left

to theologians and philosophers

and godless scientists. 

But mostly, because of paperwork

 — insurance,

certificates of death,

issues with inheritance.

So before they’re put to rest

there is bureaucracy;

as has always been said

the only sure things in life

are death and taxes.

Instead of putrefaction

it smells of disinfectant

and starched hospital sheets.

The air is chilly,

the light unflattering,

the sound

respectful and subdued.

You’ll hear the usual collegial chat

in matter-of-fact tones,

the pronouncement of findings

in a brisk clinical voice,

and the occasional laugh

work friends naturally share.

There’s the clang of stainless steel

on bright metallic bowls,

the squelch of organs plopped 

on long suspended scales,

the squeak of rubber soles

on buffed terrazzo floor.

And in the background

country music plays

to help time pass.

Which it has

for all who end up here

in the city morgue

under a crisp white sheet.

Where questions are asked and answered

but not the big one I have. 

I wrote this after listening to the following podcast (see the link). Even though I don’t read crime novels or mysteries, and don’t know her work, I found it fascinating.

(Btw, I do have my own answer to the “why” of death.  A godlessly scientific one. It also answers the “how”. It has to do with evolutionary biology. Which is — to simplify it — that survival ultimately applies not to the individual but to a species, and that this species-wide survival is a function of the carrying capacity of the environment:  exceeding the upper limit of population puts the species’ existence into peril, and the same if the adult population lives so long it outcompetes its offspring for limited resources. So the end result is that a successful species is, by selection of suitable individuals,  programmed by evolution for death. And that the remorseless arithmetic of evolution dictates that each species that has so far not gone extinct will have eventually landed on its optimal lifespan. …Optimal, that is, until its environment changes and it either fails or succeeds in adapting in time.

This makes more sense if you consider the opposite: if we all could tweak our genes and become as immortal as we’d wish to be, just imagine what would soon be the exponentially vast burden of human beings trying to live side by side on this already highly stressed planet. The individual conceit of eternal life is incompatible with the survival of the species. 

There is a philosophical corollary to this:  we are not autonomous individuals; we are collective and communal, and only exist in relation to others. So much for libertarianism and the cherished American  myth of the rugged individual.)

https://podcasts.apple.com/ca/podcast/what-nobody-tells-you-about-the-morgue-with/id809264944?i=1000774077233&l=fr-CA

Incombustible - July 15 2026

 

Incombustible

July 15 2026



The thing about fire

is that it feeds off itself;

releasing heat

and hungry for fuel

it spreads unstoppably.

Fire begets fire

then eats its young.

A type of contagion I know well.

As do we all,

social animals 

desperate to belong

and determined to fit in.

Even unconsciously.

How bad ideas and frothy fads

spontaneously combust,

blazing through the culture

until they burn themselves out.

How blood and soil populists

proclaiming us vs them

sweep the culture like firestorms,

the force of grievance

conformity

and validation

as empowering

as a hot dry wind. 

As if we were tinder 

when the seasonal rains never came

But some have fireproofed themselves.

They’re either oblivious

or uncommonly self-assured.

Perhaps smug contrarians

and fierce individualists

who cherish the conceit

they think for themselves.

While the most incombustible

have acquired wisdom,

having seen fads come and go,

felt embarrassed, looking back

at the fashions they once wore

and thought looked good. 

Or watched with alarm

the feverish crowds

saluting at Nuremberg

rampaging on Krystallnacht.

The real mystery is

who dropped the match

added the accelerant?

Who was first to catch,

ignited by the ash

falling from the sky,

hypnotized 

by its red hot allure?

Forgetting

that fire lays waste,

razing the land and scorching the soil,

leaving blackened stumps smouldering

and burned bodies

caught breathless

in the smoke-filled air.

 

Just as fire destroys

social contagion can kill.

So only hope

that as fire renews the soil

opens to light

and reinvigorates the forest 

wisdom also grows.

That we all become contrarians;

tall trees

high above the canopy

with thick bark and verdant leaves

resistant to fire.

It’s fire season. Which these days is pretty much all year! Forest fires are close, there’s smoke in the air. I live in the urban/wildlands interface, so am acutely aware of fire and feel under a constant low grade stress.

Of course, boreal forest is meant to burn: fire ultimately renews and strengthens it. Unfortunately, here it’s past due and over-mature. 

So, preoccupied as I am, a forest fire poem seemed in order. But once the notion of contagion came up, the obvious corollary was social contagion:  conformity (which is the little brother of contagion) being an occupational hazard of social animals who are programmed to seek belonging and capable of social learning. This is the sort of analogy I look for:  a theme that makes the poem meaningful rather than simply descriptive. Especially in this age of populists rising to power. On the left, yes; but mostly, right wing authoritarians who appeal to people seeking certainty, simplicity, and order:  it’s as if an ideological trend has caught fire around the globe.

Of the choices I offer, the one that best fits me is oblivious. With, I hope, a little wisdom thrown in! Oblivion, a distance from which I can look on bemused (if belatedly!) at fashion, trends, and viral whatever. (Btw, I was determined not to use “viral” anywhere in this poem:  too easy, too clichéd. Glad I managed it!)

Free Range - July 13 2026

 

Free Range

July 13 2026

The seeds my children scattered

in a corner of the yard

mostly didn’t grow.

Who knows

if it was the untilled soil

the squirrels and birds

or our neglect.

But wildflowers, hardy as they are

grow regardless.

They take flight on the wind

land haphazardly

lie exposed,

their simple needs

sun and rain

and to be left alone.

The ones that did, flourished

and my garden grew despite us,

black-eyed Susans

crimson poppies

dark blue violets.

Like free range children

and teens leaving home

for far away,

the less fuss the better;

they’re more robust,

their needs 

simpler than you think.

So let them take flight

and land where they may.

Long and Leisurely - July 11 2026

 

Long and Leisurely 

July 11 2026

The pace slows in summer.

The sign on the door 

is turned to Closed, 

phones

ring unheard

on abandoned desks.

We sit on the covered porch, fanning ourselves.

Watch insects butt against the screen

feeling smugly protected,

their frantic buzzing

tuned out

as clever ears adjust.

Gaze out at clouds

and guess what they meant

wait for a breeze

to stir the sultry air

trapped beneath the overhang;

a brief reprieve

that leaves us even hotter.

Days are long and leisurely.

Because move toof ast

and you get light-headed

flushed with sweat

 — a Victorian dowager

overcome with the vapours,

desperate for her fainting chair 

before she drops.

This isn’t laziness, it’s nature.

Because while a liquid, subject to heat, comes to a boil

we slow;

our molecules

are contrarians

who scorn the rules.

Warm-blooded creatures, it appears

are exempt from physical law.

We are lizards

splayed out on sun-warmed rocks

soaking up precious heat,

eyes blinking shut

and chests lifting 

in short shallow breaths.

We are dragonflies

who’ve alighted on a leaf

and stand on sylphlike legs,

multicoloured bodies 

like ornaments

in enamelled glass,

gossamer wings

like embroidered silk. 

So still

you’d think we were decorative,

pinned in place

on a plain green blouse.

The kitchen clock ticks on,

the planet turns

as steadily as always, 

and shadows shrink

then lengthen

like time lapse photography. 

But Einstein was wrong;

time stops

not at the speed of light

but when July melts into August,

and the long indolent days

bleed into the next.