"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.

Hide and Seek - July 10 2026

 

Hide and Seek

July 10 2026



When words play hide and seek,

peeking out from under the bed

or crouched behind the credenza

as I rummage through the laundry

scour the garage.

The first letter comes to me

like a glimpse of cartoon eyes

beaming out of the dark

then blinking shut.

Too bad the-tip-of-the-tongue

isn’t enough to win.

I am “it”

and cannot hide

from my forgetfulness. 

Even olly olly oxen free

doesn’t end the game.

There’s only patience

and stumbling on the word

in the fullness of time.

Or waking up from a dream,

triumphant 

to find it there.

I’m too old for games

to play at this one.

Or have I regressed

to my second childhood?

A preverbal state

messing with pots and pans

on the kitchen linoleum,

conjuring imagined worlds

without using words?

Perhaps tomorrow, it will be my turn to hide.

I can only hope I don’t lose myself,

wandering off

in a confused state of mind

where no one can find me

and every word’s been lost.

Retrieval has become slower lately. I suppose this is advancing age, but am at least consoled that they almost always eventually come. The game of hide and seek may be a metaphor for dementia, but I’m not there yet! 

Distraction helps my seeking, because trying too hard seems to push my quarry further away. Trying too hard (and getting anxious!) is like dropping me into a blind canyon pushing against the rock-face.

Sometimes, as the poem says, sleep delivers the word — the unconscious mind, working overtime. 

It would be nice to think that my vocabulary has become so large, it’s just made a bigger thicket of words to plough through. Nice to think, but I doubt that’s how the mind works.

I probably started this poem because I’m now on the second day patiently waiting for this particular word  . . . and it never takes that long. So just now, I took the last resort:  using AI to find it. (If you’re curious, the lost word was “impunity”.) I feel embarrassed. Because this should have been as easy as finding a 3 year old hiding behind a coat rack, unable to suppress her giggles or stop from peeking out!

Save the Good - July 7 2026

 

Save the Good

July 7 2026

There is good news and bad.

Please, save the good for last;

as it is, I’m unhappy enough.

It seems there’s always good and bad.

So much, I start to wonder

if the world is zero-sum

 — 1 step forward, 1 step back,

a tricky equation

where, in the end, both sides cancel out.

Or is this the pessimist in me?

Could progress be possible,

disguised in a sawtooth graph

that, in the fullness of time

zigzags up and to the right?

As Martin Luther King, a man of faith,  proclaimed

the arc of the moral universe is long

but it bends toward justice.

And the faithless,

what are we to believe?

In wasted lives reclaimed,

love found again,

the human race

coming to its senses?

In a universe that expands

until it peters out,

or one that will boomerang

  — falling back

into a singularity

and another big bang?

Another chance

to get it right.

Diving In - July 6 2026

 

Diving In

July 6 2026

The lake is still

after baking all day

under a hot summer sun.

Small branches float.

There’s the flotsam of severed leaves

bits of cones and seeds

dandelion fluff.

Pine needles

broken twigs

and dead insects

moulder like pond scum

on its warm flat surface. 

The messiness of nature,

but also her exuberance

and excess.

Mostly, though, I notice the yellowish pall,

the blush of pollen on top

and painting a thin even band 

on half-submerged rocks.

But in my memory, the lake is cold, clear, fresh,

while this brings to mind

decay and neglect

 — a tub

where the tepid water was left,

and no one bothered to scrub

the stubborn ring

of dead skin and dried soap.

Tomorrow, a good wind will cut the heat

skim the surface clean

and refresh the sun-warmed lake

with cold water from the depths.

Leaving nature

the glossy postcard

you’d put up on the fridge

  — a manicured, benevolent, sanitized aesthetic

instead of nature

in tooth and claw;

all the messiness

and complexity

of life on earth.

Nevertheless, I swim.

Through the pollen, where insects will feed,

past the branches

that will water-log, then sink,

and brushing aside the leaves, twigs, and fronds

that in time will rot.

Yes, bears shit in the woods,

fish slough their slime,

bacteria  grow.

As we all live and die

and decompose,

diving in

regardless.

Wonders of the World - July 4 2026

 

Wonders of the World

July 4 2026

I do not travel well.

Like stone fruit

or cranky toddlers.

Which feels like a confession,

as if I’d openly admitted

to cheating on my taxes

or my unwitting wife.

Was I born a homebody 

or did I become one?

Not easy to say,

except that change is hard

and routine keeps me centred.

Do I lack imagination? 

Have I no spontaneity?

Am I too timid for adventure

too attached to my comforts

too mired in a rut?

Perhaps, somewhat,

but mostly I resent

insinuations like these.

Because, while I may not rush to catch an early flight

or eat raw fish

I travel in my head,

take risks

even if they are less apparent,

and create original work;

which is more than be said

for the tourists taking selfies

and checking off their lists

of wonders of the world.

Of course, not all travellers are tourists,

all first world visitors 

entitled Americans

who talk too loud

and complain about the portions.

And their carbon footprint

isn’t always too much

or even unjustified.

Mine, especially,

nicely settled

in my familiar abode

without the jet-lagged days

or sleepless nights,

the lost luggage

bad stomach

or tropical sun

draining me dry.

At home,

writing my way through time and space

without leaving my easy chair

or missing my dogs.

My parents were enthusiastic travellers. But on their return, they invariably declared that the best part of travelling was getting home again! (My dad was hardly an “ugly American”, but visiting London wa6 back in the 1960s (I suspect things have changed since then) he did complain about the portions:  the English version of a sirloin steak was like an appetizer compared to what a Canadian thought of as a man-sized cut of beef. I think he ordered a second!)

Of course, one must make a distinction between the tourist and the traveller. There is a telling difference in mindset between the two:  the former, more all-inclusive resort stretched out by the pool sipping pink fizzy drinks; while the latter brings to his travels an openness to adventure and accident, a respect for other cultures, and a lively curiosity. 

No doubt travel can enlighten and enlarge. But not me. Away from home, I’m too stressed, constipated, and sleep-deprived for either! Probably on the spectrum (autism spectrum, that is), which may explain more.

Blood Meal - July 3 2026

 

Blood Meal

July 3 2026

They’re just living their lives, she said

so let them be.

 As if the black flies

swarming my head

should be left to feed.

As if a reverence for life

meant accepting persecution,

and that biting insects

should not be exempt

from human compassion.

Even mosquitoes,

who have killed more men

than all our wars

vendettas

and acts of neglect.

A blood meal

is how they make their living, she said

so let them be.

We are part of nature

and must do our part, she said

so let them be. 

But to serve nature

must my body merely be

a travelling smorgasbord,

irresistibly warm, engorged, and savoury?

Won’t they bleed me dry

if I acquiesce?

So while I admire her Buddhist forbearance

I’m but a weak and mortal man,

a bad humanitarian 

who can’t bear the itch

and would rather not risk

dengue

malaria

chikungunya. 

So I scratch, swat, slap

despite her glare,

run inside

flailing wildly

to fend them off.

Meanwhile, is that a glow of righteousness

I see enveloping her?

Or flushed red skin,

giving off heat

as she itches and swells?

Falling From the Sky - July 3 2026

 

Falling From the Sky

July 3 2026

The hot humid air

was stifling to breathe

and impossible to sleep in.

Yet it was also exhausting

and we walked, zombie-like

  — focusing

on each small step,

slouching 

like old men

with porous bones and backs that bark.

Our brains were drained as well;

we were the living dead

unable to think

or plan. 

A heat dome, they called it;

“weather from hell”, we said.

The climate has changed

conditions are unpredictable. 

Pious Christians call it a judgement from God,

as if, by our sinfulness

we’d brought this on ourselves.

While the atheists

who believe in science agree

that man is to blame,

but for our greed, not immorality 

  — consuming

beyond our means.

But who in this sultry heat

has the strength to finger-point?

To either repent or pray,

practice politics

or attempt persuasion?

When all we can do is sweat,

sip cold drinks,

sit in one place.

I watch dogs, tongues lolling

as they pant in the shade.

Notice squirrels 

who would scamper through the trees

like addicts on speed

stand 

unnaturally still,

hold 

their querulous chatter. 

And look up, surprised to see birds

falling from the sky;

the air so thin

even featherweight creatures

are unable to fly.

In a recent post to a friend, I wrote the words “what’s next” (accompanying an article about the lonestar tick and alpha-gal syndrome), thinking of the endless cascade of current and imminent disasters pressing in on our accustomed way of life, some perhaps even threatening human civilization. First to mind, of course, was climate change, especially with today’s newspaper reports of oppressive heat waves in Europe and — closer to home — eastern and southern Canada, the US south and midwest.

It’s fine here. Relatively, anyway. But I hate heat, and am bad in it. So it was easy for me to imagine how it must feel. 

I remember a heat wave when my car almost hit some low-flying birds I’d normally not even notice:  the heated air had expanded so much it affected their lift, and they really struggled to gain altitude and get out of the way as they usually easily would.