The Shape of Its Container - June 19 2026

 

The Shape of Its Container 

June 19 2026



We are mostly water.

Water that flows

from placid stream to raging torrent.

As moody as the weather,

as dependent

on the lay of the land.

Water that’s still,

in lakes and ponds and reservoirs

sloughs and swamps and bogs.

But beneath the sunny surface

are the cold dark depths

no one sees into,

an indeterminate bottom

where over the years

sediment’s been building up

and never been dredged

  — a thick layer

of silt and mud

where who knows what might lurk.

Water that changes state

depending on pressure

passion

and circumstance;

from liquid to vapour

then back to ice.

You wouldn’t know it to look,

but they're all just variations

of who we are.

Water 

that takes the shape of its container,

fitting in

and appearing as expected.

And when that vessel breaks

seeking its lowest level

through every crack and fissure

and subterranean cleft.

Fragile, it says, This Side Up.

But sometimes you’re dropped

sometimes fall.

And sometimes trickle out

in tears of laughter

tears of sorrow

tears you don’t understand.

Salt water

down the cheek

landing hotly on the tongue. 

A Cleansing Rain - June 18 2026

 

A Cleansing Rain

June 18 2026

The rain cleared the air.

It brought a sharpness to things 

a depth of colour,

the greens even greener

the blues more intense.

As if the earth was freshly made,

and the light of the sun

after 100 million miles through the vacuum of space

hadn’t been touched

by a single mote of dust,

scattered

by the thick blue haze

of diesel exhaust.

Hadn’t been filtered

strangled

corrupted.

I stopped and took a slow deep breath.

It had the sweet earthy smell

on desiccated soil and sun-baked stone

freshly soaked 

by summer rain.

Of ozone, with its metallic edge

washed from the stratosphere.

Water, bringing the parched landscape to life,

and the world seen

by means of light

in its purest form.

So just imagine if we weren't confined

to the narrow band

of visible light.

All the richness we’re denied.

All the mysteries revealed

and hidden layers lifted,

the occult beauty

we never knew we missed.

But as it is, even the sun breaking through

after a cleansing rain

leaves us mostly in the dark.

We are bottom-dwelling creatures,

catching glimpses

of bioluminescence

and what’s left of surface light.

We are voyeurs

with clouded lenses,

squinting through a pinhole with a single eye;

certain that our vision

takes in the world.

This is a poem about a moment in time I think everyone has experienced after a summer rain: the purity of light; the intensity and richness of the colours; the still life it leaves, imprinted on our retinas. 

It’s also a poem about close observation and being present. A “stop and smell the roses” moment.

As well as a commentary on our hubris:  not just our conceit of epistemological certainty, but our failure to properly acknowledge that beyond the knowable unknowns, there are unknowable unknowns.

(Of course, the scientist in me wants to mention that the filtering done by earth’s atmosphere (and magnetic field) greatly benefits us: otherwise, all that deadly cosmic radiation would have long ago killed the planet’s incipient life. (Subterranean life perhaps excepted.))

(By the way, there’s a word for the smell I describe: “petrichor”. In fact, I once wrote a poem by that name, if you care to look it up.)

Remaking the World - June 17 2026

 

Remaking the World

June 17 2026

It’s always pitchforks.

When the people rise up

against the plutocrats and overseers

the gated enclaves are always attacked

with agricultural implements

most have never held

let alone own.

Or perhaps, it’s because mass unrest

is a thing of the past;

the villagers

and Frankenstein’s monster,

the sans-culottes

with pitchforks and torches 

storming the Bastille. 

The tank-man at Tiananmen

armed with shopping bags;

which doesn’t really count

but was even more courageous. 

So when we revolt

will it be slogans and memes

and pitchfork emojis,

satirical texts

sent by phone?

At home

in front of screens

remaking the world by proxy.

Or will we be too distracted

to even notice?

With the world on fire,

the political class

enriching themselves,

and frozen wars

on foreign shores

we’ve gotten quickly bored of

  — too many to count —

will we throw up our hands

and narrow our gaze

to the everyday

of our personal lives?

Overwhelmed

and too full of despair to rebel

will we tend to our gardens and till the soil?

Close the door behind us

and retreat to our easy chairs,

thrilled to let the tech-bros

seduce us with their toys?

Too political and didactic for what I really want to be working toward. But at least it scratched the itch of my daily compulsion to write — that is, write something …anything!

Geological Time - June 16 2026

 

Geological Time

June 16 2026

It was a bowl

carved into the earth.

As if the perfect circle

was not just an ideal

of Greek philosophers

and human imagining,

a metaphor for virtue.

A crater lake

where a jagged chunk of rock

at hypersonic speed

collided with earth

unthinkable eons ago.

A violent collision

that time has transformed 

into a pastoral swimming hole;

cold clear water

on a sultry afternoon.

Where drunken adolescents 

do backflips

off a high rocky ledge,

showing-off for girlfriends

who’d rather soak up the sun

and talk among themselves

than watch callow young men

perform feeble attempts

to catch an eye;

the art of seduction

reduced to juvenile thrills.

The vastness of geological time

and the violence of the cosmos 

intersecting

on this soft summer day 

with fleeting human lives.

The collision

of blasted rock

with fragile flesh.

Of our few quick decades

with unimaginable millennia.

And of solipsistic youth

with a universe

that’s blankly indifferent to them

and too vast to comprehend. 

But the kids, frolicking in the sun

are oblivious. 

They are living for now,

and the perfect circle

that rims the fresh-water lake

is simply how things are.

For them, there is no history;

just girls and beer

and getting an even tan.

Washing Alone - June 15 2026

 

Washing Alone

June 15 2026

In the laundromat

where I used to cadge quarters

and cash bills,

rub shoulders

with strangers I’d rather avoid,

and kill time

watching through the glass

as my clothes tumbled dry.

At least the clothes

seemed to be having fun.

All our intimates

were on public display.

The torn underwear

I stuffed into the washer

quick as I possibly could,

her bikini bottom

and strappy top

with the lacy red frill,

and the old lady bra

with its big upholstered cups

and underwire support

that resembled a torture device.

No “delicate wash”

for a garment like that,

an old warhorse

that would have been better off shot.

I kept to myself.

Claimed my counter-space

and tried to overlook

the sweaty guy

whom I’ll bet emptied dirty laundry there,

the toddlers

propped on their bottoms

while their mothers folded,

and the drippy nose

of the chain-smoking man

with the dangling ash

who let all of it fall wherever.

And, of course, I remember the fetching young lady

who matter-of-factly undressed

down to a thong and skimpy bra

while the rest of us tried not to watch.

Or not be seen watching.

I could only envy

how little she cared

what others thought.

These days, I wash alone

at home

in a corner of the basement.

There are no poems here

no snapshots of humanity.

No chance

of a random intersection

with someone different

who has a story to share.

And certainly no illusion

of a cute-meet

or unexpected romance.

Not that that ever happened

in the low-rent laundromat

where I kept my head down

and got out fast.

Maybe missed my chance

  . . . who knows?

The title echoes “Bowling Alone”, the landmark paper by the Harvard political scientist Robert Putnam that highlighted the increasing social isolation of modern America, where the decline in civic engagement and social capital is mirrored in the decline in leagues and memberships. His observation was the precursor to what today is increasingly being called “the loneliness epidemic”.  

Of course, being alone and being lonely are two different things. But in both states, the chance of a serendipitous connection is far less than being out and about and socially engaged. Ad well as the good poem or short story that comes from it.

Passing As It Does - June 15 2026

 

Passing As It Does

June 15 2026

I wash by hand.

The monotony

is a kind of meditation.

The dishes

stacked in the drainer

in orderly rows

gleaming in the kitchen lights

give me the closure I’ve been searching for

 — a chore begun and completed

in real time,

a modest act

of daily restoration.

Rubber gloves, and warm immersion

as steam rises up,

hot water

and a froth of suds

 — cheery bubbles

that rainbow light

from their slick little surfaces.

Crusted food sluices off,

creamy porcelain glistens.

Repeated, night after night

like a secular ritual,

dirty dishes

ticking down

like a telltale clock.

Marking time 

as the middle of life

slips through my fingers

almost imperceptibly.

Time, passing as it does.

And only once

interrupting my reverie

with a loud burst of sound

as it shatters on the floor.

A million jagged pieces

nothing can restore. 

I’m not sure if the abrupt turn that ends the poem is properly foreshadowed. A change in tone like this can come off as cheating:  setting up the reader only to blindside her with an unjustified emotional wallop.  

On the other hand, isn’t that what a dropped dish does:  make you jump with sudden surprise? 

Actually, the ending surprised me as I wrote it. Not only does it feel like taking dictation when the words are flowing, it can feel as if the poem is writing itself. 

Object Permanence - June 14 2026

 

Object Permanence

June 14 2026

My eyes are not cameras.

They don’t record, they notice.

They don’t fix

in pixels or silver halide,

they miss most

of what passes before them,

or get distracted

by flashing strobes or jangling keys. 

But I’m impressed

by their depth of field

compared to a camera lens;

the 1000 yard stare,

the self-awareness

when they turn their gaze on me.

Nevertheless, their memory is fleeting.

So few things

get burnt into the retina

and remain there for life.

 But I remember how blue yours were.

Are they still, 

or does colour change

the further away one gets?

Or could colour itself

be mere illusion;

like sleight-of-hand or ball-and-cup,

a wavelength

they can’t keep up with?

Will I one day be blessed

with ultraviolet

or infrared?

The only one

who can see your eyes

in all their torrid heat

and iridescent beauty.

Will invite you to look into mine;

I hope, perhaps

see through me

or see me as I am.

A Body at Rest - June 13 2026

 

A Body at Rest

June 13 2026

Words escape me.

Plans change.

The earth quakes,

and my foundation shifts

cracks

crumbles.

But since all motion is relative

nothing’s ever the same;

stability

just feels that way.

Even the observed

is changed by observation,

while the observer

herself is being watched.

But we seek absolutes, not relatives — 

stop or go,

yes or no,

hold or drop

and right or wrong.

Because morality

brooks no compromise.

But I am supple,

I bend instead of break.

I am airborne,

but at terminal velocity

don’t feel as if I’m falling

won’t know until I stop.

I tried to start a poem with the single word opening line Spontaneity. Something I’m very much not! Couldn’t get it much past that point, then had a couple of false starts, and finally started writing this. Which I think scratches the same itch, if a little more obliquely.  

A regular reader will find this quite a departure from my usual style. For better or worse, at least it’s mercifully shorter!

False Hope - June 12 2026

 

False Hope

June 12 2026



They predict rain

which never seems to come.

But on the far horizon, I see clouds,

scowling darkly

and heavy enough

to hug the sodden ground.

Yet there they remain

as if anchored by their weight.

Or could the wind have died,

the storm stranded in place

while we’re unaccountably spared?

Which would explain

the ominous stillness here.

Or is it all a play of light,

like a desert mirage 

seductively beckoning

a parched and desperate man?

An oracle 

foretells a future

we might dread or wish for;

we remember when she’s correct

but forget the string of misses.

A preacher rants and raves,

spraying spittle and shaking fists

while intermittently speaking in tongues.

He condemns the sinner

as well as the sin,

while praising the Creator

who speaks only through him;

a merciful God

who doesn’t always forgive.

He predicts the end of days

when the faithful will be saved,

but is vague enough

that day never comes.

She takes my hand,

turning it palm up

and holding it firmly in hers.

For a moment

she raises her eyes to mine

with a look of studied concern,

but then returns to her work;

tracing my lines

with a long thin finger

and red acrylic nail.

Her reading is propitious

but somehow sounds rehearsed;

nevertheless

I choose to believe

and leave reassured.

Of course, it’s all guesswork

isn’t it?

But call for rain long enough

and surely it will come

   . . . at least eventually. 

Just not soon enough

for the desiccated soil

that’s blowing in the wind,

the dry watering holes

where thirsty animals

whose ribs are showing

lie panting on their sides.

And not in time

for the parched man

crawling over burning sand,

filled with hope

in fortunes told  

  . . . and certain odds

           . . . and auguries that favour him. 

Trajectory - June 9 2026

 

Trajectory 

June 9 2026

We are projectiles,

following an arc

far more erratic 

than gravity’s steady pull.

Yes, there is a launch date

and a rise and fall,

but no constant force or smooth trajectory.

No set of tables to call upon

as any gunnery sergeant could,

no spotter

concealed down-range

directing the cannon shot. 

Wind plays a part,

blowing erratically 

and nudging us off course.

Sometimes, with hurricane force

everything’s transformed.

While a sudden updraft

can keep us aloft,

a tornado

which no one saw coming

might whisk us away,

deposited in Oz

with the other lost souls.

Interceptors can take us down,

bad weather throw us off,

heat-seeking sensors

lead us astray.

But it’s the descent that’s most confounding.

To know how quickly we’ll fall

and when to let go

of our youthful ambition,

the pettiness

and minor obsessions

that preoccupied our middle age.

Yet really, wouldn’t we rather have hope

than know our certain end?

Because even false hope

can be a consolation.

  . . . Or is there no such thing;

that hope is never false?

Our fate, of course, is to fall to earth

no matter how off-course we coasted

how easy our trajectory. 

No one reaches orbit;

escape velocity

is only for the gods.

We are also unarmed.  

We end quietly

no matter how much we rage

deny

spit fire. 

The arc of our journey will end

who knows when,

coasting on inertia

before a sudden stop

when the rush of air is stilled;

unexploded ordinance

after a short eventful run,

with our nose

buried in the earth.

If only we were ballistic,

followed a predictable arc

along a neatly traced parabola.

But the descent is erratic

  — it can happen unexpectedly fast

or drag on unbearably long.

Because while Man plans

God decides.

And after all

your wish to fly was granted,

what more can you ask?

This fascinating AP photo is of the remnants of an unexploded missile from Hezbollah that landed in Israel. What’s striking is its resemblance to the gee whiz depiction of a futuristic rocket in some 1940’s science fiction comic, not the sleek silvery cruise missile that I would have imagined. It immediately struck me as laughable; not only the appearance, but the impotence. 

I’m of an age when I don’t feel I’ve yet lost anything physically, even though the chronological number suggests otherwise. I see my peers dying off. I see my time line shortening. Yet who knows how short or long: could be 1 year, could be 30! So every day feels a bit like a lottery. My appreciation of the diurnal sharpens, while my sense of future planning becomes somewhat murky: is any kind of long term planning worth it;  are all my worries pointless; why can’t I let go of all my neurotic preoccupations? I suppose one might say “when will I finally grant myself the freedom to be simply present?”

Yes, there is an arc to a life.  But it’s hardly the smooth parabola of a ballistic arc. And it seems as if the descending limb of the arc is the most vexing.

The Smell of Napalm in the Morning - June 6 2026

 

The Smell of Napalm in the Morning

June 6 2026

Weeds push up through the cracks,

buckle concrete

and over-shadow the grass.

The dandelion

on your average suburban lawn

and bordering the driveway

is a stoic survivor,

too sturdy to stop

too strong to kill.

They are like the hard men

who go to war on our behalf,

and do unthinkable things

we’d rather not know about.

While the orchids write poetry,

wallflowers stay at home,

and hothouse plants grow fast;

but their long slender stems

are weak and pale

and bend easily under the weight.

They are the boot camp rejects

and  conscientious objectors

who stay in their cushy jobs

at Dow chemical

pushing pencils

in some grey office cubicle.

Or study philosophy

normative ethics

introductory Zen,

and join in campus protests

against the war.

Meanwhile, the lawn looks terrible,

an embarrassment

for all the neighbours to see.

You can bomb it with chemicals

drop napalm like hell

or pave it over with concrete.

You can subvert language

and redefine your terms,

where war becomes peace

freedom slavery

and ignorance strength.

Because truth, as we know

is the first casualty,

and words are malleable

  — so they’re now wildflowers

and the garden intentional.

Or you can sue for peace

and learn to love the weeds,

or at least

live and let live.

In the first stanza, I was thinking of a quote often (probably incorrectly) attributed to George Orwell:

“People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.” This is what led me to the martial metaphor that ended up running through the rest of the poem. Where my poems go is far more a result of serendipity than intention."

The lines war is peace / freedom slavery / and ignorance strength are an homage to Orwell as well. Although really, the designation of “weed” is rather arbitrary, and as much a function of aesthetics as anything. So any redefinition isn’t so much untruthful as a shift in perspective. Perhaps we should be admiring their strength rather than reviling their persistence and fecundity! Learn to live and let live, as it were. (Detached acceptance. Ahhh  . . . if only I was Zen enough for that!)

In the film Apocalypse Now, Robert Duvall’s character Lieutenant Colonel Bill Kilgore famously says: “Napalm, son. Nothing else in the world smells like that. I love the smell of napalm in the morning. You know, one time we had a hill bombed, for 12 hours. When it was all over, I walked up. We didn’t find one of ’em, not one stinkin’ dink body. The smell, you know, the gasoline smell, the whole hill. Smelled like… victory.”

My title is but a pale imitation!

Between dandelion and orchid, I’m afraid I’m the hothouse flower.