On the Eve of Christmas
Dec 25 2008


Something moved
to trigger the floodlights
on this pitch-black night,
illuminating the snow-banks
the gravel drive.
I see 2 small deer
back-lit by unforgiving light,
pawing at the snowy ground
heads down
working the road salt with their tongues.

They take no notice of me
looking-out
from my cheerful kitchen
here, on the eve of Christmas,
tucked away past the end of the road.
So this frozen tableau seems fantastical,
and me privileged
to witness something so beautiful
and rare.

Because in winter, deer are scarce,
hunkered-down deep in the forest
burning fat
breaking through crusted snow.
This is when old ones die,
yearlings fight to survive,
and salt is a prize
worth the risk of exposure.

Something is bubbling on the stove,
and when I turn back after just a moment
all is dark,
and the deer, departed.
And what I thought I saw
seems as improbable as reindeer,
on a well-earned pause
stopping-off to graze.

Chores
Dec 24 2008


I left the walk unshovelled,
a muddle
of boot-prints and densely packed snow.
Because it’s hard to get started
in the frozen darkness
of winter.

Hard to bring me to life,
after long cold nights
cocooned in heavy covers.
And the woodstove puts me under,
like the dog, half-asleep on his side —
soaking-up the heat,
his only greeting
the thump-thump-thump of a tail.

Yet the shovelling gives me pleasure.
There is the mindless task
the satisfying sense of completion.
And the order I find so pleasing
so easily imposed —
the ruled edge,
the smoothly scoured surface.
And in the cold clean air
— odourless
except for a whiff of wood-smoke —
there is the feeling of resistance
of muscle smoothly engaged,
stiffening up my legs …my spine …my shoulders.

I am reminded of lush green summers,
taming the lawn
in long even swaths.
And fall,
heaping-up leaves
like these mountains of powder snow.

And spring
when they will thaw —
tinkling into streams
of ice-cold run-off.
When all chores will be on hold;
except to watch
as winter’s grip lets go.

And the dog
bumping-up against the door,
barking for his freedom.

Mother Tongue
Dec 23 2008


My mother tongue
first came
like sound through water —
softly muffled . . .
its low notes
a cathedral organ,
reverberating back and forth . . .
the soothing rhythm
of waves on a distant shore.

And as I became self-conscious
aware
that I owed myself
to the mercy of the world,
it tripped
the synapses of thought just so.
And with its words
I am an impostor,
who has everybody fooled.

So when I found myself
in a strange land
in a foreign tongue
speaking like the first grade of school,
I appeared both deaf and dumb.
Some thought me stupid,
which is how I felt.
Others confused silence with wisdom,
attributing great depths
to this inscrutable Buddha,
who had such an agreeable smile.
And me, I felt free —
thinking small thoughts;
letting myself go
by feel.

In this second language
I am a child again;
immersed in its music,
concerned only
with incomprehensible sound.

Pleasing Symmetry
Dec 22 2008


I’m now sure when I stopped counting in months.
If I hadn’t, by now I’d be 600-plus,
instead of 50 something.
Because it seems, as life speeds up
counting by decade is close enough.

But the day will eventually come
when I’m told no more can be done —
only so many months
left to live.
I will count down
month by month
until each week, each day
is enormous enough
to contain a lifetime of meaning.
Hoping, of course
for the miracle cure,
the spontaneous remission,
the reprieve
handed-down from heaven.

And in that 2nd childhood of living
in the pleasing symmetry of its finish
I will have patience
for only the important stuff in life.
Measuring it out, as at the beginning
one month at a time.

From an Official Pamphlet
of Self-Help Advice
Dec 21 2008


Fill the bath tub up.
Or ration the hot-water tank,
which will cool soon enough.
Leave the freezer shut
for as long as possible,
and keep some candles, a flashlight
on hand.

Then sit in the dark
making conversation,
listening to the wind groan
the house creak
as it cools.
A wind-up radio
is your lifeline to the world,
as long as the signal keeps coming.
And soon enough
you fire-up the woodstove
counting-down the logs,
looking out at moonlight
on virgin snow;
well prepared
for emergencies.

Probably, someone skidded-off the road
taking-out a hydro pole.
Or a tree fell
crashing through the wires,
buzzing
in the brittle cold.
But when the radio dies
cutting you off entirely
you can’t help but wonder what it was.

About an asteroid
no one saw coming.
And dirty clouds circling the earth.
And permanent winter
on a crystal planet
locked under mountains of ice.

Broken
Dec 19 2008


The divorced father
of one
is connected by a thin copper wire
to his beautiful teenage daughter
on the opposite coast.

He pictures her from memory
— more than 2 years younger,
all pink unicorns and snuggles —
and wouldn’t believe
this tall young lady
whose father, or mother
would embarrass her
in front of friends.

He remembers broken telephone
from his own
sepia-toned childhood
— two tin cans, a string pulled taut —
as if she could feel his tug
through thousands of miles
of copper cable and optical fibre
that snake
under streets and plains and mountain-tops
from this chilly evening gloom
to California afternoon.

Where she talks,
glancing at the clock
pre-occupied by thoughts
of boys.

More than anything
he always wanted to be a dad.
But her mother’s grasping lawyers would only grant
2 calls a week,
booked in advance.

As it happens, she’s on a cell
which clicks, then briefly disconnects.
“Sorry, missed you there.
Breaking-up,” he says.

A New Cold War
Dec 15 2008


I was hoping to be storm-stayed
by the first big blizzard,
when the fragile peace of fall
is broken
by the declaration of winter.
By the whine of tires
spinning slickly.
And the slow-motion choreography of cars
slithering into ditches.
And giant snowploughs bearing down,
furiously beeping
lights blinking
ghostly blue.

An intransigent mass of arctic cold
has occupied the front,
while a surprise attack
of warm moist air
funnels-up from the south,
colliding in a clash of snow and ice.
Until they leave behind
an unrecognizable no-man’s land.

I am a foot soldier
in a new cold war,
leaning into horizontal snow
eyelids freezing shut
beard frosted over,
my frozen breath suspended in the air above my head
like a dialogue bubble
full of expletives.
And snow over-flows my boot-tops,
trickling-down like ice-picks
as I stumble through the drifts.

But here
in the glow of the roaring fire
the world outside is a snow-globe,
shaken over-and-over
by an excited little boy.
Fluffy flakes
swirl about
in a white confetti blizzard
— like a victory parade
in the very first skirmish
of winter.

7 Floors Down
Dec 11 2008


The view from the 7th floor
is disconnected.
People’s heads
beetling about their business.
The roofs of cars,
the hushed choreography of traffic.
And apartment blocks
directly across
a windswept plaza,
with impenetrable glass walls.
And higher still
a glimpse of city sky.

I am invisible
here on my 7th story balcony,
because no one can be bothered to notice
the man, standing
in his grey concrete box.
It looked cool and fresh out there,
but now I feel breathless, hungry for air,
overcome by the smell
of stale ashtrays,
a damp bloom
of mould.

So it’s out to the narrow hallway
with its 20 watt pall,
suffuse with spilled beer and boiled cabbage . . .
down 7 floors . . .
past the white fluorescent light
still blinking, buzzing . . .
and out the front door.

A big car goes roaring by
as we briefly lock eyes,
and I feel I can finally stop.
It smells of wet snow and car exhaust,
breathing-in
deep greedy lungfuls.

Unseasonably Warm
Dec 6 2008


It’s been so long
since you talked.
But as both of you know
life happens
friends lose track.
And it’s painful, looking back
when you were once in love;
and even worse
when only one of you was.

So you make small talk —
about the unseasonable weather,
about how
we’ll all eventually pay.
You are both amazed
at how fast time goes
how we’re all getting older
how you look just great.
And when the street lights change
you hesitate, then walk;
a blown kiss
a frozen wave
what you wanted to say
but didn’t.

So you console yourself
it’s better this way —
none of your business
really.

The Worst Year of My Life
Dec 6 2008


The worst year of my life
may not have happened yet.
Which is how memory works —
the past, softening,
the future
where all is possible.
Or it’s the thin consolation
things could always be worse.

Today, the sky was clear
the snow powder
the wind fierce,
and I ran and ran
until it felt my lungs would burst,
swaddled in layer upon layer.
Cold air crystallizes everything
and speed sets me free —
the feel of sinew and skin,
muscle memory.
The load slips-off
with thoughtless ease.
And time stops.
And I decide not
to keep track
or score.

When the first day of the rest of my life begins
I hope I never notice.
I will own it all,
what’s to come
what went before.
But most of all
I’m a long distance runner —
setting a steady pace,
centred-in on the breathing,
one foot
methodically following the other.

Holding
Dec 4 2008


The woman’s voice is caring
warm,
grateful for my patience.
She seems almost ashamed,
apologizing
for the unexpected volume
of calls.
I’m about to respectfully suggest
they hire more operators, instead,
when the music interrupts.
Don’t get me wrong
I’m glad she wants to share;
but like our many recent exchanges
she still seems to favour
songs about reindeer and little drummer boys,
reinforcing my doubts
about this relationship
I’m afraid
is already getting frayed.

But she sounds so warm
so attentive to my fate,
letting me know
in a confidential tone
I’d better hold, or lose my place.
A typical woman, I joke —
fashionably late,
makes a gentleman wait,
keeps us all
on our toes.
Both of us holding, holding on . . .
on hold.

I picture her smiling face
looking great
in a girl-next-door kind of way —
wholesome,
yet sexy.
When a dial tone abruptly ends
my reverie;
kicking myself
I never asked for her number.

The Lives of Others
Dec 2 2008


In this skin,
impervious
bristling with nerves,
the reflex is aversion —
flinching
retracting
learning what can hurt.

We are soft-shelled creatures
bleeders;
sweating-out our fears
easily cut.

We inhabit this solitude,
brushing-up, now and then,
wondering
about the mystery of other people’s lives.
It’s not the double life
the fatal secret
that surprises us.
It’s how different
a simple word can seem.
How each of us clings
to such improbable places.
And how love can come so hard
while others breathe it in,
as unthinking as respiration.

How they dive head-first
into barely tested depths,
their faith
unquestioned.
Or how they swim, suspended
in a warm replenishing bath,
their skin
as liquid as an infant’s.

Before it congeals
into this pale trembling shape,
we learn to keep
well-hidden.

The Long Good-Bye
Dec 1 2008


She said the parting is hard —
the separation,
her fear of flying.

The train is less anxiety,
but even harder
— the long good-bye,
the wet embrace,
the crowded platform
waving.

And the bus leaves
from the bad part of town.
So it’s a hurried kiss
in the chilly damp
as you watch your back,
and the air turns blue with diesel.

While the airport
is a high security fortress
of soaring glass,
waving sadly
from snaking lines and distant ramps,
packed
with harassed fellow travelers.
Who are all silently contemplating
the improbability of flight.

Or we both can fly
she offered brightly,
in our very own row
snuggling
as attendants glare disapprovingly —
belts undone,
seats reclined,
table trays a heedless mess.
And in the thin over-heated air,
a mile high
and getting breathless.

Well Packed
Dec 1 2008


The luggage clatters on its rubber track
name-tagged and double clasped
into the dark cavern
of departures.
Where the black art
of baggage handlers
and bar-code scanners
propels it this-way-and-that.
Until if finally arrives
in some vast warehouse of vanished bags
in the desert
of Arizona.

Your padded parka and woollen mitts
sit impassive
amidst the sand,
while you shiver
in the clutch of winter
and northern lights dance.
You packed well, not fast,
and now can’t believe
how chance
back-stabbed and abandoned you,
re-dialling 1-800-“we-don’t-give-a-damn” —
some call centre in Bangalore
or Indiana.
Where they promise to trace lost bags
— good luck with that!

The indignity
of modern aviation,
leaving you cold and naked;
stranded in some foreign land
on hold.

Replenished
Nov 28 2008


Standing on the bank
knee-deep,
in the thick brambles that grow in sand
and make the edge impassable,
you try to understand this river.
Is it the same,
this landmark
cut into earth’s hard granite,
its surface calm
as you squint
at your thin wavering reflection?
Or does it change
from second to second,
its water continuously refreshed?

You watch it go by,
from the headwaters, that give rise
to lost at sea —
where its molecules
are indistinguishable.
And you think of your own body
mostly water
renewing itself,
every cell made new
as you move through time.
And the ghost in the machine
that is you.

The current riffles the surface,
pillows up-stream of rocks.
A stone gets tossed
rippling out,
until the river quickly resumes.
The soothing sound of moving water
you can’t imagine stopped.

Nocturnal Creatures
Nov 24 2008


At dusk, the wind calms itself.
The sky grows impenetrably black,
looking out
to the cold empty end of space.
Yet close enough
I could reach up and touch,
like soft warm velvet.
So I draw the night around me like a robe,
the stillness
the darkness
this cozy room, alone.

The clock’s relentless tick
is a dripping tap
leaking time
— won’t let me forget how precious darkness is
as daylight presses-in.
When the sun hurts my eyes
and the breeze picks-up
and the air is damp,
its chilly edge
cutting deeper.

I watch the black rectangles of glass
soften,
the lamp’s incandescent glow
grow pale, cold,
and the obsidian sky
begin to dissolve.
When the creatures of the night, like me
pull down heavy blinds,
extinguish the light,
scurry quickly from sight;
taking refuge
until darkness enfolds us again.

Jack-Hammer
Nov 24 2008


The jack-hammers are at it again.
The cracked, barely patched, skin of the city
is under attack,
the cacophony of urban living
intractable.

A heavy glop
of thick grey slop
slurries-off the backs of trucks,
folds into wooden forms.
I sneak by at night
and leave my mark —
one square of sidewalk
as my message to posterity.
Or at least until the roads department
otherwise decrees.

On my daily walk
I smile to see my writing set in stone —
the concrete idea,
heavy-handed prose.
Wholly pleased
with this minor sedition,
my impulsive act
of mischief.

Jackhammer
Nov 25 2008


Jackhammers attack
badly patched asphalt,
leaving a blasted and cracked
macadam path.

Garbage trucks crush trash,
massive compacters
leaving nothing intact.
While sirens flash
keeping passers-by back,
in a mad dash to catch a thief,
rescue cats from trees.

And bad bands
from salsa to rap
blast out the gaps
in half-open doors,
the smoky glass
of dance halls and bars —
fans jammed into ragged queues,
and passing cars
blasting their horns at stragglers
spilling-out of the pack into traffic.

This is the din of the city
the cacophony of urban living,
which some find uplifting
and others hideous.

Me, I drift through town oblivious
ear-buds dangling, my iPod loud,
as Bach’s cello suites
enclose me in sound.

Greyhound
Nov 19 2008


The aisle seat seemed best —
a quick exit
room to stretch my legs.
And better than boxed-in by the window
by the unwashed man
with wine on his breath,
or a fat lady shedding cat hair.

The bus wheezes into motion
whines-up the succession of gears,
rattles over badly patched pot-holes
sways through tight city curves.
Reading lights
are soft halos of concentration.
The smell is hard to place —
garlic sausage,
the human animal,
long-johns that need a change.
The driver’s bald spot
jostles like a bobble-doll,
the head that contains us all
in its command
of feet and hands,
on the wheel
the gas.

We passengers are accidental strangers
and instant kin,
a gathering of lost souls
and seekers
and people in need,
assembled on this point of feeble light
dusting through the prairie night,
miniscule
under the vast dome of stars.

The sleeping houses are dark
as we pass unseen,
a dull asteroid among the constellations,
a black cloud of heavy diesel
left hanging in our wake.

Making Speed
Nov 16 2008


Rain-slicked pavement glistens,
headlights drizzle through the windshield,
and street-lamps stand in reflecting pools
that brim with watery light
— like a string of pearls, driving by,
glowing on either side.

The signals are smears of coloured light
red and yellow and green,
clicking through their sequence,
keeping vacant streets
obedient.
So the city seems ordered, at peace.

Tires slap
on asphalt, glistening black,
the wipers thwack hypnotically.
And the windows blush with mist,
as she reaches across
rests her hand above my knee
gives a gentle squeeze,
making speed.
Like the milkman’s horse, picking-up the pace —
the barn door open, glowing;
warm oats, and a bed of hay.

Then her knowing smile, as if to say
“almost home
. . . can’t wait!”

One More Winter
Nov 15 2008


If I make it through one more winter
I will plant tomatoes,
kneeling in warm black soil.
In cool mornings
I will trim fresh basil,
sit, and watch.
And when the light turns to fall
I will harvest butternut squash
fat pumpkins
blushing apples,
too tart to bake into pies.

But for 6 months, I am under siege —
my eyesight failing,
ice
too treacherous for canes.
And the cold cuts deeper,
through thin skin
and bones made frail by age.
Even though snow is beautiful
looking out my window
unbroken, untouched,
glistening in long low sun;
and falling
in the soft pink glow
of streetlights.

When I was young
I was invincible,
careening down hillsides
skating on frozen lakes.
So when did the world become
such a threatening place,
and me, so ruled by fear?
Why old men, alone
dead-bolt every door;
and why phone calls after dark
set weak hearts racing?

The cold dim winter
gets harder every year.
But I will endure
at least until next summer,
when the earth has thawed
and the soil come to life.
When they can bury this tired old body,
out where tomatoes turn ripe.

Stone Boat
Nov 12 2008


Every spring, the earth heaves up its bones.
Soil thaws, re-freezes
and stones appear.
The frozen ground
does its work,
and farmers gather them up
in stone boats,
drag them off
where they founder like prairie schooners
on fallow land.
So the earth seems inexhaustible,
its back-breaking harvest of stones.

On a spinning planet
nothing stays buried for long,
casting out its secrets
at the rate of 5 cm a year.
Bombs in the streets of Berlin,
from wars we remember
in black and white.
And caskets, with their bones
that fell where they lie.
And the fossils of giants
and ancient man.

And this living planet
in constant motion,
renewing itself from below
— its thin skin
crawling with life;
its intricate soil
purging itself of the past.

Hospital Bed
Nov 12 2008


All skin and bones
barely floats.
The ribs
visible.
The sharps jabs
of elbows, shoulders.
And the pale flesh
underwater,
reminding me how fish
float belly-up.

The joints are stiff.
The tongue
can barely give away its secrets.
And the hands
shaking like shivering birds.

And the eyes
still furious,
glaring out.

I gently bathe this body
which I have known all my married life,
with warm water
a soft absorbent sponge.
Then lift it up
bird-like, frail
surprisingly light.
A thick towel
to blot it dry,
because the thin skin
tears like paper.

And lay it back in our bedroom
— the head, slightly raised;
the sheets, soft flannel;
turned to one side,
then the other.
And once more, I wonder
how a hospital bed, with the rails pulled-up
seems too big for this room,
too small for lovers.

Hibernation
Nov 9 2008


I will curl-up for winter,
burrow-in, hunker-down
all snugly packed—
cocooned in fleece and furs
and fluffy wraps.

I well eat fat,
smooth and rich and dark
brown things,
like chocolate
heavy cream
warm sweet starch.
I will set the alarm for spring
unplug the phone
flick the lights off.

Snow falls gently
slowly filling the world,
rising up around me ‘til I vanish
enclosed in a mantle of white;
its fine dry surface
scoured flat.

I am content down here
in my cozy cave of snow.
Wake me
when the sun comes back.

Insurrection
Nov 7 2008


Leaves fall
carpet-bombing faded lawns
so they bleed bright red.
With old wounds,
clots of brown and yellow.

A pincer movement
of dusk and dawn
squeezes daylight into no-man’s land,
until retreat’s impossible.

An artillery barrage of rain
hammers
the cheap plastic awning.
Until ditches overflow,
like trenches turning to mud.

The sky is grey
almost low enough to touch,
like the smoke of a thousand guns.

And the first day the world is buried in snow
the white flag of fall is raised
— the season
surrendering to winter.

Surfacing
Nov 5 2008


They say you can’t write about a place
without some distance
until you leave it;
and you can’t write about home
until you go far away.
Because to a fish who swims in the ocean
water is all it knows.

But first, you must learn how to breathe.
You must be willing to feel
the cold astringent wind.
And you must keep looking back
at the grey impervious surface,
imagining underneath.

And then, in this foreign land,
the past overtakes you
claims your allegiance
leaves you caught in-between
— an amphibious creature
with exquisitely sensitive skin,
soft and permeable.

But I like the sensation
of hot dry sand.
I like the height of land
that makes me feel invincible.
And I like looking back,
a benevolent despot
who coolly dispenses forgiveness,
and graciously understands,
and retrieves what he wants of the past.

And then those sleek pelagic creatures,
the menacing fish
I wish
to forget.

A Man of Leisure at the Sidewalk Cafe
Nov 4 2008


I am drinking coffee,
black and strong.
I am sitting
not sure how long,
at this small white table.
Or where all that time, once gone
holes up.
Does time get spent,
passed along, rippling-out
the way that money does?
Or does it vaporize,
like the hour when the clocks change
as if it never was?

Busy people beetle past,
barking into phones
clutching vital papers.
I go unnoticed,
except for a few steely glances
— a wastrel, an idler
too much time on my hands.

But the work goes on.
The way magma boils
beneath tectonic plates.
Which will, some day, erupt,
black sulphuric rain
blocking-out the sun.

Or how lines of gravity
— like taut tuned strings
invisible and weak —
connect me with the universe.
How this strong black coffee
sets them all abuzz;
shooting sparks,
lighting-up.

Baby Boom
Nov 3 2008


The men returned
to cheering and laughter,
the war to end war
and the one shortly after.
They were hard with contempt
for the incompetents who sent them
who led from behind;
full of unspeakable things
dammed up inside.

So they stripped off their tunics
resuming their lives,
making pay
making babies
re-acquainting with wives.
Who had turned into strangers
and who found they had changed,
soaking in sweat
bolting awake.

So they made some more babies
and made babies again,
which is all that makes sense
when you cannot forget.
When best friends will stay
forever young men,
and recurrent dreams
are haunted by death.

Their babies have grown now
and have grown some more,
never having known
their very own war.
So they probe you for stories
they know that time flees,
and they hope letting go
will let you go free.

But the dam remains strong
the pain buried deep.
And still, you can’t speak
of unspeakable things.




I try to write a Remembrance Day poem every year. Stylistically, this is a departure for me. The fairly regular rhyme and rhythm present certain limitations. But I think I managed to say what I wanted.

The (imminent) election of Barak Obama influenced me in the writing of this, as it did the last poem I posted. One pundit interpreted his Presidency as not just a possible transcendence of the politics of race, but as a generational change -- away from the dominating (and often resented) influence of the baby boomers. Which made me wonder whether anyone will know, 50 years from now, what we even meant when they encounter all those references to "boomers".

As I set out to write about this exceptional phenomenon of the boomer generation, I was influenced by a book review of Farley Mowat's recently published "Otherwise" I had just finished reading. The reviewer of talks about the transformational experience the Second World War had on him, and Mowat's bitterness towards war -- the death and destruction not just of man, but of the natural world.

So my "boomer" poem somehow transformed itself into a Remembrance Day poem: as it happens, just in time for November 11.

Rites of Passage
Oct 28 2008


I am still waiting to come of age.

I learned to drive
a big Buick land yacht
4-door hard-top
parallel parking with my white-knuckle dad —
teeth clenched,
his brake-foot
mashed against the firewall.
Road test
set for the day I turned 16.

And soon after that, the age of majority —
learning to drink,
old enough to vote
go off to war.
Then marriage house and kids
in no particular order.

So a middle-aged man
in his prime, looking back
wonders just when it happened
or if.
Because I still feel unready, unsure.
Too immature to be this grizzled, this grey,
for cops to call me “Sir”,
to be older
than Prime Ministers.

My coming-of-age story
needs a ruthless edit
a heart-warming ending,
my life, sent-off to re-write —
less bad first novel
more “Catcher in the Rye”.

Unless they were all impostors,
those men I remember
in suits and ties,
who seemed to know exactly how the world works
— mixing drinks,
fixing cars,
kissing faithful wives goodnight.

Fixed
Oct 27 2008


We will finish our lives
you and I
with utter blank finality —
a heavy door swinging shut,
all the light cut-off.
There will be no children
to say prayers for us,
no grandchildren to repeat
our well-embellished stories
our outrageous lies.

The arcane business of birth
will remain a mystery to us both,
your hair stringy with sweat
your legs helpless
your body
torn in two with the hurt.
And me
watching impotently as the head appears —
as the small round pupil of hair, matted black
suddenly widens with surprise,
launched
into slippery howling life.

No, we shall remain dead-ends
biological failures
culled from the herd.
And so we must live out our lives
as if posterity depends on us —
writing feverishly,
embracing causes,
contriving our own
intentional family of friends.
And holding each other
like the last 2 left on earth
in some scorched post-apocalypse.

Where we will count on some other island of love
to carry the burden,
bearing the future
of daughters and sons.

Living Rough
Oct 26 2008


A poet travels light.
He walks on gravel shoulders
veering heedless into traffic,
distracted
by the unbidden words
rattling around inside.

He lives rough,
memorizing lines
fiercely revising.
And needs just a few blank pages
a well-chewed pencil,
nibbled down to the nub.

He loses touch
immersed
in his solo journey,
sending unmarked postcards home.

He leaves himself wide open,
receptive
to smothered sounds and concealed motion.
Then zeros-in with white-hot intensity
on found poems
and suspended moments,
closely observing his idiosyncratic world
— the cosmos
in every grain of sand.

Cars flash past in a blast of air,
horns honking
and cold hard lights,
brushing him back as he walks;
oblivious to traffic
taking his time.
And living rough
he has all the time in the world
— his one and only extravagance.

This was inspired by the official book launch of Charlie Wilkins' new memoir: "In The Land of Long Fingernails -- A Gravedigger's Memoir". My thanks to Charlie, and to Penguin Canada.


A Gravedigger's Even Bigger Lift-Off
Oct 19 2008


I hear they’re launching books today.
And we’ve come to see the author off,
crammed into his white pneumatic suit —
even if his chair-bound paunch
and ample bum
take a little extra shove.
Then the visor clangs shut
and it’s thumbs-up, grinning,
ready for lift-off.

He will rocket up on a trail of fame
and adulation.
Or he might flame-out and come crashing back,
to critical disdain
and remainder bins.
But what the heck,
he’ll dig right in and take the risk.

And his crack team of loyal readers
will see him through,
buying books
for christenings and birthdays and funerals,
and burying the bad reviews.

Making Steam
Oct 21 2008


The furnace rumbled to life today
chugging away in the engine room,
its comforting vibration
moving through the house.
The windows are battened down
for the season;
and as dusk plunges into darkness
they glow like a ship at sea.

I feel pleased with myself,
the place snug
self-contained
ready to ride out the cold —
waves of snow
breaking over the front porch;
and smoke
rising from the single stack;
and my house
steaming steadily off
into winter.

Except for those warm clear days
that come
in October.
When a window gets cracked
and the furnace subsides
and the house sits land-locked,
basking
in unaccustomed sunshine.

Out Loud
Oct 18 2008


Saying it out loud
the words are given-up to the world,
irrevocably;
hovering between us
in heavy black letters.
My voice
sounds disembodied
as if it comes from someone else —
breaking
forced,
running short of breath;
feeling hungry for air.

They say you should read your work out loud,
revealing the music
the imperfections.
But some things, I think I’ll never pronounce.
My tongue,
that used to dart and flick
and tantalize,
is numb
thickened.
My supple lips
are a thin pale line.
My mouth goes dry
and the words stick.
I hear myself stutter
then fade,
looking away
as the hot blush rises.

A man should be stronger than this,
unafraid of words
taking charge.
But this, I keep inside,
as if proclaiming it
would make it permanent,
and far too real.

I recite poems, instead.
The final word resonates,
then a pause
and it’s gone
thinner and thinner,
winging its way out into the ether.
In the back row, a muffled cough.
Some shuffling silence;
polite applause.

Matreyoshka
Oct 16 2008


She was not what I expected.
On the phone, she sounded older, jaded,
a bad dresser.

And when I met her, I still could not be sure
whether to believe
this elegant young lady,
knowing the dark secrets
the double lives
we are powerless to help —
the misleading first impressions
and the needed self-deceptions
as we re-invent ourselves.

She is not devious, but complex
much like the rest of us,
a shape-shifter
with hidden depths.
She is a chimera
a nesting doll,
surprising us all
with yet more incarnations.

Even naked
there was layer after layer,
her thick skin
her inscrutable eyes.
How she moves, so seamless
from day into night,
from darkness to light,
from fierce desire
to satisfied.
Her many friends
unknown to each other.
Her secret lovers,
or those who think they are.

I am no longer sure
which is her
and which, her secret identity.
Clumsy, mild-mannered
in those ugly glasses
she is well disguised.
So I look into her eyes,
wondering
what she sees through mine.

Going Blank
Oct 15 2008


I find myself walking
suddenly at sea,
to where, for what
forgotten.
We all have these moments,
unsure how we came to this spot
our purpose lost,
surprised to find
only ourselves.

When your brain locks up like this,
doors bolted
curtains drawn,
an impatient man would get down on his knees
feeling around for the key he dropped.
But I enjoy this moment,
neither coming nor going
suspended between two points.
Because this purgatory of not knowing
is pure,
free of all desires and needs.

My bearings lost
my vessel rudderless
stuck in the doldrums of a windless sea,
I pause . . .
hovering contentedly.
Until memory dawns
in a short sharp squall
— like a flurry of cats-paws
dancing across
the glassy surface.

Moving Violation
Oct 14 2008


A cop nabbed me for a broken headlight.
A “moving violation”, he said.
How odd, I thought.

I immediately pictured a virgin and me
in the back seat, skirt up,
picking-up speed
as the brake slips.

Or that glib white lie
we all eventually give —
“It’s not you, it’s me”
as we slink quickly off.

Or the tragic end
to Romeo and Juliet,
the forbidden love
I found so very moving.

Turns out, I got off with a warning,
and told to stick to the side streets.
So I drove
slowly, inoffensively home.

Senses
Oct 13 2008


All 5 senses
maybe 6;
the world as we know it,
our narrow spectrum of light.
So we learn how to live,
stumbling about in darkness,
startled
by sudden sounds.
And then, growing older
grow into ourselves.

Hear, listen, focus —
on the music
where you can lose yourself,
utterly immersed;
on her voice
whispering into your ear.

See, look, observe —
every shift in her face,
her serpentine limbs;
every inch of her skin
you want to go deeper.

Reach, touch, feel —
her desire
pushing back;
her warm smooth surface,
at body heat
and heating up.

Nibble, taste, savour —
this instrument
of exquisite pleasure,
your wet and greedy tongue.

Breathe, sniff, smell —
then inhale her
molecule by molecule,
until you are one.

“Pray until something happens”
Oct 13 2008


The bumper sticker said
“Pray until something happens.”

I wonder what he’s waiting for?
Or could it be anything
to rescue him
from this bleak earthbound anomie?
And then what,
when all his prayers are answered?
Will he pray for others . . .
will he pray for gratitude . . .
or will he pray to be touched
by something grander
than he is?

I imagine this cacophony of prayer
rising up to heaven,
filling the air around us —
words of thanks
and praise
and supplication.
A dense incessant litany of pleas
permeating our lives
— walking about in it,
breathing deep,
building it into our marrow.

Something always happens.
And most prayers, it seems, will go unanswered.
But they are a consolation, nevertheless,
because such is the power of faith.
At sunset, looking up
I see the red magenta sky,
and imagine the whole world
reciting
mumbling
praying hard,
either imploring their gods,
or haranguing them.
All those fervent words
ascending,
filling the air
with fire and light.

Topple
Oct 12 2008


I watch a small child
toddling down the path
holding a big black umbrella
over his head.
His chubby little legs are bowed,
and he takes tiny steps
pigeon-toed,
tipping from side-to-side
hanging-on for dear life.
And the umbrella tips as he goes,
leaning precariously
almost overwhelming him
— a great black bird of prey
hovering.

From a distance
the umbrella seems self-propelled,
like some bed-time story come to life.
But then I spot the proud little man
valiantly keeping it aloft,
showing-off
how grown-up he is.

I hope it’s calm,
or a good breeze, and he’d be off,
laughing uproariously all the way
— a boy’s whole short life
spent looking up;
now towering over
the rest of us.

A Fear of Fire
Oct 8 2008


All his life
he had a fear of fire.
Ladders in every room,
escape plans.
And galvanized buckets of water
he faithfully kept filled.

Perhaps he was scarred as a child.
His eyes, transfixed by fire,
pulled
too close to the hearth.

Or a house ablaze,
the hellish screams, the burning bodies.
And the stench
of the charred blackened remains,
still smoking the morning after.

Or a forest, going-up in flames —
tinder dry,
lighting-up the night,
bearing down as loud as a freight train.
Leaving him slack-jawed
gobsmacked,
consuming all in its path, no stragglers.



So we weren’t surprised when he died in his sleep,
as he always hoped he would.
An old man as deaf as a door-stop,
who couldn’t hear
when the alarm went-off
— overcome by smoke.

The Intoxication of Crowds
Oct 7 2008


You start to live for the applause,
a junkie for standing ovations —
wired, buzzed, hopped-up,
every night, the craving
one hit after another.

All you see is the first two rows
when the lights come up;
so you feel as much in the dark as they are,
hiding-out
behind this jangling mannequin
who pretends he’s you.
You need them,
and find them contemptible.
The predictable laughs, the easy tears,
playing another eager audience
like a virtuoso
his instrument.

It’s when the lights go down
you relapse.
It’s the days in cramped motel rooms
light leaking-in.
Where the curtains never pull tight,
and day-time TV
is your only companion.
It’s the sudden crash,
after you’ve binged on their adulation.
And the love you wish you had
they cannot give.

Introverts love a crowd like this.
Pretending to be another
when the curtain’s up,
and the giddy fearless freedom
of feeling untouchable.
Or at least until you’re discovered
— an impostor
in his rented suit.

Now, it’s the sweats and the shakes and the craving
for that main-lined love.
How you feel when the lights go up
— the sudden flush
the manic high
the blissful fix that fills you.
Like that incredible night you owned them;
that night you killed.

Fall
Oct 7 2008


I mostly say “fall”
this time of year —
when life resumes;
there is order, once more.

While “autumn” is one of those poetry words
that seems unnatural
chatting with the neighbours.
But a word that conveys the melancholy I feel
— something bittersweet,
like burnished leaves
and wood-smoke.
When the days grow short
and the light, thinner.
And the air is dry and clear,
respite from the delirium of August.

I’d rather enter into winter this way
than fall,
leaves dropping
their trees stripped bare.
Or as man once did,
falling from grace
expelled from His fabulous garden.

This autumnal season,
setting the stage
for the year’s gentle exit.
When the first snowfall
can wait.
And the light has yet to fail.
And the leaves, before they fall
in all their earthly glory.

Road Trip
Oct 5 2008


Take the side roads, they said.
. . . What’s the rush?
See the place.

But what I remember most
is cruise-control
on deserted Interstates,
middle of the night —
the ghostly green of dashboard lights,
and the plush hum
of asphalt.
I have no sensation of motion, here.
It’s the darkness that goes moving past;
while I sit
in my capsule of steel and glass,
the world unfolding around me.

A soothing drawl keeps me company,
every baseball cliché as comforting
as a seeing-eye single,
or hitting a rope
and touching ‘em all.
There’s the diamond glowing green
and the crack of bat on ball
and the umpire’s emphatic call,
punching him out, strike 3.
And this perfect game
of anticipation and tension,
and its sudden exquisite release.

The game goes on,
no clock, no pressure.
And I, too, could go on like this
forever —
no crack of dawn
with its cold flat light;
no over-pass
with brightly buzzing signs,
and fast-food stands
all alike.

I’m driving on empty
just west of nowhere
in the heart of a vast dark continent;
picturing hot dogs and beer
and the home-town crowd
on their feet
cheering.

Geography 101
Oct 6 2008


A brief primer
for the directionally challenged.

Lesson 1: Prepositions.

It’s always up north.
Climbing through knee-high drifts;
covering latitude.

And down south, y’all;
dropping vowels,
inevitably letting your standards fall
in all that heat.

And out west,
leaving the comfort of home
for the frontier,
peering-out
over the edge of a continent.

And finally, back east
where your journey started;
in some big city on a great lake
or by the sea,
on time
inside
at ease.

Or you can descend
down into the bowels of the earth,
back through time
into deeper strata,
until you emerge on the far side of the planet.
Where any direction at all
will take you home.

An Inconvenient Truth
Sept 30 2008


What to do
when the truth hurts?
When it stands eye-to-eye
takes you by the neck
and tries to shake some sense
into you
— the plain truth,
the whole truth,
nothing but the truth
so help you God.

You duck and weave, of course,
learn to slip from its grasp,
make yourself small.
Or skip the definite article altogether —
because a truth
is the convenient kind,
no modifier required.
Where you can choose
exactly which version you like.

But the brutal truth
is immovable.
It’s coarse wool against your skin,
the too-tight neck.
It’s that itchy back
no one else can scratch,
— further right, no left . . .
. . . now harder!!
It’s the zit in the middle of your forehead,
blinking-out at the world like a 1000 watt light.
Before a word’s been said,
you feel Illuminated
scrutinized
and wish you could hide
— that you were nothing more
than some insignificant lie
of omission.

Dead Man Walking
Sept 30 2008


A man stumbles,
dodging a puddle in the courtyard.
Despite a firm hand on one shoulder,
and a last meal
lying like lead in his gut,
he will keep his feet dry
his prison shoes
untouched.

This is the reflex we all share,
turning away from death
unable to contain
its mystery, its terror.
An act of defiance, perhaps
— that this hard man
still has his pride.
But more likely, denial;
still sure the governor will call
the real murderer confess
the killing machine
malfunction.

The prospect of death
concentrates the mind wonderfully.
I imagine he saw the water glint
rippling across his reflection;
and the wet cobblestones, now rust-red,
incandescent
in the long light of dawn.

For just an instant
he felt the hand tighten,
and this small sensation filled him.
An anonymous stranger
he thought,
as his body was marched-off to the gallows;
the last time he will ever be touched.

Out of Time
Sept 26 2008


Even a poet
of few words
would say too much.
Because in this story, nothing occurs —
life in a flash
caught in the act
in black and white;
captured
out of time.
And what went before
what happens after
is yours to decide.

A man and a woman
who is looking away
about to embrace,
or departing, perhaps.
You see pigeons
taking flight,
and observe all the shades of grey.
Time sliced so thin
it disappears.
Yet now
you can take forever
looking in.

Did they notice the man
snapping their picture?
Do they burn
for eternity
in your unwelcome gaze?
Or do they have eyes
only for each other
— utterly present,
perfect masters of Zen?

A Rare Atmospheric Anomaly
Sept 28 2008


You’d think the smell
would have overwhelmed you
gagging,
that many fish
all at once;
their quicksilver forms
turning dull in the heat of the sun.
But it’s the sound you remember,
all those small stiff bodies
flipping and flopping on the cold hard ground.
Until they lay
gasping on their sides;
gulls circling, squawking,
sniffing dogs.

You always liked categories —
the permanence of names,
everything in its place.
So life feels safe
predictable.
But when fish fall from the clear blue sky
you know anything is possible —
that the flat grey lake
could rise-up and take you in;
or the land
you took for granted
swallow you whole.

And you,
walking by yourself by the shore
might find you’re not alone
after all.
Free fish,
like manna from heaven.
And someone special, unexpected;
who will walk hand-in-hand,
gather you up,
and believe
all your fabulous tales.

Subterranean
Sept 22 2008


Subterranean, I thought.
Dark,
immobilized,
the crushing weight of rock.

No, it feels more submerged
waterlogged
— cross-currents, under-tows,
struggling to talk.

Or could it be lost
in interstellar space
— black,
and bottomless.

Then how long ‘til I disintegrate,
the vacuum
boiling-off my blood?
My boundaries
blurring, softening,
my molecules
bursting apart.
‘Til I expand to fill the cosmos;
my atoms
become the stuff of stars.

The Game of Your Life
Sept 21 2008


They retire the numbers
of sports stars.
Hang them up
from the rafters of hockey rinks
or out by the bleacher seats;
giant jerseys
the effigies of heroes.

The rest of us
will hang up our smocks
our suit coats and frocks,
accept
a gold watch and a handshake.
No one will recall
the emptied in-box and good team player,
the unused sick days
and on-time record.
Because there is no hall of fame
for office temps,
or manufacturers’ representatives.

And then you realize
that the sports hero you still idolize
was 20-something, back then
barely shaving,
40 years younger than you are.
Your own highlight
was even younger,
that goal you scored in overtime, a sophomore
in the game of your life.
Peaked early
you console yourself.

As they say
there’s no going home again.
The old arena
now apartment blocks . . .
the high school
shuttered and locked . . .
and who knows
where the trophies and banners have gone.

And all the home-coming queens
team captains and MVP’s,
long forgotten.

On Country Roads
Sept 21 2008


On country roads,
some are hard-top
some are gravel.
Hydro poles pace your progress,
leaning, bleached by sun.
You can hear the wind
whistling through tightly strung wires,
and the indolent buzz
of insects.

On country roads
you walk
half-on, half-off
the shoulder,
and the cars keep coming for miles
— a cloud of dust,
the sound
getting louder and louder.

On country roads
drivers wave as they pass,
and after awhile
you begin waving back;
a small brief act
you find strangely reassuring.
And then, with the zeal of the newly converted
you start using both hands
and smile and clap
and turn as they pass,
sending them off
like long-lost neighbours.

Even the sour old man
hunched against the door of his battered Chevy half-ton
lifts 4 fingers from the wheel
and nods slightly, once;
forced from his misanthropy for one brief moment,
cajoled by the social norms of country roads
to acknowledge he is not alone
down here on earth.
Before he gasses it
scowling
all the way back to town.

First Frost
Sept 19 2008


Fall arrives one night
thinking we won’t notice.
The good people
sleeping,
street lights
illuminating empty streets,
and plump little housecats
who have slipped away,
stalking
hissing at skinny strays.

It comes with chilly breath
that sits heavy
where the road dips,
and in the hollows down by the creek.
It touches the leaves
their brilliant colours bitter-sweet
knowing how quick they pass.
And the grass,
which abruptly stops growing
with the first hint of frost.

I awaken, blinking
in the clear thin light
noticing something’s changed,
not sure what.
But after the lethargy of summer
I feel expectant, braced,
and can’t wait to get up.

From year to year, the seasons never repeat themselves;
except for fall
which is always the same.
It arrives quietly, one night
and usually ends, too soon, in daylight,
with an inch of sloppy snow
under low grey skies.

Pictures of War
Sept 14 2008


In pictures of war
the victims go nameless,
and less and less are they warriors.
Lost children
on pencil-thin legs.
Young mothers,
clasping listless babies
to withered breasts.
And old men,
who are no longer a threat to anyone.

How does he feel,
observing life
under glass,
his eye attached
to the camera’s narrow aperture?
Does he think about focus
depth
the effect of light and shadow?
Or is it cold sweats
adrenaline
the fear of death?
Or has he convinced himself he’s exempt —
his white well-fed body
set apart,
his noble cause
somehow protecting him?

Or is he overwhelmed by so much suffering?
Shoving it down
into drugged demonic dreams;
diluting it
with warm beer, cheap Scotch,
along with the other foreign correspondents
who gather after hours
in crumbling hotel bars.

He re-enters the known world
with his prize-winning shots
bearing witness,
and still, the war won’t stop
— all the fleeting moments
his auto-shutter caught;
his collection of subjects,
unaware
anonymous.
And now, how many merely broken,
how many dead and gone?

In another age, they might have feared
his pictures were stealing their souls.
And perhaps he did;
because the way that memory tortures him
their suffering souls still live.



This poem was inspired by a powerful radio documentary I heard on the CBC show Ideas. It was a collage of interviews with various photojournalists who had risked their lives in war zones. They reflected on many things, including their sense of helplessness and responsibility; the damage to family life; their feelings of fatalism and fear and – surprisingly – freedom; and the persisting psychological harm of the horrible events they’ve witnessed. Anyway, I’ve tried to capture some of that here. /B

Lawn Care
Sept 12 2008


The smell of fresh cut grass,
for the last time, this year.
Like a buzz-cut on the first day of school,
the lawn is closely cropped
— summer done,
eyes front,
shorn heads in obedient rows.

The snow shovel
on the hook where it hung all summer
tries catching my eye
— its metal blade flashing,
banging the wall
when the wind catches it.
And the rake, reproaching me
for neglecting the leaves last fall.

Each season is marked
by its own set of chores
— as expected as the end-of-semester-test,
cramming the night before.
The reassuring routines
of lawn care,
clearing snow,
keeping-up appearances.
This is steady work,
holding back nature.
Which will reclaim this place
eventually, of course;
after I’m gone
or our time is over.

But today, there’s the smell of fresh cut grass,
standing back
contented, spent
inhaling sweet deep breaths
— for now,
a job well done.
The autumn leaves will come
soon enough.

No Reasonable Offer Refused
Sept 8 2008


My bowling trophies
went for 50 cents each.
Now, on some fancy mantelpiece
or a glass credenza, someplace
they buff some impostor’s résumé.
All his gutter balls
forgotten.

And old yearbooks
signed by friends I don’t remember
when we all had bad hair and worse pretensions
now looks impressive
on the bookshelf of some model suite,
or propping-up a wobbly table.
And will, no doubt
come back to haunt me when I’m famous.

Even my box of hoarded papers
is gone.
But nostalgia is over-rated;
and anyway, who would want to read
school essays, mostly C's,
or ancient tax receipts,
or old letters from lovers who left
all saying it’s them, not me.

Or the wedding invitation she sent
I couldn’t bear to attend
without a date.
I imagine they’re still together,
3 kids
middle-aged
putting on a little weight,
as you’d naturally expect.
Because I like to assume the best
for people.

* * * *

A yard sale is like starting fresh
— where everything must go,
and whatever’s left
gets carted-off,
disposed of.

Hail the Size of Golf Balls
Sept 7 2008


I write at the dining room table,
candlesticks, placemats
in a mess of paper.
The chairs are tucked-in,
obedient
but uninhabited —
no clinking glasses,
no vivacious laughter.
Outside, it’s dull and wet
and the chandelier seems far too festive;
but essential, nevertheless.

Gentle rain lulls me.
I look out at a world in soft-focus,
all misty greens, and liquid.
An in-between season at an empty table
— too damp for words to stick;
no witty repartee
to prick me.

I’d rather have lightning and thunder,
and hail the size of golf balls,
and wind-whipped trees
drenched and cowering.
And then a sudden black-out —
an excuse to go outside,
where the air is electric
and everything feels alive.

Re-Entry
Sept 7 2008


We barely graze the edge of space,
just skirting the thin sliver of air
that hugs the earth
— like a polished rock
skipping along its smooth surface.

So we blast-off
atop rockets spewing fire,
— strapped-in, deafened, shuddering —
and dare to imagine
we can actually break free.
But even men like these,
in their white pneumatic suits
shiny visors
packing air,
are still attached to earth.
The home planet,
this tiny speck, glowing blue and green,
against the void’s vast blackness.

And then,
bones gone soft
muscles wasted,
they have no choice but to re-enter.
Out of breath,
dizzy from the effects
of gravity,
and utterly defenceless
against the great machinations of weather,
even spacemen come back to reality.

The best we can manage is a short time-out,
in a partial vacuum
above the fray
gazing down like untouchable gods,
everything we need
taken along with us.

Re-entry is hard
after being away so long.
But over-stay
and you will become permanent,
a tiny white satellite
circling the earth
— the brightest star,
the most brilliant reflection.

Primary Colours
Sept 6 2008


Everything here is earth-tones
and variations on beige.
Or pastels,
muddled mongrel shades
with whimsical names
that mean nothing.

I’m dying for bold strokes
— deep, rich, primary colours
that clash with the furniture and picture frames.
An unambiguous statement,
so when you enter this room
you know exactly where I stand
— no straddling fences,
no evasion.

I’m fed-up
with half-truths
and lies of omission,
with namby-pamby excuses
and waffling admissions.
I need strong language, full spectrum;
even if it is hurtful
or wrong-headed.

A small room
in scarlet and purple
— like a fresh bruise
or bad music.
Then hot pink, girls only,
all Barbie dolls
and princess phones.
Then the dark green of jungle leaves,
lush and succulent.

And then the deepest purest blue,
which is healing, restful.
My simple plan
for a place of refuge.

The Dead Give-Away
Sept 2 2008


The dead give-away
is the face
the back of the hands.

Too many years of forced smiles
abandoned laughter.
And the tears,
bitter, brackish
you could not hold back
— like ancient armies
salting the vanquished earth.
And the sun
in the freedom of summers well past,
when you were too young to know
nothing
comes free.

You used your hands,
reaching out
feeling your way like the blind.
You explored the world’s rough surface,
making contact
holding-on.
Even mountains soften
worn down by water, one drop at-a-time.
And your hands,
with their scars
their calluses
their brittle skin, stretched over thinning bones,
contain the story of a life
well-lived.

Some call it wisdom,
others call it uselessness.
How old age makes most of us
invisible.
And the rest
who are invincible
can’t help glancing in every mirror they pass,
looking
to be reassured.

By Invitation Only
Sept 1 2008


At first I thought it was gun-shots
cracking the darkness.
Until I heard the pinwheels
spinning-off,
and whiz-bangs
fizzing sparks.
Nothing to see,
but it all came to me in an instant —
people oohing and aahing, looking skyward.
A few small kids
flinching, hiding
behind mom’s steady legs.
And the teens,
too cool to be impressed.

The rest of us were already in bed
on this inconsequential week night.
But they were having the time of their life,
and could not imagine
depriving the world of fun.
Fireworks . . .
. . . hard drink, a sucker punch
I’ll bet.
What a party,
thought this uninvited guest.

Phone Home
Aug 31 2008


The latest addition
to the museum of obsolescent things
is a pay phone,
right beside the typewriter, the tape machine.
The curator was especially pleased
to find one with an analog dial,
purring as it circled back.
The part you held in your hand
was big and black,
and could break a foot if you dropped it.
And best of all — local calls, 10-cents-a-pop.
With a great wad of gum, pale pink
stuck under the seat,
hard as rock
— “pure vintage” , he beamed.

We have become impatient,
so intent on the future, rushing towards us
that nothing’s not disposable —
in just a month or so,
the latest gizmo scorned as old.
Which is why I like this discarded phone.
I like how big it is
how indestructible.
The pay phone, the newspaper box
on every busy corner,
as permanent as the city itself.

The louvered doors snap to one side
with a quick metallic rattle,
and I slip inside.
My dime makes a satisfying “kerplunk”,
and suddenly, an operator’s voice pipes-up,
brisk, but helpful.
And utterly surprised
I reel-off the number
still in my mother’s voice,
drilled-in to me
from childhood.

I can hear it ringing now,
just as a guard comes running.
“Patrons are not allowed to touch the displays” he barks, wagging one finger,
snatching the phone from my grasp.
I can just make out the faint “hello … ? ”
as he slams it back on its cradle.

The Crickets Are Loud Tonight
Aug 30 2008

The Chinese keep crickets
in tiny cages
inside.
How such small creatures
fill so much space.
How a single note, a steady pace
can make his house
a haven.


The crickets are loud tonight.
A comforting sound,
so much more than silence.
They chorus, then unaccountably stop
all at once.
A collective breath.
Or some sudden threat, perhaps.

And everything feeds on crickets, it seems.
But they keep-on chirping, nevertheless,
compelled to proclaim themselves
to an indifferent world.
Risking death
to preen for attention,
vie for sex.

Crickets making crickets,
to adorn this earth
with gentle hypnotic sound.
To console me in this private space;
submerged in such deep silence
a solitary man might drown.




This is what happens when you sit down to write, in an empty house, in absolute silence, far out in the country: the crickets are deafening! And with no particular ideas, and the stern internal reprimand that you absolutely will NOT write a lame lyric poem about crickets, what else can you do …but write a lame lyric poem about crickets!!
And a small departure – stylistically, anyway. I wrote the main body of the poem first. But I felt the contemplative setting of (what ended up becoming) the opening stanza would add something essential. There is a rarefied spirituality to this image of the Chinese keeping crickets. And since it really stands quite apart, I decided to keep it as a separate sub-title, or prologue. In the end, I think the mood it creates acts as a nice scaffold for the rest of the poem.

Marginal Life
Aug 29 2008


I watched the storm come in
over the lake.
These clouds are unmistakeable —
heavy, threatening,
pushing ahead of them this fitful wind
gusting every-which-way.
A sharp line divides the sky
— half blue,
half gloomy overcast —
bathing the shore in liquid light;
so the green hills glow,
and the water is black, mysterious.
Then thunder,
its rumbling almost continuous.

I feel exhilarated here
at the front, on the margin;
where things rub-up against each other,
where friction
heats things up.
Like opposing charges.
Or rock-striking-rock
setting-off sparks.
Or hot humid weather
boiling into cool air,
that will not be moved.
Because it’s not the center, but at the edge
where energy is spent,
creativity released,
and the unexpected
what you come to expect.

In the end, the storm just grazed us,
with flashes of light
a fierce burst of rain.
Then the sun re-emerged,
and the world felt cleansed
re-made.

Marriage Bed
Aug 27 2008


They were newlyweds,
in an age of reticence
and shame.
The first night
they kissed slow and hard,
undressed in the dark,
and made love
undercover.
And like most newlyweds, back then
their passion was inexpert, tentative;
their lust
incontinent.

So they came to know one another by touch
by scent
by the sound of her breath,
lying in bed, next to him.
Which I find exceptional
— so much intimacy,
yet such self-consciousness.

When I think of beauty
I think of colour
and light.
I think of nudes by famous masters,
and statues of naked gods.
And they do, too
I imagine.
Every night, under cover of darkness
giving himself to some classic beauty,
and she
to some immortal.
Mere flesh transformed
by love.

Collateral Damage
Aug 28 2008


Men who return from war
don’t say much.

They sit with their backs to the wall.
They jump
at sudden noises.
Wives finds them closed, impatient,
and bad in bed
— restless sleepers,
detached
when they make love.

This band of brothers
will take their secrets to the grave.
This most exclusive club
no wife can ever enter,
the dead and living together
— confirmed in blood;
welded
by absolute trust.

War stories
ignore the boredom.
There’s killing time
in some godforsaken base,
and the army’s classic refrain —
“hurry-up, and wait.”
There’s in the field, hair-trigger for days;
the faceless foe,
the constant danger.
And there’s counting-down to the end
— his faithful wife,
the home he hopes awaits him.

She looks into his eyes
and sees her own reflection
on the hard wet surface
— peering-in,
desperate to connect again.
Even half a century later,
his war is never shared
his story never spoken.
So all she can do
is gently hold him,
listening to the anguished shouts
that still contort his dreams.

Her stoic warrior;
who came back looking whole,
but feels broken.

Island Life
Aug 24 2008


Island life
is not for everyone.

There’s no end of gossip, for one;
although, since the satellite went-up,
people spend too much time at home.
And in spring and fall
when ice gets treacherous
you could go crazy with claustrophobia.
And everything costs too much, of course.

But I like the view.
I like all that water out there
— a kind of moat
keeping the world at bay.
And in just a couple of days
I can circumnavigate this place
— ducking down overgrown paths,
crossing rough shorelines
on smooth slippery rocks.
And a secret beach of fine brown sand;
where the shoes come-off,
curling my toes
in deep penetrating heat.

On the leeward side
the water is glass,
the sun rising in a ball of fire.
And to windward
you can shout your lungs out
and no one will hear a word.
In the centre, there’s a height of land
where all you can see is flat;
360 degrees of sky
touching down.

They call this a hardship post
— isolated, remote.
But I say, they’re just as far from us,
on their own little islands
of self-importance.
While out here, on the margins
we can afford to be more modest.
And we’re content to be ignored.

Full-Stop
Aug 23 2008


It takes 5 days
driving west —
roof-down, wind-in-your-hair
across the plains;
grinding gears up mountain passes;
then free-wheeling down
flying past the big rigs, lights flashing
and escape lanes for when they fail,
brakes smoking
diesels jaking hard.

You think you can smell the ocean
and it pulls you west,
following the sun, watching it set
at the far end of the world.
Mile zero,
at the cliff edge
of land —
leaning-out on the rail like a ship’s prow
still straining westward;
the whole continent
trailing in back of you.

In this frontier nation
that has not yet come of age,
the cross-country drive is like a rite of passage.
And the Pacific has always attracted you,
sure you would find some answers there.
Now here you are,
peering over the edge
at blue sky
blue water,
wishing you could keep moving on.

How the sense of motion
felt like progress,
and has now abandoned you here,
full-stop.
Long enough
to catch-up with yourself,
and whatever you thought
you had left behind.

Distant Cousins
Aug 21 2008


Where there’s one mouse
there’s sure to be another.
Folk wisdom, like this
is what comes from living in the country.
And the little buggers are quick,
darting along the baseboards
scurrying under furniture.
I now have finely tuned ears
cocked for the thwack of mousetraps
— each snap
a small triumph of man over beast.

I know I should learn to share,
be more generous.
We are, after all, distant cousins,
eating
sleeping
caring for our young.
This tiny grey creature
will not run-up my pants leg;
will not nibble on my toes as I sleep;
will not eat me
out of house and home.
Yet I cannot endure even knowing
I have mice.

My traps are baited and set,
a final meal for the condemned.
Peanut butter,
as irresistible to mice
as it is to men.

My Warm Bright Kitchen
Aug 20 2008


My warm bright kitchen
smells of coffee, brewed fresh,
and the over-ripe scent of bananas
turning to gold.
In the big bay window
I see a towering maple,
its leaves flashing green and silver.

Through a small plastic box
in the far corner,
fencing-off a neat triangle of dust
I only notice in fall
when the waning sun slants-in just so,
word of the world leaks-in.
Each hour
a man’s cool clear voice
intones body counts,
dispatches from the war,
earthquakes in distant time zones.
He is well-trained,
his sonorous voice
concealing the pain.

I feel guilty,
thin-skinned, flicking it off,
before his words can penetrate
any further.
Before the inconsequential scratch
becomes gangrenous
— breaching these cozy walls;
overwhelming my frail immunity.

Neighbourhood Watch
Aug 20 2008


When I sit on the deck,
pondering the weather
watching for the leaves to change,
the squirrels chatter and fuss.
The more irritable ones line-up
tut-tutting from the trees
— like testy neighbours
scolding incessantly.
A brave one scampers along the rail,
testing me.
And half-eaten pine cones
sticky with sap
lie scattered on the stairs like booby-traps.

I feel like an intruder, here;
even after all these years
barely tolerated.
The squirrels will consent to ignore me
as long as I remember my place
— a quiet observer;
no sudden moves,
and far too slow to give chase.

Garden State
Aug 19 2008


New Jersey makes me smile.
Just mention Newark, Hackensack, Hoboken,
and I can’t help myself.

It gazes over the river
at the skyline of New York,
the envious ugly sister.
Wise guys,
getting rich on contracts
for hauling garbage
who sound like Tony Soprano.
And tough guys,
who talk with their hands.
And how unlikely —
state troopers shooting bears
in suburban backyards;
sunrise over the ocean.

It entered the Union
one of 13 states
with Pennsylvania, Virginia;
but like a junior partner
— no Declaration
no landed gentry
no social graces.

If I were a State
I suspect I’d be New Jersey —
bourgeois,
middle class,
and, despite the jokes
vast tracts of untouched forest.

My own secret garden
— never that far
from the Turnpike.

Domestic Matters
Aug 17 2008


She probably saw it
all along.
The way women know these things.
The way they remember.

After all
it was just getting together, hanging around;
or — old-fashioned as it sounds —
a date.
And then
I couldn’t help myself, picturing her face
— standing at the sink,
trying to sleep,
idling at intersections
when the light turned green.
Infatuation, you’d have to say;
which would be madness
if it happened any other way.

Until friends became lovers, one day
— her place
all night long.

Now, it’s been years
and we’re still in love;
but somewhere in there
more partners than lovers.
Which makes me think of business cards,
a legal practice
— our specialty, domestic matters,
like clogged drains
cooking supper.

They call this attachment,
a kind of intimacy I could never have imagined
that day,
fumbling with her blouse
in the back row of the movie house
— the Bijou, or the Palace.
The first kiss
when all the walls came down,
and I could feel her eager tongue
just as hungry as mine.

Now every night,
each partner turns down the lights
bids the day good-bye.
And takes his or her lover
like the very first time.

Out of the Blue
Aug 16 2008


The electrical storm
took-out the porch light,
wired for motion;
and the stainless steel pump,
underwater
underground.
It passed over in minutes
— out-of-the-blue,
a black cloud.
Then, oblivious
quickly moved on.

Now, strangers approach in darkness,
and the shadows taunt
shape-shifting all night long.
And rivers of cold black water
flow free,
bursting through cracks in the earth
a hundred feet down.
And, for an instant
the power of an atom bomb
lit right through me;
as transparent as X-rays,
lighting me up.

I feel exposed, now.
The summer sky
unpredictable.
And all my illusions
that all will be well,
no longer enough.

Sweet Corn
Aug 14 2008


Sweet corn
in summer,
comes in a cool green envelope
untouched.
And like a pretty girl
tossing-back her long blonde hair,
its silky tassel
entices you.
And nearly as sweet to kiss.

A peach, in season
looks like the setting sun.
With its soft blush of fuzz
rich against your lips,
and the weak resistance of its skin,
and juice, dribbling down your chin
bursting full of sticky sweetness
— no matter how expert you become
at eating peaches.

Blueberries
where the high country was scorched by fire.
The bush is thick and ripe
for the taking,
and you kneel down
in praise of plenty,
cramming them in hand-over-hand.
Purple fruit,
with a sprinkle of small green leaves
— no fussy eaters, please.
Before an early frost.
Before the birds come.
Before the bears
strip them clean.

How The Other Half Lives
Aug 13 2008


Who doesn’t wonder
how the other half lives.
How convenient,
the world divided in two.
Like those who win
and those who lose.
Or those who don’t
and those who do.
Or those who lust
and those pursued.

There is no in-between here,
either one of us
or of no use.
The ones who look before they flush,
then those who are less curious.
Who long the boom
or short the bust,
or eat spaghetti
twirled or cut.
Or men, who leave the seat up,
sleep-walking back to bed.

Imagine, to be one with one-half the world;
instead of one
among the whole 6 billion,
as inscrutable
as every other.

When even knowing yourself is tough.
But to know another
— a friend, a lover —
as baffling as the rest of us,
may be all the luck you can hope for.
Even if a lifetime
of downs and ups
of cut and thrust
and her taste and touch,
is hardly enough
to know.

An Epic Poem
Aug 12 2008


You read a poem
at your desk,
counting the seconds until recess.
Or perhaps to impress a girl;
the whole time
distracted by her perfection.
So far
no hero, no quest,
but you want to see what happens next,
sticking it out to the end.

A single page
— you know, you checked —
and nothing much has happened yet.
But you’ve heard poets are masters
of misdirection,
and you’re all keyed-up for the unexpected,
some clever twist
some slick deception.

And just like that
the poet has you where he planned
all along
— at the end of the page,
keenly awaiting
the sequel.

Background Noise
July 29 2008


You can hear your heartbeat
waiting for sleep to come.
The room, still
the night, muffled;
your ear pillowed,
undercover.



You can hear the world start-up
when the wind is done.
Insects click and buzz,
the life-blood
of the garden.
A squirrel runs
in sudden starts and stops,
scurrying along the fence-top.
And birdsong,
emerging out of nowhere.



Even at 2 in the morning
the city is noise;
but by then, you can make out its stories.
The screech of brakes,
a horn that won’t let go.
Another siren dopplers by
— by now you hardly notice.
Edgy laughter, walking past.
And a giddy voice
drifts-in from the dark,
clicking across the city’s hard surface,
wobbly
on long pointy heels.

You feel less lonely
when the city’s like this.
In daylight, it’s oblivious;
ghosting through 2 million souls
unnoticed.
But at 2 am, your voice will likely be heard:
They’ll ignore you
screaming bloody murder.
Speak softly, though
and someone’s sure to listen.

Blood Brothers
July 27 2008


Oaks are perfect for tree forts,
with their heavy spreading branches
and dense cover of leaves;
perfect
for keeping secrets.

It wasn’t built by dads, but by us.
From found wood, scrounged nails
— bent, a bit of rust —
before safety
bubble-wrapped childhood.
And finished up
with a radio
a deck of cards
some stolen smokes.
And no girls
— ever!

There was a secret password, of course
you swore you’d never tell.
And no kid brothers allowed.
When a new boy moved in
he was initiated into the tribe,
a ritual I still feel honour-bound to hide.
Let’s just say
we were blood brothers
when we made our vows.

Rendezvous at noon, in summer —
food scoffed from the fridge,
comic books.
But the best part was looking down;
which is something
when you feel powerless.
Kids, who wanted to grow up too fast
in our half-way house,
before the first turncoat turned his back
and we saw him kissing a girl.


No one ever fell,
no one was ever hurt.
But all it took was one more summer
before we all came down to earth.

Timing Lightning
July 27 2008


I timed the lightning.
A jagged flash,
as lamps flicker and speakers fizz
counting up ...
to the unholy crash
— flinching at thunder,
despite myself.

The storm is moving fast —
rain
like heaven opening,
and wind
like the wrath of God.
And just as sudden, the torrent stops
— torn leaves and scattered branches
and a whiff of ozone,
electric
in the muggy air.

The big spruce is down.
The wind
snapping its trunk like an after-thought;
the stump splintered, ripped.
It lies at an angle
resting lightly on the trees around it.
As if they had opened their arms, catching it
gentling it down,
showing respect for this majestic survivor
when its time had finally come.

A worthy ending
for such a fine old tree.
Instead of chainsaws, in its prime.
Or beetles, taking their time;
killing
from the inside out.

Taking Passage
July 25 2008


I have taken passage
on a slow freighter,
slipping-out to sea;
making steam
in the chilly glow of dawn.

Charred stacks pump-out thick black smoke,
burning its load
of heavy oil.
The long hull, streaked with rust,
ploughing through choppy water
pushing into waves,
looks brittle enough to break
— the ocean shrugging its shoulders
in a sudden blow.

The crew speak Tagalog, or Creole
and avoid me.
The officers are polite, but distant;
laughing
at inside jokes,
raising too many toasts
to the voyage,
to home.

I spend days looking out to sea,
— the cold green water
hypnotic,
the air, sharp with brine.
There are birds
which I know have been aloft for a thousand miles,
barely flexing their wings.
At night, a rare ship goes by;
a dot of light on the horizon
teetering over its edge.
And down the side
the phosphorescent glow
of a living ocean,
churning-up in our wake.

This passage seems out of time;
the land extinguished,
a mile of water
underneath my feet.
And out of place;
the southern constellations
unknown, unnamed.
This is both journey
and destination,
standing on the upper-deck, all alone.
Where I long ago lost count
— how many days out;
how many to go.

City Fathers
July 23 2008


It was during the renovation
a contractor’s shovel clanged
off the steel box,
surprising us.
A mere 30 years
yet we’d all forgot
— the time capsule,
buried on some grand occasion.
When they were heady with the triumphs of the past,
and the future
was not so certain.

So they sent a time traveller out ahead,
wishing us well
hopeful we would receive them graciously.
And we
— disappointing in our T-shirts and jeans
in place of sleek silver suits, all the same,
as befit the future earthlings —
giddily unearthing
this treasure chest.

Some reel-to-reel tape
— dignitaries making speeches, I suspect.
Kindergarten art work,
none of whom became the next Picasso
we can now be sure.
And the paper, that day.
Apparently, it was mostly sunny
chance of rain.

So 30 years
and nothing much has changed.
Except how unworthy we must seem
to those small-town boosters,
who believed
they had something worth preserving.

No one could come-up with anything else to add,
so we re-sealed the box
and launched the capsule
back to the future.
Where the great thinkers will ponder the past;
baffled
by reel-to-reel tape,
and nostalgic
for a simpler time
of earnest men
and good intentions.

A Momentary Lapse
July 22 2008


On the undivided highway
past the “last gas” sign,
just rocks and trees and a gravel shoulder,
it feels impossibly slow
— the land immense,
your progress, imperceptible.

The tipping point
of dusk,
the sky deep blue, and luminous;
which just deepens the darkness down here
— the road difficult,
the headlights
feeble.
Then night
free-falling in from space,
when lights come at you for miles,
roaring past
in a white-knuckle blast of blindness.

The white line is hypnotic,
especially in darkness
reflecting back.
And reminding you
of your own thin white line
— all your life
hanging
by a thread as fine as spider silk.
Perhaps fighting-off sleep
or turning-up the heat,
nudging the wheel an eighth-of-an-inch as you reach,
breaking the painted line.

You drive in this splendid solitude
of steel and glass;
yet utterly depend
upon every passing stranger.

Barbershop
July 17 2008


I want a shave
in a real barbershop,
men only.

The regulars, who always wait
leaning-back in stuffed green chairs;
shooting the breeze,
arguing.
Posters of hockey stars
tacked to the walls,
and faded pin-ups
now middle-aged.
There are worn-out magazines, same as before,
about sports
and wholesale hair product.
The chair is a piece of industrial art,
like a throne
in red naugahyde
and heavy gauge steel.
A radio plays constantly
top 40 tunes from our youth,
about lovers who drove too fast
and surfing dudes.
And the barber is always Italian
in a sharp white smock,
with “Luigi” or “Vincenzo” stitched above the pocket.

I feel the chair ratchet back
as my eyes drift shut.
Hot towels, the steam rising deliciously.
Then warm shaving cream
that smells of mint
and eucalyptus,
and reminds me of my father.
Such unaccustomed luxury;
the attention
almost intimate.

The slapping sound
of honed steel
on a worn leather strop,
then the feel of a straight steady blade
as it bristles across my face,
scraping clean
a strip of smooth pink skin.
The absolute trust
is a kind of surrender,
and I gratefully relent.

It ends with aftershave, an astringent splash;
when I am forced to return to the upright position,
descending back
to earth.


- - -



I wore a real pair of shoes for the occasion
in rich brown leather.
A perfect day for a shave,
as I flip two bits to the shoe-shine boy.