A Moment in Time
March 28 2008


To fix a moment in time.
Pinning-down the here-and-now
by its coordinates
— a new millennium,
not much different than the old one,
a week into spring
night closing-in.
As lights blink-on cheerfully all over town,
this small city
somewhere in the middle of a vast dark continent.
And my own small pool of light,
enclosing a cluttered desk
and a blank page
and a well chewed pen,
now 15 lines in.

To fix a moment in time.
Like nailing jelly to the wall
— how nothing sticks
and memory plays tricks,
transforming everything.

To fix a moment in time.
As if I could reach back
and change one small thing.
The way a butterfly fluttering its wings
half a world away from here
can stir-up a hurricane;
or gently setting down,
tip bedrock
into earthquake.

Or to surrender, instead,
and let time drift.
Because what happened in the past can’t be fixed
and this exact moment is ineffable,
slipping from my grasp
just as I think I’ve captured it.

Thief of Hearts
March 24 2008


Do they really call this crime
victimless?
And how you wanted him caught,
but didn’t.
And how the best punishment
isn’t hard labour or life,
but as if he’d never existed
— banished
into nothingness.

How many fast-talking, back-slapping con-men
and grifters?
How many second story men
whose stories lost interest?
How many times were you stiffed
by the front man on an inside job;
who whispered, in your ear, sweet promises
and then, as slickly, was gone?

A pickpocket
brushing-up against your body in a crowd
slips in and out seamlessly,
stealing something precious
or sentimental
you’ll never even miss 'til he’s gone.
An art thief has an eye for beauty,
so who wouldn’t be flattered
who wouldn’t succumb?
So stylish, so cultured, so young;
a life painter, and you his muse
seduced by a silver tongue.
While the safe-cracker listens carefully
and has such exquisite touch.
With cool steely precision
he makes your tumblers rush
— dropping, one-by-one.
How he shuts his eyes, and his breathing softens
and he goes, unerring, to the secret spot
that renders you utterly helpless.

But what you really can’t resist
is the break-and-enter
the smash-and-grab.
As light on his feet as a cat,
he ignores alarms
and sneers at shattered glass.
Yes, there’s always damage.
And breaking-in
things get broke.
And the sense of violation
never fully goes.
But you find the excitement addictive,
. . . and you find yourself craving more.

Saving Herself
March 22 2008


Behind drawn blinds
in a cool dark place
she sits,
ageing gracefully.
Her face is perfectly white,
unwrinkled, unlined.
She rarely smiles,
no crow’s feet twinkling her eyes
no laugh lines to give her away.
She is a porcelain doll
a Chinese courtesan
a painted paper-mache;
and no one would ever guess her age.

Even an albino child ventures out to play,
in a floppy hat and tinted glasses when afternoons grow late
or on overcast days in winter.
But she refuses to risk even a hint of sun
— saving herself,
saving face.
Which she fears as others do
a fatal sickness
or a high-speed collision
head-on.

Her skin is not so much white, as translucent;
a network of fine blue veins,
the flutter of blood in her neck,
and eyelids like thin wet paper.
And then full red lips,
a startling glimpse
of colour.

Neither has she spoken for years,
saving her voice as well.
So her vocal cords are smooth, glistening,
the tissues of her throat full and supple,
and her unrehearsed tongue
clumsy.
I imagine she still sounds like a little girl,
speaking of innocent things
in a high pure voice.

She will live forever, this way,
confined to this cool dark place
mute and immoveable.
Or perhaps, she’s already near death;
as close to living in fear
as one gets.

Back Lanes and Big Backyards
March 20 2008


Just who is scrutinizing whom
when I walk this way,
down back lanes in the old inner city?
Of prim brick facades
and 50’ lots,
crowded-up near tilted slabs of grey concrete sidewalk
where grass pokes through.
Where immigrant women
down on their knees
scrub immaculate front porches with bleach,
and hang pictures of Jesus on dead-bolt doors
— the saviour in a crown of thorns,
forgiving stooped old women
who have yet to sin.

It is a cool green oasis,
with big backyards
hidden from the street,
and old-country peasants
growing things
— fat tomatoes
coiling up stakes,
and smoke houses and fig trees and even grapes.
And excited kids
playing in the self-contained universe of childhood.

There are no back laneways anymore
in treeless tracts of suburban homes,
where tinted cars purr
into remote-controlled garages.
So it’s like going undercover
when I enter here,
a public right-of-way
into the soft underbelly of private space.
I feel vaguely ashamed,
an intruder, peering-in;
especially when someone’s gaze
turns coldly towards me.

This alley feels out of place
a strip of nature where the rest is paved;
the seed of wildness
that will quickly overtake the city
soon after we have abandoned it.
The ground is soft, uneven, overgrown,
2 tire-ruts unearthing rich brown soil.
Some grass is neatly cut
by neighbours who have slipped over the border,
taking possession
of this indeterminate terrain.
And some is left to grow
by owners who stay behind high wooden fences,
keeping them safe.

A barricade against the weeds,
and the broken furniture nobody needs,
and curious strangers like me
— hurrying through,
as unobtrusive as I can be.

The Dog Ate My Homework
March 17 2008


The dog ate my homework
— he’ll eat almost anything.
My grandmother’s funeral
came unexpectedly.
I was abducted by aliens
last night in my sleep.

Which is to say
I take you for a fool,
who will buy the most outrageous excuse.
The real reason, of course
was pure laziness,
neglect,
my breezy sense
of entitlement.
Which is how it went, skipping class all week;
shooting pool,
lounging ‘round coffee shops,
hitting-up girls.

And in the future,
I will write ads for TV
or run for office
or sell used cars.

Or get with God
and start a mega-church in Texas.
In a holy voice
in cowboy boots and Stetson
I will proclaim to my flock,
calling-down hell-fire in a southern drawl.
And I’ll excuse myself
praying to the Lord for forgiveness.
A born-again sinner
in the heavenly battle;
or as they say in Texas
“all hat, and no cattle”.

Re-Inventing Yourself
March 16 2008


A warm dry place.
Or heartbreak, and infatuation.
Or an elderly mom, ailing
alone.
The transience of place;
relocating,
for love
or money.

You pack your life into a small sedan,
back-seat loaded
duffel bags lashed on top.
It feels like an ancient bus in some 3rd world country
chugging through dust and bugs,
folks grinning, scolding,
hanging-on
spilling-out.

Perhaps a new promotion
a lover’s quarrel
a rent you can’t afford.
Or perhaps escape,
someplace new
you try to re-invent yourself.
You could drive due south,
fleeing hard starts and frozen-over.
You could follow the sun, heading west,
where all the seekers and dreamers went.
Or you could travel north, instead,
on wash-board roads with gravel shoulders
up past the timberline.

Where all summer, the light seeks you out,
dimming at night
but never darkness.
It pries in, between the blinds.
It keeps you tossing from side-to-side.
And it glares at you, in bleary-eyed mornings
relentless days,
stripping you naked
exposed.
You long for the restfulness of winter
— how the darkness conceals, keeping your secrets;
how the world contracts
holding you close.

So what if you’d gone west, instead;
run-up against the ocean,
run out of land?
An entire continent, and still you feel claustrophobic,
when there’s nowhere else to go.

Manna From Heaven
March 15 2008


I think Moses must have sweat blood
when he called down his miracles,
unsure he would be heard.
Because God, back then, was kind of cantankerous
temperamental
maybe even insecure,
what with all the praise and reassurance he demanded;
the unquestioning faith.

So Moses did not raise his hand
proclaim some mumbo-jumbo
and watch the sea divide
— gumbo mud
with fish flopping on their sides
between two shimmering walls,
trembling
holding back
the monumental weight of water.

No, it took a brave man to wade in first
forging ahead, undeterred;
to his knees, then his chest
then his face about to submerge.
And only then did the impossible occur
— the water miraculously parting,
and a flood of slaves surged into freedom.
Which means it was not a wrathful God, after all
who drowned the Pharaoh’s men
charging after them;
it was their own lack of faith.

So what if that first brave man had been able to swim,
would the sea have parted?
Would the rest have followed him?
And would we even remember Moses
or believe in his absent God?

Today, there are no more miracles,
and I find myself incapable of faith.
Like that ancient Hebrew, I wade right in;
but I am strong, and believe in my own power.
And a more serene God
is content to let me swim.

Fixing Time
March 13 2008


I try to picture time.

To nail it down,
like a collector pins dead butterflies
to his trophy case.

To hold it out at arm’s length
and turn it slowly
glowing,
its facets refracting at the speed of light.

Or stand rapt, like a child at a magic show.
The great illusionist
the master of misdirection,
light-fingered and quick
his bright eyes glinting mischievously.

All of it, contingent
impossible to fix.

A stuffy classroom, a disembodied drone;
and me, daydreaming
as time goes painfully slow.
And then, when I’m old
a runaway locomotive,
taunting me with speed.
And those intense moments of fear and glory
when it freezes
— the utter crystal clarity of things.
And how the more we have, the more we need;
like billionaires, addicted
— wasting time,
craving it.

And how, in the vastness of space
where stars give birth and galaxies collide
our lives blink-out like fireflies,
and leave no trace.
Until even the universe runs down
to a cold entropic state;
moving in a single relentless direction,
doling out time.

_ _ _ _ _


Before I was born, time did not exist.
And after I’m gone, it will end.
With every death
an entire universe extinguished.

That The House Stood . . .
March 11 2008


Pulling into winter, edging out
is hard on this old house,
set on cinder blocks in a hole in the frozen ground.
Doors stick
floors sag
and sharp cracking sounds startle me
on nights when temperatures plunge.
And across a few inches of wood
some pink insulation
a difference of 100 degrees,
this small refuge of heat
persevering through the cold season.

But this appeals to me
— a house made of 2 x 4’s and lath,
wooden joists and cedar planks
instead of concrete and steel.
Where I hear the wind
rattling glass
and groaning in the eaves.
Where I feel the ground
shift when it thaws.
And where I am attached to the earth
inhabiting winter,
never complacent
that God gave man
dominion over this world.

I am grateful to survive
another cold hard winter;
that the house stood
that the ground has settled again.
This spring
the weathered wood will get a new coat of paint
— the old house looking good
for another long hot summer.

Lake Effect
March 7 2008


White-outs come out of the blue.
A light sprinkle of snow
turns in a flash
horizontal, chaotic,
pelting the glass
enclosing you.
Squalls come as fast as they go
down here by the shore,
nothing in the weather report.
Except “lake effect may make things treacherous.”

You feel paralyzed
white knuckles frozen to the wheel;
blind curves in front,
and who knows what
bearing down behind you.
But beautiful, too,
like packed in cotton batten 10,000 feet up
suspended in dense white cloud.

She has always lived on the edge,
a wild lake
a quiet island.
She needed water, she said
to feel grounded.
She loves the rocky beach, pounded by waves,
and fog horns wailing,
and long late sunsets
when it’s calm.
“Drive carefully”, she said
when you used to visit,
wending your way
all the way down from home.
“Lake effect”, she said;
and that’s exactly how you remember her.

A Hard Winter for Deer
March 9 2008


This has been a hard winter for deer.
So now, on a rare warm day
I notice them again
emerging from the forest
— ambling across the road,
lurking on gravel shoulders,
and lunging, startled, on sudden curves.

In the deep freeze, which seemed endless
I often wondered where they went.
Did they burrow into snow
sleeping fitfully?
Did they paw through deep styrofoam drifts
for buried shoots, frozen berries?
Did they stand stoically, shoulder to shoulder
heads bowed,
facing away from the fierce north wind?
And when they perished from cold,
all skin and bone
and ratty patches of fur,
were they at peace
— an animal trapped in eternal winter
with no memory of spring?

Despite black ice and fallen trees
I’ve slipped into complacency
with no deer all season.
Now, the survivors are thin and weak
their big brown eyes gazing blankly at me;
forced into motion by hunger,
tempted out
by the strong March sun.

A cold front tomorrow,
and the deer, again, will be gone.
Some to shelter,
some pushed over the edge.
While glossy ravens
and wild dogs
grow fat on spring's excess.

Hard Rock Mines and Mill-Towns
March 7 2008


Hard rock mines and mill-towns
and places where things get made.
In factories, where big machines
hammer and bash;
and men shout through megaphone hands,
lip-reading
from 2 feet away.

You can see their breath,
punching-in for midnight shift
lunch-buckets stuffed to the brim.
Their steel-toed boots are scuffed
and their work clothes stained and stiff,
and they wear hardhats
with flip-down ear-muffs for noise.
They drive pick-up trucks
— the Ford guys, the GM boys —
loyal for life to their brand.

And when the ore runs out
or the mills close
they sit at home;
reading want ads,
bagging lunch for school,
and making work
for long-suffering wives.
Although the family gets by alright,
with cheap stuff from China
and gadgets from Japan.

He was always a good provider,
with big calloused hands and a strong back
working over-time.
But now, even in bed
he can’t;
a working man
humiliated by his powerlessness.

So more and more, he worries about his wife;
this woman who was always a catch,
and way too good for him
— her wandering eye;
another man’s inquisitive glance.

My Mother Ironed Shirts
March 5 2008


My mother ironed shirts
in our quiet basement;
no TV
no music playing.
It must have been cozy down there
all alone;
the ceiling low,
the incandescent glow
of 40 W bulbs.

I doubt she planned the week’s itinerary
or grappled with philosophy
-- solving the great moral dilemmas
that have stumped thinkers forever.
No, I think all she found was peace.
In the hot iron
going to-and-fro, hissing steam.
In wrinkled collars and sleeves,
pressed perfectly flat
in a single pass
of hot shiny steel,
her hand conferring order.
And in a line of precisely ironed shirts
on wire hangars,
obediently shoulder to shoulder.

They were either no-nonsense white
or light blue,
interchangeable under my father’s dark suits,
which he wore every single day
well into his 70’s.
She sent him on his way
like an only child turned-out for school;
respectable,
unostentatious,
well taken care of.

But what if he’d rebelled in his old age
and dumped the formal dress,
wearing, instead, loud Hawaiian shirts,
poly-cotton, permanent press?
Would she have ironed anyway?

The burnt scent
of super-heated cotton.
All the shirts, in reassuring rows.
And the iron, steaming its warmth,
hypnotically back and forth.

Seeing Glass
March 4 2008


Funny, what makes us human.
I was always taught it was tools
opposing thumbs
— the hitch-hiker as the apotheosis of man.

And then it was language
— politicians and telemarketers
the direct descendants of Adam.

Or moral philosophy, perhaps;
knowing right from wrong,
that great bulging cortex
rationalizing whatever we fancy.

It turns out to be the mirror, in fact.
That only we can gaze into a still clear pool
and see ourselves,
reaching-in
touching hands
a perfect match;
unsure if we are the half-full glass
or the half-empty.
And acutely aware
of the thinness in which we exist;
each moment, fleeing into the past
and every future fixed.

Because in the mirror, you see yourself alone
self-conscious
naked.
You are amazed at how realistic
surfaces appear,
and wonder what else has you fooled.

And you feel the first flush of fear, as well
— how easily you disappear
the instant the lights go out.

Jerk Chicken
March 4 2008


I use 1 cent stamps
and giant envelopes.

I practice parallel parking
with my eyes closed.

I like to keep people on their toes,
so I answer the phone “ahoy”
instead of “hello”.

I prefer snow shoes to snow shovels;
until the car emerges in spring.

I separate food groups by colour.
Today it’s red peppers
rare steak
and Blood Mary’s with Tabasco sauce.

I wear mismatched socks, clip-on ties, and mail-order suspenders;
plus a belt, just in case.

I always sit with my back to the wall,
like wanted men and double agents
master of the world I survey.

My brain can accommodate two utterly opposing views
at once,
untroubled by petty consistency.

I lie out on the grass at 2 am
looking up at the stars;
until the sky is full
and I slowly vanish
into insignificance.

I like coffee shops serving all-day breakfast.
Otherwise, I brown-bag it,
and eat supper for dinner.

Today is white
— mashed potatoes,
angel food cake,
jerk chicken.

Or sex in the kitchen
and dining out.


(By the way, I think it was Alexander Graham Bell (or was it Edison?) who proselytized for "ahoy" as the proper greeting for the newly invented telephone. As we now know, never really caught on! Seriously, this is true.
Brian)

A History of Winter
March 2 2008


What will the snow turn up
this messy spring?
I picture freeze-dried gardens,
and a shrivelled body, hugging itself
— like that ancient wanderer,
spit-up by glaciers
melting in the Austrian alps.

All winter, nothing changed;
darkness, mostly,
and an ice-age of white that seemed impregnable.
It’s surface smoothly curved and swirled
carved-out by winter’s blast
— the invisible wind, cast in snow,
like a sculptor’s lost wax.

Now, I can feel the sun
injecting heat into everything.
And time in a headlong race,
like I’m strapped inside
hurtling downhill without brakes.
It angles in low, but potent
so the great walls of ice are moth-eaten, eroded,
revealing layers of dirt
and pencils of ice
and tiny murky crystals.
Like an archaeological dig,
— a history of winter
laid open.

Further down, still,
there will be unraked leaves
and grass like straw
and reminders of cats and dogs,
who stopped briefly here
some frozen winter morning.

The sun feels hotter than high summer
even the baking lethargy of August
on our unaccustomed bodies,
reflected by snow
and penetrating the heavy clothes
we can’t quite seem to shed.

Not yet, anyway.
When the season’s so exquisitely balanced
it can tip, in an instant,
into winter again.