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.

Comfort Food
July 20 2008


I’ve been told women look warily
at shoes —
turning up her nose
at discount sneakers;
making mental notes
about the snakeskin;
wondering if a guy who can’t be bothered to buff
is worth waxing for.

Me, I keep my gaze strictly from the neck up,
listening attentively, nodding,
— especially after the unfortunate incident
I let them go wandering.
No, I judge people less obviously,
asking early on
what they eat to forget.

In a moment of weakness
is it chocolate she reaches for?
Or does he cram his pie-hole with cake?
Or tuck-in to meat loaf,
leaning back, pants undone
hazily nostalgic for mum?

I tend to be suspicious
of anyone consoled by liquids,
from cocoa to spritzers
spiked with gin.
The fried egg sandwich is good, though,
and on white bread with mayo, a cinch.
But never admit
you seek comfort in tofu or carrot sticks.
I once did,
and all I ever met
were famished vegetarians.

Just say grilled cheese
which is always safe,
or ice cream, straight from the carton;
and any man can get away
with socks and sandals,
no problem.

The Year From 2 to 3
May 26 2008


The year from 2 to 3
was half my life
so far.

Now, I think more about seasons.
How much colder, this late spring.
How summers used to be magical;
when school stopped,
and the days seemed longer
hotter.
And how still I feel
in the long dark night of winter,
when time goes mercifully slow.
Although fall’s still bittersweet
— fresh-cut grass
and wood-smoke.

Birthday done,
a single candle for convenience.
Taxes over,
how I manage to lose a year
yet save all the receipts.
It snowed today,
yet in less than a month
the days will start getting shorter.

So I try to live in the moment,
to be mindful, focused.
I like the stillness, here,
when I stop the chatter,
feel myself breathe
all the way out.
In the eternal now
there is so much room to roam,
no dead-line, no purpose.

Just as the meaning is found
in the space between the words.

A Deer in the Headlights
Oct 21 2006


A deer in the headlights
is not frozen.
She stands on the shoulder
exposed,
all furious motion
-- her brown eyes glistening
with liquid light,
her body rippling
muscles tight
under taut skin and tawny fur,
and one foot trembling
held-up in the graceful etiquette of flight.
Then her ears stiffen and her nostrils flare
sucking air
before she darts
uncoiling full-speed into the clear,
a blur in the high beams
so close,
we both smell the fear.

Except when that first step falters;
nimble feet
unaccustomed to asphalt.

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 bathing beauties
from 20 years ago.
There are worn-out magazines, same as before,
about sports
and wholesale hair product.
The chair is a piece of industrial art,
a throne of 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 manly things,
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.

Driving With the Roof Down
July 15 2008


When I was a boy
I could name every car
driving past.
In some other place
I might have known the types of snow
or wild plants;
or some other time
the ranks
of angels.

Somehow, cars were sexy
before I even knew the word,
let alone what it meant.
And back then
the names were a muscular kind of verse,
like Road Master
or Power Wagon.
Ford favoured alliteration
— the Fairlane, the Falcon —
the proud hunter de-clawed
in a boxy sedan.
But Thunderbird was perfect,
and I’d shout excitedly
when a sleek T-bird went purring past.
And names that tried too hard
like Impala,
the fleet long-legged deer
rendered static
earthbound
in a four-door full-size car.

Because boys like powerful machines.
And cars are freedom, too
— the back seat
the drive-in
making speed.
And 16 was the on-ramp to life,
the keys dangling just before your eyes
counting-down birthdays.

Now, I drive to work
and back
fighting traffic, pumping gas,
and my car is named for a number.
But in summer
on the open road
there is still romance,
and a middle-aged man reaches back
to the boy
— driving with the roof down,
the wind in his thinning hair.

On Becoming a Man
July 14 2008


At some point, you become a man.
No one could ever say what, exactly;
so I always thought it was one of those things
you’d know when it happened,
and there was no going back.

At 13, I read from the Torah,
right to left, chanting uncertainly;
but felt no different afterward.
Before that, my body started acting-up,
but I managed to let it pass.
Which could have been it, actually,
the beginning of my mastery
of denial
— the first test of manhood, some might say.

How to knot a neck-tie.
Learning to shave,
like some steamy initiation
with its ritual letting of blood.
Kissing a girl
without wiping my lips in disgust.
Driving lessons, dad’s Buick,
navigating that big land yacht
into parallel park.
And the first part-time job.

And the rites of passage went on —
from graduation,
through the first serious relationship,
to mortgaging my soul
to the bank.
You’d think fatherhood, for sure;
but even there
a man is on the sidelines
cheering, holding hands,
somehow excluded from the intimate bond
only mothers have.

The problem is
it’s one step forward and one step back,
so even a grizzled old man
can feel like an impostor.
And under all that bravado
you are still 13
where you somehow got stalled;
looking out
from this large awkward body,
that just kept on growing
‘til it stopped.

Climbing Trees
July 13 2008


Trees belong to childhood.
They do not speak,
even when spoken to.
And like the child
standing there
rooted, powerless
always told what to do,
excluded from the adult world.
And like trees
growing imperceptibly;
then grown-up overnight, it seems.

So kids clamber up trees,
commiserating together.
They swing from branches
or tie ropes, and inner tubes,
and when the adults are distracted
climb to forbidden heights.

Which may seem odd,
because trees are so very old
— their twisted bark,
their hidden roots
penetrating deep into cold dark soil.
But how much different than kids and old folks,
who also feel powerless
and have plenty of time
and seem to understand each other well.

Most of all, I like their forbearance,
so silent, so still;
never objecting to kids
building tree forts,
scuffing their branches.
Or hanging upside down, full of laughter,
taunting the others
sticking-out their tongues.

Audi TT Roadster
July 10 2008


The ad said 0 to 100
in 6.1 seconds.
So who are these people
with too much money,
who measure out their lives
a tenth of a second at a time?

And how often do you go
from 0 to 100
anyway?
Perhaps they come to a dead stop
on the on-ramp,
then floor it
— eyes forward,
white knuckles gripping the wheel,
then butting into line
come hell or high water.
And probably not even stopping
at 100;
which is, after all, mere child’s play
to the serious driver.

It takes a good 20 seconds
to nurse my old Jeep up to triple digits,
a whole 14 seconds more.
That’s precious time
I’ll never recover,
14 seconds gone.

14 seconds
driving into the setting sun.
When I look up
at a russet and magenta sky,
so stunning
I forget all about the drive.

Between Interruptions
July 10 2008


Life goes on
between interruptions.
Then you squeeze in what you can
in those brief moments of freedom
— late at night
when the house is still
the chores all done.

Or perhaps, it’s the other way around —
you follow your passion
until life drags you back,
interrupting what you live for.

You wish it worked the way your body does,
pumping blood
processing air
making the necessary repairs,
leaving you free to attend
to life’s higher calling.
Like a household of well-mannered servants
neither seen nor heard;
while you soak in the tub,
or make love
in the master-bedroom.

You get old soon enough,
time measured-out in diapers
and pay cheques
and new car loans.
So you let nothing interrupt —
with the phone unplugged and the door bolted,
you’re free
to practice the bagpipes,
or read steamy novels,
or write that poem.

Or interrupt yourself,
announcing a trip to the corner store.
Then decide to walk,
and take the long way home.

Killing Time
July 1 2008


Luckily, it was August.
On a wilderness lake, somewhere north
deposited one-by-one around the shore,
each alone.

This was not survivalist,
not to let the busyness of cooking and comfort and warmth
distract us.
We were to explore the inner self,
become mindful, focused.

Luckily, late in August, there aren’t many bugs.
But the nights are cold,
and underneath my plastic sheet
my handful of gorp* a fond memory
I felt the unaccustomed burden of time.
And loneliness, which I know well.
And the primeval fear of the dark
— leaves stirring,
the crack of a branch,
something calling, close by.
And it was then, the drizzle began.

So the first dawn was a miracle
— survived the night
a chance at warmth.

Back then, I failed at this.
I let my mind play tricks
and pitied myself.
I fantasized about the end of it,
and mercilessly killed time.
But here I am, remembering, 30 years on.
And the lesson of gratitude, as well;
especially for the simple things
like food and blankets and screens,
and basic human company.

And now, I am no romantic, no Thoreau,
and do not believe that only ascetics can achieve enlightenment
only suffering create great art.
So my mind may wander out-of-control;
but my body, in comfort, stays home.


* Since spell-check questioned this, it may be necessary to explain. “Gorp” is the acronym for “good old raisins and peanuts”, that famously delicious and high energy food well known to all wilderness travellers. (I usually cheat, and add dried fruit, granola, and smarties as well!)

Guesswork
July 6 2008


I do not know what “the truth”
is in answer of,
because it’s not the answer, it’s the question
that comes hardest.
And anyway, I’m suspicious of the definite article,
because truth is never exact
— each eye-witness, his version,
every world-view
baffling to all the others.
And most of all, the values by which we judge
keep changing;
for the better, I can only trust.

Even this table is guesswork,
its hard polished surface
its fine grained wood.
Because matter is mostly empty space,
an order of magnitude
to which we can’t help but remain oblivious.
And if you map the firing of the optic nerve,
its density of data
is wholly inadequate
to depict the complexity of the actual world.
Which means that our brains fill-in the blanks,
some impenetrable chemistry
of memory, and feeling, and belief.

So even a hard-headed scientist like me
takes the world on faith,
stumbling about this place
mostly blind,
convinced what I see is true.
When all is really illusion;
my conviction, mere conceit.

There was a much better poet than me
who believed
that the eyes are a window into the soul,
and by peering into their black bottomless depth
I might penetrate your very essence;
each of us, surrendering,
letting down our defence.
That our eyes, locked together
our gaze, generous,
might reveal to us some truth;
or at least, get us that much closer.

Even if only to confess
how badly we want to know,
and how much
we need to be known.

Vegetarian Sex
July 8 2008



“This film contains scenes of violence,
explicit language,
and raw sex.”

As much come-on as caution
I suspect.
And then I tried to picture it;
raw sex, that is
as opposed to the other kind
— perhaps par-boiled, smoked, or deep-fried?

Explicit language, I like;
because after awhile
a poet gets sick and tired
of metaphor and ambiguity,
and could use some good old Anglo-Saxon certainties.

Violence, though, makes me squirm,
like some cheap voyeur
with no concern for consequence
— just one clever edit
and all the severed and dead
neatly vanish.




But no vegetarian sex,
and no over-cooked meat
dry and grey and tasteless.

I want steak tartarre
I want red and dripping,
a glistening well-marbled slab.

I want it warm and wet
the carnal scent
of flesh
— that little edge of danger
that feels transgressive on the tongue.

I want the top cut,
the soft underbelly, underdone.
Like raw oysters, freshly shucked
in hot sauce or mustard
— all tongue, no teeth,
so salty-sweet, and slippery.

I want it raw, and unprocessed
unschooled and unrepressed
— like pure animal sex,
all free-roaming lust.

Dirty, messy, smelly sex
to remind us that we’re mortal
and made of flesh and blood.
No edits, no dubs;
the director’s final cut.

Grounded
July 5 2008


Until I left home
I slept in the basement,
in a bright yellow room
underground.

The life of the house carried-on above me,
muffled voices
creaking joists
water, pouring down through pipes.
So no one noticed me there;
padding about on the hard concrete floor,
reading in the dead of night,
my bedside lamp
unobserved.

Most of all, it was cool in summer;
and in winter, the furnace rumbled its warmth,
faithfully keeping company.
It was a back-split
so I could walk directly outdoors
— bare feet on grass
soaked with cool dew,
starlight silvering the lawn,
the city unnaturally subdued.

And here I am, decades later
in another back-split, another basement
— far too predictable in my ways.
Is it the strength of concrete,
the firm foundation?
Is it some nesting instinct,
returning to the place I know?
Or is it being grounded,
nowhere else to fall?

I get the morning sun.
But at night, it’s dark and peaceful,
and like some nocturnal creature
I burrow underground,
wrapping myself in earth.

Porch Door
June 29 2008


I’m tempted to say lawnmowers,
especially the kind you push
— the pebbly sound of moving parts;
the whir of its thin curved blades
sharp as scythes,
flashing through verdant grass.
Or kids, shouting in the distance
— the sharp crack of bat on ball,
nailing the sweet spot
in fine-grained ash.

But I think it’s the screen door, most of all
— wood-framed, well-weathered.
That satisfying “thwack”
swinging shut behind you.
And the rasp of the spring when the wind catches it,
flapping, open wide.
And the angry buzz of mosquitoes
on the other side,
smelling blood.
And late at night, the porch light burning
as a moth as big as your fist
hurtles against the dented screen
over and over
— a loud insistent banging
as if a small carnivorous bird
wanted in.

In those golden summers
we would be gone all day long,
running out with the dew still burning-off
slamming the door behind us.
Or in-and-out
— appetites bottomless;
guzzling fruit drink
that was comatose with sugar
and glowed fluorescent green,
a colour not found in nature.

And hot nights, just the screen door closed
— a cool breeze,
or sleeping-out on the porch.

Found Music
July 2 2008


These wind chimes
are a tiny satisfying extravagance.
Just think of all that wind
a responsible citizen
would set about capturing.
I imagine Rube Goldberg contraptions
of great blinking batteries
and blades, whirring and flapping,
to power TV screens
iron lungs.

While I just waste it
tinkling sweet delicate bells
— like my own private calliope
just outside the door.

Found music
that gives the wind a voice.
From the south, it’s fitful,
warning of violent storms.
From the west
steady, fresh,
a well-scrubbed gospel chorus.
While north is clear and cool,
making the bells dance and twirl
delighting in the bracing air.
To the east, there’s brooding cloud
and the wind has a menacing edge,
as the chimes flail erratically
playing manic discordant jazz.

While the weather vane creaks as it spins
finding its place;
the soloist in this orchestra of wind.

North
July 4 2008


On the first day out
you’re up with the sun, paddling hard
— making sure you get over
at least one portage.

Because then, everything changes,
stepping-out into the clearing
at the water’s edge.
The lake, open.
Wilderness as far as the Arctic Ocean
thousands of miles north.
Getting by
on muscle alone.

Most of all, you notice the silence
. . . and then the sound,
creatures that you’ll never glimpse
you know are keeping watch.
The manic howling of wolves
after dark.
A loon’s haunting call,
echoing over the water.
And out of nowhere
the sharp slap of a beaver,
like a gun-shot going-off.

There is mystery in these sounds
and purpose.
So you paddle your canoe
without saying a word,
smooth quiet strokes.
For now, you feel like an intruder.
But in a couple of weeks
heading back
you will have earned your place here,
and these sounds as familiar as home.

Still, they keep their distance,
with so much space
in which to disappear.

The Fridge Again
June 30 2008


When the fridge shuts-off
the sudden quiet startles me;
as if this silence occupied space,
had weight
and substance.

And then my ears prick-up, picking-up sound.
The wind, rustling.
Birds, disputing real estate.
And the trills of mysterious bugs.
The neighbour’s dog is chasing squirrels again
— manic barking
and the rodents scolding back,
safe from attack in the tree-tops.

Inside
my chair grates on the old pine floor.
And a tap
drips
like Chinese water torture.
Now I hear my pen, making chicken-scratch on plain white paper.
And later, the keyboard clacking,
like an army of frantic mice.

I miss the tap of footsteps
overhead.
I miss the creak in the stairs.
I miss her voice
girlish,
more like laughter than words.
And I miss the sound of the door
as the latch clicks shut,
coming
...going
...closed.

The fridge again,
that reassuring noise
— flattening the sounds that tempt me out of my head;
filling-in the voids.