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.