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.