The Open Road - July 23 2022

 

The Open Road

July 23 2022

The giddy feeling

of sailing down an empty lane

beside a long procession of cars

heading the opposite way.

A crush

of weekend traffic

going out to the lake,

who thought they'd made their escape

in plenty of time.

While I'm driving to town

with the road to myself

feeling absurdly smug,

glancing across

at a parking lot of idling cars,

baking in sun

spewing exhaust.

Family haulers

dusty pick-ups

dented vans,

weekend rentals and high-end sedans,

hauling boats, and tents, and squabbling kids,

cans of beer

in coolers swimming in melt.

All stuck

in the democracy of grid-lock.

While I

    —   who will spend a long weekend at work,

           enduring the city's sticky heat

           urban stink

           eternal noise   —

am determined to fully enjoy

unimpeded speed.

The freedom of the open road,

for a few miles more

at least .

Best Laid Plans - July 22 2022

 

Best Laid Plans

July 22 2022

Another perfect summer day,

so it's uncanny

how once again

the cloud rolls in.

As if on schedule,

as inevitable as dusk.

Like clockwork,

as if the earth

in all its mercurial moods

and whimsical gyrations

had somehow become predictable.

Yet here it is

late afternoon,

and the sky has darkened

it looks like rain.

And once again, despite experience

I feel whip-sawed

caught off guard,

scooping laundry off the line,

closing windows,

calling the dogs.

The weather gods

must find it amusing,

seducing us with sunny skies

and fragrant breezes,

before dropping the hammer

and shattering the calm

with showers

hail

lightning strikes.

Which is when it clears

unexpectedly,

all blue skies

and sultry sun,

some powder puff clouds

implausibly white.

What pleasure they must take

to toy with us mortals this way

disrupting our best made plans.

Nothing new.

As my mother used to say:

if the weather out the front door looks bad

just look out the back.

A Place for Everything - July 21 2022

 

A Place for Everything

July 21 2022

I am not indifferent

to cleaning.

Which means neither obsessive

nor oblivious;

I do notice the socks

left where they were dropped

dust bunnies under the bed,

am reassured

by everything in its place.

But with the lights low

and glasses off

messiness

is easy to ignore.

Under stress, though, I'm a demon,

calming myself

by cleaning.

It's about getting in motion,

the virtue

of keeping house,

the restoration of order

when life is not.

But mostly

a result I can see,

that has a beginning and an end

and can be clearly measured.

How nicely it quells

my discomfort with uncertainty.

      . . .  For now, at least.

Needless to say, my house is presentable.

Life

may be spinning of control,

but enclosed

in my own domestic space

all is well.

So I tend to wonder

about an immaculate house.

What hell

has been visited upon its inhabitants,

what suffering concealed

behind their easy-going welcome

obsessively vacuumed rugs?

What tell-tale heart

beats beneath

those polished hardwood floors?

Lightning struck the other day. Literally. The result: electrical mayhem. And today, after a succession of contractors and insurance men, what else, but to find myself exhausted, but cleaning. And it does feel better. A locus of control in uncontrollable life.

The ending will make more sense if you're familiar with Edgar Allen Poe's short story The Tell-Tale Heart.

Falling Short - July 20 2022

 

Falling Short

July 20 2022

I am no perfectionist.

I was, once,

and for all those years

could only fall short.

So I am reluctantly imperfect.

Because it's still hard to let go

fail gracefully

forgive myself.

But how much worse

are those who believe they are.

The messianic,

the fearless leaders,

the true believers

who never doubt themselves.

How much better

if, as I once did

they over-thought.

Self-critical

instead of deluded,

seeking improvement

instead of praise.

Now, I'm no longer afraid to try.

So what, if I fail;

no one's keeping track

and who doesn't fall short?

Like imperfect works of art

that bear the mark of their creator.

A porcelain vase,

where a thumb left its print

in the wet impressionable clay.

A portrait of a courtesan

whose proportions are slightly off;

the lady unknown

artist forgotten.

Analogies

that go on too long.

Works that show character

and touching sincerity.

And in all of which

we see ourselves.

The human dilemma

is learning to accept

how flawed, and error-prone we are.

How much better

if we chose to worship gods

who were much the same;

imperfect, but well-meant,

and just as they absolve themselves

forgive us, as well.

Sleeping Dogs - July 19 2022

 

Sleeping Dogs

July 19 2022

In the heat of high summer

the dog digs a burrow

in the loose dry earth

beneath an overhanging shrub.

All windmilling paws, manic tail

and eager eyes

down to dark moist soil,

ignoring the bugs, who buzz hungrily

honing in on breath, warmth, blood,

tormenting her sensitive nose

and oozing eyes.

Where the low greenery

is an all-day oasis of shade.

Where she curls up

in the cool soil

of her shallow lair.

Where she somehow sleeps

in the heat of the day.

A dogged digger,

a Buddha of forbearance.

When the air is heavy, the days long

and it feels like dragging a weight

just to walk.

When the green grass has browned

and even the weeds are limp.

When ripe fruit

bends the branches of trees

and litters the ground.

Too much to eat;

so it's left

festering in the heat,

bruised

and oozing juice

and sticky with flies.

The dog days of summer.

When sensible humans

retreat inside

and let sleeping dogs lie,

coolly at rest

in their clever cozy shelters.

Party of One - July 17 2022

 

Party of One

July 17 2022

I am not a party animal.

I am not happy

drink in hand

face flushed

swaying woozily,

dispensing inanities

I'm sure will impress,

rambling endlessly on.

Not happy

exchanging pleasantries

about sports and weather.

Not happy

stuck hearing stories

from terrible bores

and lame dad jokes;

my eyes

furtively scanning the place

for better company.

Not happy

trapped in an overheated room,

bad music blasting

unwilling to dance.

Which I can't, anyway.

Forget about neck ties

and shoes that pinch,

defrosted canapés

the dinner I skipped.

No, I am a solitary creature

who emerges at night

in the quiet cool of dark.

Who moves through the world

cautiously circumspect,

acutely aware

it's dangerous out there.

Who takes small furtive steps

and keeps to the underbrush,

careful 

for what lurks in the shadows

hovers overhead;

an ambush predator

ready to attack,

or at best, an observer

keeping careful track.

Who prefers home

to novelty,

and a few close friends

to a Babel of strangers.

Who says little

but has a rich inner life.

A party of one

in a comfortable chair;

chill jazz

playing in the background,

the light turned low

and my thoughts to myself.

Content enough

with a dog to cuddle

curled-up in my lap,

her soulful eyes

looking into mine

happily wagging her tail.

A heartfelt poem for all the introverts and dog lovers out there🙃.

The only untrue part is “says little”. I may be an introvert, but I'm still a big talker and not at all shy. Not to mention that it's more likely baseball than jazz.

The truly unfortunate part is my tendency to over-vigilance (although in that stanza I must confess to getting a little carried away by my clever little rhymes, so it sounds more like to paranoia than mere self-consciousness), as well as my acute sensitivity to things like light and sound and smell.

Hands at 10 and 2 - Jul 15 2022

 

Hands at 10 and 2

July 15 2022

The rental car smelled odd.

A mix of cloying, and chemical

and stale cigarette,

with a whiff of human sweat,

despite the sanitized surfaces

they boasted of,

the non-smoking policy.

It felt small

sat too low.

The door wouldn't close

unless I slammed it shut,

while the hatch stuck

and the uncomfortable seats

were ugly as hell.

I drove it hard,

not so much the racing car

of my fantasies

as the beater I'd always desired.

But on returning it

I said nothing of its attributes

when asked how it was.

Only “fine”

“how much?”

and “could I get a lift

back to the body shop?”

Perhaps because it was

perfectly fine;

those jack rabbit starts were fun,

the hard cornering

the not warming up

the winding gravel road.

And back in my own car

it felt like luxury

in my snug familiar seat,

as I backed gently out

eased into traffic

and drove in the slow lane

a little under the limit

hands at 10 and 2.

A fun little trifle.

True story, with the usual elaboration and omissions.

A Dispatch From the Home Planet - July 13 2022

 

A Dispatch From the Home Planet

July 13 2022

The newest pictures

from outer space

go back to the beginning of time.

The scientists are excited,

the colourful photos

magnificent.

But to me, one part of space

looks like any other.

And who cares

about 13 billion years

and counting,

when I will only live, at best

a hundred.

So many problems

here on earth

all those great and curious minds

could be working on.

But then, didn't we all want to be astronauts

when we were younger?

And I understand the urge

to leave home once in awhile.

They may even find

what came before.

The nothing, before there was something,

flashing into existence

at the beginning of time

and so improbably leading to us.

Who just may be

the only intelligent life in the universe,

despite so many stars

and all their planets,

the countless galaxies

and clouds of gas

past the limits of light.

And who may just have become

too smart for our own good.

Admiring pretty pictures

as the world burns,

while wilfully blind

to the desecration of our only home

down here on earth.

I'm not a fan of space exploration. Because right now, there are more urgent things all that money and those brains could be expended on. Existential risks and imminent catastrophes. So why not leave space to future generations? After all, nothing in the universe is going to change while wait. And in the meantime, we need to insure that there even are any future generations at all! I understand the natural human curiosity to explore and to know. But our priorities now need to be here, down on earth.

From Darkness Into Dark - July 12 2022

 

From Darkness Into Dark

July 12 2022

Overcast.

There is a heaviness

to this low dull sky,

the greyish-white cloud

and stagnant air.

The uniform light,

so even shadows

are barely discernible.

My mood, as well.

I am anchored here

in my easy chair

unable to move.

Or at least unwilling;

the effort feels overwhelming

there seems no point.

Something needs to change.

A thunderstorm, to clear the air,

the sun, breaking through

refreshed.

A reason

to heave myself up

and leave.

But the only thing that changes

is the slow loss of light,

an incremental dimming

as dusk turns to night.

And still, I sit,

looking out the picture window

from darkness into dark

as if there was something worthwhile to see.

Perhaps a breath of wind

a glint of stars

the rising of the moon.

Which, according to the calendar

is full tonight.

And must be up there somewhere

behind the cloud

shining down on earth.

If only I could see.

If the overcast

would only lift.

The moon's warm white light

reflecting off the cloud

out into deep space.

It's a dull overcast day. I'm sitting in my easy chair, reading on my iPad. I feel too lazy to shoe horn myself up off my seat. So I stay, and write this poem instead. Am I depressed, or is it simply the weather? Inertia? A needed break? The reader is left to decide.

The full moon is actually tomorrow (July 13), and happens to be the brightest full moon this calendar year.

My initial title for this poem was Pathetic Fallacy. As someone who has had no formal teaching about poetry since high school, one of the few terms I actually know!

Beautiful Music - July 11 2022

 

Beautiful Music

July 11 2022

If it isn't winter

it's road repair season.

So we complain,

not only about the potholes

but the potholes being fixed.

Although this is even bigger,

the whole road

dug-up and rebuilt.

Traffic stops/starts/stops,

funnelled into one narrow lane

each way.

Hot sun

ripples off the pavement

dust chokes the air.

Heavy engines rev

bulldozers rattle

embattled workers shout.

Tempers are short

the wait long.

Behind the city bus

the car fills

with diesel exhaust

and I'm feeling claustrophobic.

Late, I keep looking to my watch

as if this will change anything,

eye the gauge

for over-heating.

When cool jazz

comes on the radio

Miles Davis playing,

sweet and soulful

and in no rush.

How many decades have passed

since these vibrations were caught

and saved for posterity?

I sit and listen

reflecting on my spoiled day.

Which will be forgotten

in a couple more,

just as asphalt crumbles

cars are scrapped

schedules get disrupted.

While beautiful music lasts.

And this performance

is the perfect distraction

a soothing balm.

So with the A/C cranked up

and my eyes drifting shut

I lean back, and surrender to it,

head resting comfortably

and all the tension in my neck

letting go.

And as I listen

the dust seems to settle

the bus becomes a blur,

the din

of steel on steel

mercifully recedes.

Until the honking

startles me back to now.

As if I could go any faster, I think,

annoyed at the jacked-up truck

panting at my bumper,

its Confederate flag

dead black paint

and custom gunrack

looming in the rear view mirror.

So I inch ahead

only to stop

bumpers almost touching

a few feet further on.

A poem about the frustrations of city life, stupid drivers (by how hard they still drive — jackrabbit starts, racing up to red lights — I don't see why everyone's complaining about the price of gas!), and the balm of music.

(Although I confess, the “Confederate flag“ reference may have lacked a certain subtlety. A little too on the nose!)