The Gardener - June 28 2023

 

The Gardener

June 28 2023

Hands immersed

in sun-warmed soil,

he kneels over the bed

tending to his task.

The gardener is dark skinned,

in a broad-brimmed hat

and sun-bleached clothes.

It seems he's always there;

a constant presence

you'd only notice

if he wasn't there,

as permanent

as the garden furniture

no one sits on anymore.

He works through the day

never complains.

Is exacting, but efficient;

like an athlete

who has practised for years,

there is no wasted effort

nothing left to chance.

I envy him.

A man who works with his hands.

Has mastery

over his small contained world.

Performs honest labour,

as men like him have

since time immemorial.

I stand at the window and watch,

admiring

his diligence, and dignity.

A gentle man

who speaks little

and works hard.

Who cultivates, tends

takes care.

And under whose watch

everything grows.

Who confers life

and has become like his plants;

flourishing

in the summer sun

and aromatic air,

organically in touch

with mother earth.

Breath After Breath - June 26 2023

 

Breath After Breath

June 26 2023

The rise and fall

of breath after breath,

from the very first cry

until the moment of death.

I rely on this,

life-giving air

cycling in and out

regular as clockwork.

I rarely pay attention to this,

preoccupied, as I am

by the pressing matters

of daily life;

the many things

for which a man of my importance

must ration his time.

As if I'm inhabiting

a robot body

that runs automatically;

as if we'd agreed

not to bother each other

except in those rare emergencies.

Same with the beating heart

killer cells

metabolic pathways.

Doesn't matter

that I've never even heard

of most of what goes on in there,

the microscopic machinery

under the flesh

in all its vast complexity.

I thought I was in charge

but apparently not.

Except, that is, when I stop.

Hold my breath

go underwater

run out of air.

Or clear my head

and concentrate on breathing;

slow and deep

in and out

breath after breath.

Measured, steady, centred,

the monkey chatter

in my fevered brain

stilled.

Over-riding the robot,

imposing my will.

Who soon protests;

my head

filling up again,

lungs

as unconscious as ever

taking care of themselves.

The default state

of staying alive.

A passenger

once more confined

to the small sliver of brain

given over to thought.

Ex - June 26 2023

 

Ex

June 26 2023

I never understood

how love can change like this,

flipping from white to black

forbearance to anger.

How the person

most important in the world

can become the object of hate

revulsion, regret,

still filling your field of vision

but shaded in red;

distant, yet still

as present as ever.

It's as if hate and love

were inextricably bound.

If opposites attract

then extreme emotions come in pairs,

contending poles

defining each other

but what they're not.

Our past selves, and who we've become,

jealous, contentious, resentful.

If love is uplifting

then perhaps we should say

falling in hate

instead of love.

You want to believe that causing hurt

will expiate the pain,

but know the only one you'll really harm

is yourself.

And while love is blind

hate is a death ray,

a white hot glare

intense enough

to burn the eyes.

I gaze into the mirror

and turn it on myself.

The man

who thought he was in love,

never imagining

the darkness

that kept his passion company

while hiding in the shadows.

Could never have known

what he was capable of.

Never having been through this, I've always struggled to understand the extreme acrimony in a bad divorce. How the same person who was once your soulmate, forever partner, and love of your life, has somehow become such an object of anger, hate, and vengefulness.

This poem was inspired by a very different falling out. But I thought the scenario of romantic love would be far more familiar to the reader than anything else.

Acclimation - June 24 2023

 

Acclimation

June 24 2023

Each season, I acclimate;

thin-blooded summers

winter fat.

But in this oppressive heat

I struggle to adjust.

The sun

directly overhead

feels relentless,

obliterating any hint of shade

and setting too late.

While the sweltering air

thick with humidity

makes every step a slog,

my body limp, damp, sticky

brain fried.

How I long for winter,

with its crisp invigorating air

and long cozy nights.

Or better yet fall,

with its clear light

and mild temperament;

a welcome interregnum

of calm.

But forget spring,

the season of mud, bugs, thaw,

with wild swings

of hot and cold

rain and snow

and bleak depressing thoughts.

So hot

I feel decadent, weak, debauched,

susceptible

to the slightest chill

and drained of ambition.

But who on earth complains

when summer finally comes?

Just ingrates and contrarians

and old curmudgeons like me, she says.

Can't disagree, I respond,

swatting away mosquitoes

and slipping quickly inside.

Where it's cool

and easy on the eyes,

a tall icy drink

temptingly calls.

Dread - June 23 2023

 

Dread

June 23 2023



I could smell it first,

an acrid scent

in the hot dry air.

Not heavy enough to see

at least not yet;

although the morning sun

was just an orange orb

in a claustrophobic sky.

Wildfires

raging to the west of us.

And with not nearly enough

men or machines

they're leaving them to burn.

A sharp stinging smell

that has me on edge;

as if some atavistic fear

in my DNA

had set every cell of my being

on high alert.

Like the singed and fearful animals

who are fleeing the woods

in a blind stampede,

the lion

side-by-side with the lamb

in the communal panic of fire.

As in Eden before the fall

and the Arc in the Biblical flood,

when predator and prey

lay down together

for the first and last time.

As if Paradise

and this hell on earth

had anything at all in common.

Except, perhaps, for God;

looking down

on His creation

and shaking His head,

as the stewards assigned its care

betray His trust.

Becoming aware

of their nakedness.

Committing acts of depravity.

Setting the world on fire.

The air has visibly thickened

the wind is picking up.

The smell is stronger now,

and I feel an awful dread

rise in my gut,

an overwhelming urge

to run.

The Last Time I Cried - June 20 2023

 

The Last Time I Cried

June 20 2023

The last time I cried

I was sitting alone

in front of a screen.

Actors

performing their roles.

Grown-up kids

playing dress-up,

yet how intensely

I find myself investing

in their fabulous lives.

And how easily

from the safe distance of this seat;

sunk into my couch,

in the privacy

of this quiet room

in the flickering blue light.

Because proximity

seems to set off my alarms;

my guard up

elbows out

pulse quickening.

Like intimacy

crying comes hard.

But watching the film

I laughed openly

at the wacky misadventures

of the hapless dog,

cried uncontrollably

when he died;

embraced

on the stainless steel table

as the lethal needle entered.

The last time

I really cried,

blubbering and blurry-eyed

incontinent with tears.

How how cleansing it felt

how unforgettable;

a pent-up damn

all-at-once letting go.

And the question becomes

was that actually be the last?

I think back to the funeral

on that blustery fall day,

a cutting wind

and rain threatening.

In my black suit and grave demeanour

I was a model of manly restraint,

stoic and composed

and a strong protective shoulder.

But flat inside

as well as out.

Not so much fearful

of looking weak, or exposing my grief

as not really feeling it.

A safe distance

from even myself.

Rusting Dented One-Speed - June 19 2023

 

Rusting Dented One-Speed

June 19 2023



The battered bike

chained to a lamppost

seems lost without its rider;

the front wheel askew,

and leaning sharply sideways

like a drunk on Saturday night.

Coaster bikes like this

  —  a rusting dented one-speed

with iffy pedal brakes   —

are certified safe,

chained-up or not;

who would want to steal it?

Homely, forlorn, unwanted

it waits,

a needy orphan

eager to be claimed;

if not its absent owner

then a random passer-by.

But she eventually returns,

fumbling with the chain

and mounting it awkwardly.

Shopping bag

in the big handle-bar basket,

knee-length skirt

gathered in one hand.

A lady of a certain age

with a sensible helmet

over thinning grey-hair,

and a sturdy bike

that, like her

is slow, heavy, old.

She claims a lane

and heads for home,

taking her time

and ignoring the horns.

A stately procession

of lady and bike

down the middle of the road.

Beach Vacation - June 18 2023

 

Beach Vacation

June 18 2023

You imagined all-day sun

and an all-over tan,

hot sand

between your toes.

But instead

it's sand up you crack,

invisible bugs

biting hard-and-fast.

The beach sand

you hot-foot across

after baking all day;

the sunburn

you felt too late.

The salt water

that goes up your nose,

jellyfish

lurking just offshore.

Not to mention

the rip-tide, red-tide

sand-flies and mites,

the crab army

scuttling out every night.

No, the beach vacation

isn't all it's made out to be.

The crowd and the noise

and even the smell.

The rotting seaweed

they raked to one side.

The stale/sweet bouquet

of cigarettes and tanning oil,

the yeasty scent

of spilled beer

fermenting by itself.

Middle-aged women

showing too much skin,

pot-bellied men

with their Speedos stretched thin.

Whatever happened

to the modest frilly one-piece

and long baggy dad-trunks?

So for me

it's indoors

air conditioned

artificial light,

a tall stiff drink

on plenty of ice.

Father's Day - June 18 2023

 

Father's Day

June 18 2023



The smooth path of the ball,

rising as it falls

in a gracefull arc

as precise as geometry.

A practised step back,

extending the glove

with thoughtless ease.

And the comforting thwack

of a tightly wrapped ball

on supple leather,

the hard ball

cradled snugly

in the bulging sweet spot.

A perfect pocket,

broken-in

with loving care.

A game of catch,

a well-scuffed ball

tossed back-and-forth.

There's an easy rhythm to this

and no need to talk;

the body angling

arm unspooling

certain follow-through,

a flick of the wrist

on the nose.

They move apart a bit

as the game goes on;

longer throws

some friendly taunts.

Or how it's supposed to be

between father and son.

A backyard

of verdant grass

with that freshly-cut smell.

The old man,

a little out of practice

but accurate nevertheless;

after so many years

his muscle memory

has a mind of its own.

And the boy, eager but unschooled

concentrates hard

while yearning for praise.

But instead

is volleying the ball

against the garage door.

Overhanded hard

the tightly-stitched ball

rattles the aluminum,

a loud bang

each time it strikes;

a racket

that resonates up and down

the quiet street.

It feels good, he thinks

to make some noise.

And the harder he throws

the louder the sound.

At Home in the World - Jun 17 2023

 

At Home in the World

June 17 2023

I try to think back

to when I first was sure

I had it all figured out.

My late teens, I suppose,

the potent elixir

of a young man's arrogance

and youthful ideals,

when the truth

seems self-evident.

But age is chastening,

and in my 20s

the doubts crept in.

Wait til your 30s, I'd reassure myself,

whenever the ground under my feet

shifted uneasily.

So I set my sights on middle age

when I was sure

I'd finally come to know myself

and why I'm here;

a grown-up

like my parents' generation,

who grew up fast

and won the war.

Who knew

that all the generations who came before

felt just as at sea

as I did?

Which is when the moving target

receded again.

Another decade, I said

and I'd eventually find my place;

10 more years

of experience and maturity

to feel at home in the world.

And now, too old to change

I'm even more unsure.

More comfortable in my skin

and more self-aware,

yet still fearful

unsettled

perplexed.

Still searching for contentment

yet so much closer to the end.

It's been said

that youth is wasted on the young.

And how much better I'd have been

if I'd known then

what I know now.

But I'm no longer so sure.

Not when the callow young man

and this older version

are essentially the same.

That if it weren't for the furrowed skin and thinner hair

and those extra pounds I carry

I'm much the person

I was back then.

Except now

old enough to realize

that the quest never stops;

the flux is never frozen

the mysteries never solved.

That my tough cynical exterior

will forever hide

the vulnerable inner child.

That I'll never figure it out

no matter how hard I try.

And that no else has

either.

Sekitei - June 14 2023

 

Sekitei

June 14 2023

The rock garden

was in full bloom.

Plants, hungry for sun

reach for the sky.

The abundance

is almost too much,

a riot of flowers

bursting out,

the avid greenery

shouldering aside

its verdant rivals.

But there is scarcity, as well;

lush moss

you can't help but touch,

a bonsai tree

with deeply wrinkled bark.

Yet even these

in this brief intense season

are frantic to grow.

And rocks, stone, gravel

in shades of pink and grey,

meticulously placed

raked

manicured.

And to rest the eyes

an open space

of fine white sand,

inscribed with circles

and swirls

and abstract shapes.

Inert matter;

patient

changeless

still.

Permanence

and transience,

the living and the dead.

The contrast is powerful.

The kinetic energy of plants

overtaking the garden

if not cut back.

And the restful calm

of sun-warmed rocks,

which have settled in

as if they'd always been there.

The sound of running water

washing gently over them.

A reflecting pool

mirrors the sky;

granite, speckled pink and grey

glistens with light.

River rock

polished by moving water

over incomprehensible time.

The title is the word for a Japanese rock garden or so-called “Zen” garden. This is a serene place meant to foster contemplation. It must, according to tradition, always include the 3 elements: vegetable, mineral, water. And perhaps a 4th: space. It's all about subtlety and restraint, and I wanted the poem to reflect this sensibility.

Although the prime inspiration was the compelling tension contained in the name itself: “rock garden”. Not just — at least for the literal minded, or for those who are particularly attentive to language — the amusing idea of cultivating rocks, but the powerful contrast in those two simple words between inert matter and life, permanence and transience.

Cold Hard Metal - June 13 2023

 

Cold Hard Metal

June 13 2023

I've never fired a gun.

Never even held one.

Never felt

its cold hard metal

lethal weight.

The touch of the trigger

on a clammy finger

itching to be squeezed.

But I have been told

how pleasurable it is.

The heft

sound

kick,

target zeroed-in;

the beauty

in its spare functionality

precisely milled parts

tightly coupled action.

The power of a god

to change a life

in one decisive instant,

force multiplied

action at a distance.

The glint of a gun

like a warning shot.

And the man who carries it

like some petty god,

who believes himself immortal

but sadly is not.

While I was saving an article about the threat of right wing violence among Trump supporters – his avid followers, acolytes, believers, devotees, cultists, careerists, and opportunists – I glanced at the photo that accompanied the piece (see above). The moment I saw it, a podcast I recently heard came to mind and this poem immediately started to write itself.

In the podcast, an anti-gun person like me visited a shooting range and realized how truly enjoyable guns are. Who not only began to appreciate their appeal, but wanted to do it again!

I find nothing hypocritical in this: you can be a gun owner and still believe in sensible gun control!

(https://www.theatlantic.com/newsletters/archive/2023/06/trump-higgins-biggs-lake-violence/674380/)