The End of War - Oct 22 2023

 

The End of War

Oct 22 2023

I don't need to tell you

about the war,

it's all anyone's talking about.

Maybe not this one.

Doesn't matter, choose your own,

because when isn't there a war

somewhere in the world?

Civil, surprise

and robust intervention,

asymmetric

incremental

epidemic terror.

Wars of words

that stir up division,

dirty bombs

and historical revision.

And fighting over history itself,

because the first victim of war

is always the truth.

The tall foreheads

may debate geopolitics

and future scenarios,

invent clever monikers

for their cable news spot.

Bloviate

over tactical advantages and facts on the ground,

tongue wag

on the chance of re-election

if the war goes on and on.

But for the front-line soldier

thinking of home,

the innocent man

tending to his fields,

there is only crossfire

and shoot or be shot.

No master plan

or strategic alliances.

No noble end

to justify the means,

no lasting peace or cold peace

and no surrendering.

No shock and awe

and overwhelming force,

no armed insurrection

and no forever war.

Because their only exit strategy

is a simple binary choice.

But no choosing, of course,

and no tall foreheads required.

If not a cluster bomb

that looks like a toy,

then a smart bomb

that somehow lost its way.

If not a bullet to the chest

then shrapnel to the head,

some messenger of God

sent to avenge.

If not life

the certain death,

and the end of war

for all time and forever.

Which is just what we've been hoping for

if not what we meant.

Fallow - Oct 21 2023

 

Fallow

Oct 21 2023

It's twilight, as I look up

from the open book

resting on my lap.

I feel befuddled, at first

to see the day

already near its end

and wondering where it went;

the to-do list

still where I left it,

easy chair warm.

Then disgust

at my aimlessness

and self-indulgent drift.

We are told to be productive.

That time is short

life a gift

waste a mortal sin.

And clearly

my inner Puritan disapproves.

But is it profligate

or somehow debauched

to spend a day imagining?

Nothing unconscionable

and no harm done,

but nothing to show for it, as well;

except, perhaps, a poem

a walk with the dogs

some puttering on and off.

Like the flaneur

out for a leisurely stroll

   —  walking the streets

and slipping in and out,

open to delight

and hoping for surprise   —

there was no plan

no goal

no rush.

Time is money, they say,

they yet I don't feel impoverished

or somehow deprived.

Idle hands

the early bird

the head of the line,

but isn't it written

that the first shall be the last?

And make hay while it shines.

So what now

with the sun having set

and night beginning to fall?

I think of rest

instead of busyness.

Of fields

left to themselves

replenishing their soil.

And of how we only value

what we choose to measure

and how we make that choice.

Her Inner Wolf - Oct 20 2023

 

Her Inner Wolf

Oct 20 2023

When the dog barks non-stop

   —   protecting the homestead

from any would-be intruders

and territorial threats  —

is her exquisite nose

detecting anything real;

subtle hints

a poorly equipped human

is oblivious to?

Or does she bark

because it’s in her nature

and that’s what dogs do;

even at figments

of the imagination

lurking somewhere past the fence?

Perhaps the barking itself

is her raison d'être;

an assertion of her personhood,

a call to the world

that she is here?

As if Descartes had said

I bark therefore I am;

and so muted

she would vanish or retract,

an emasculated dog

tail between her legs.

But she is in fine form;

strutting excitedly

eyes bright and head high

delighted with herself.

Her inner wolf

fully expressed.

The neighbours, of course, object

and I can't say I’m thrilled.

So I shut her down

with a loud emphatic Quiet!

and she happily complies,

triumphantly wagging her tail

expecting to be praised.

Job one accomplished;

a good day's work

keeping us safe.

My heroic dog,

who, when sensing danger

scurries between my legs.

My apex predator

and lethal killing machine

   —  armed

with sharp teeth

powerful jaws

and knife-like claws   —

who takes refuge

with her protector

when even the cat next-door

snarls in her direction.

A fat old cat

who hasn't caught a mouse in years,

half-heartedly arching its back

and looking decidedly bored.

Driver Error - Oct 18 2023

 

Driver Error

Oct 18 2023

Metal fatigue, the expert said;

it was bound to fail.

Even solid steel gives out

packs it in

calls it quits.

So when I turn over in bed,

hitting the snooze button

once again

and refusing to get up,

please don't judge.

I'm flesh and blood, after all,

not some high tensile metal

or cutting edge alloy.

Meanwhile, the strut failed

the car veered off the road.

And I need one good night's sleep

to regain control,

instead of nose down

in the ditch

spinning my wheels.

If only my own bad parts

were as replaceable;

awakening me

from this bone-deep fatigue

a new man,

guaranteed

to last a lifetime.

The Before Time - Oct 19 2023

 

The Before Time

Oct 19 2023

The table was set

lights dimmed

candles lit,

a carefully staged tableau

of gracious living.

Savoury smells

wafted in from the kitchen,

where the festive meal

was in its final stage.

And in the table's centre

sat fresh-cut flowers

lovingly arranged

in a clear glass vase;

a still life painting

in trompe-l'œil.

I felt a sense

of time suspended;

a moment of perfection

that would have been sufficient

as an end in itself;

the anticipation

that’s often the best part.

The festive meal, an afterthought,

conviviality

put off for now.

How odd to remember this.

One of those snapshots

of daily life

that somehow lodge in memory,

no matter how inconsequential

they seem at the time.

A frozen image

of the flawless table

perfectly set,

its elegant chairs

as yet unoccupied;

still evenly spaced

and tucked nicely under it.

And the feeling that went with —

the warm glow

of calm and contentment,

easy acceptance,

unquestioning love.

A paradigm

of the before

when the after was unthinkable.

When the cataclysm

that would shatter lives

was just a matter of time,

building in the distance

close enough to see

if we'd only thought to look.

Clear - Oct 17 2023

 

Clear

Oct 17 2023

Not a cloud.

If I said sky-blue

you'd know exactly what I meant.

Not navy, sapphire, azure

cobalt or aqua,

cerulean, robin's egg

indigo or denim.

Just sky

as nature intended;

unweathered,

stripped to its essence,

and called what it is.

A white contrail appears,

a precisely ruled line

that's slowly lengthening.

Sound

doesn't travel this far,

and the invisible plane

draws on a perfectly blank page,

like an imperious god

whose hand

commands the heavens.

A flaw in perfection.

Like a porcelain vase

that still holds water,

despite the small crack

you hardly notice

on its Wedgwood-blue glaze.

Less is always more: the one that are short, and the narrower the focus — poems of microcosm and close observation — are almost always my favourites.

Big ideas, on the other hand, are best given to prose.

And the more space and less said the better.

Picking Up the Pace - Oct 16 2023

 

Picking Up the Pace

Oct 16 2023

Walking past the park

I avert my eyes

from the tent city

that's taken root there.

The stray dogs

running free,

who have finally found

love and acceptance.

The multi-coloured tents

that look almost festive,

but are cold and wet and fire prone.

The huddled people

weary and unkempt,

who must surely resent

my unearned privilege.

The sin of omission

weighs on me.

But what do they expect

and why this guilt?

I'm just one man

living his small life

one day at a time.

Pass by often enough

and the less you notice them.

You imagine the homeless people

were always that way,

or did something bad

and deserve their fate.

Who are somehow different than you;

another kind of human

and not your concern.

Amazing

how complacency

so quickly sets in.

A public park colonized,

grass churned to mud.

Sidewalks filling up

and underpasses occupied

as numbers multiply

and options thin.

People suffering

before our eyes,

weighed down by despair.

Do something, we say

to the politicians

whose business this is.

Meanwhile

the wilful blindness continues,

picking up the pace

and hurrying by.

Still Myself - Oct 16 2023

 

Still Myself

Oct 16 2023

Names have always been trouble.

How many times have I felt

that moment of panic

that seems to last forever,

when my ears burn

vision tunnels

mind races?

Was I ever any good

putting a name to a face?

But now, I'm searching for words

misplacing my glasses

losing the plot.

Writing lists,

then forgetting where they are.

If all we are is memory

then what becomes of me?

At what point

will I lose myself;

wandering

in a fog of confusion,

feeling that something is off

not knowing quite what?

Yet all the clever ways

I compensate.

And if I wait it out

   —  stop pressing, and clear my head  —

I eventually remember;

in a flash of recognition

the word

will somehow emerge

from some dark recess of the brain,

reassuring me

that for the time being, at least

I'm almost all still here.

Perennial - oct 15 2023

 

Perennial

Oct 15 2023

I think it best

I haven't learned their names.

They are simply flowers.

Countless shades, sizes, shapes;

blooming, then decaying,

then replaced by the next.

Bed after bed,

materializing

in successive waves

of colour and scent.

I'm no horticulturalist

have no green thumb.

The gardens came with the place,

along with someone else's love

labour

discerning eye.

And so far, even under me

   — clueless, lazy, neglectful —

they're still flourishing.

How reassuring

to see the natural world

cycle through the year

just as it has always done;

majestically indifferent

to us.

If only we were all

hardy as perennials;

plants

that even I can't kill.

They persevere

through drought, frost, flood,

returning year after year;

wintering under frozen soil,

poking through an April snow,

battling the weeds

that freely grow

under my delinquent watch.

The life force

I see out my picture window

humbles me.

How stubborn nature is.

How delicate plants

cling to life

with quiet ferocity.

How strength and beauty coexist.

I rest easy

watching the seasons succeed

regular as clockwork;

that is, if a timepiece

could set and wind itself.

And am grateful

to whoever it was

who built this garden

and kept it up.

The predecessors

on whose shoulders we stand.

And the hardy plants

that no matter what

I count on coming back.

The Other Man - Oct 14 2023

 

The Other Man

Oct 14 2023

I know how it feels to rage.

How the Furies erupt

as if you were possessed

by some alien being

bursting out through your skin.

How you flush red

gut churns,

muscles tense and temples pulse,

neck veins

distend with blood.

So who better to see

how he suppressed it,

appearing calm and carefully reasoned,

empathetic even.

But the forced levity

and strained appeasement

made it easy to tell

his heart wasn't in it.

While as things went on

his flat tone

contained a hint of menace,

and he spoke

in the short constricted sentences

of a man on edge,

too controlled to sound

as if he truly meant it.

I noticed how his fists were clenched

arms flexed

eyes intense as lasers,

and pictured a coiled spring;

its lethal force, all pent-up

ready to unleash.

Anyone

within arm's length

duly warned.

Yet I sympathized with him;

a decent man,

his forbearance tested

until pushed past its limit.

Which was considerable;

because he was well-intentioned

and essentially good.

Which is how it goes

when a man's life is upended,

his family threatened,

and a tense marriage

hangs by a thread.

So is it understandable

what happened

when he had nothing left?

When his patience

was finally exhausted

willpower spent?

When his long suppressed rage

was vented on his rival;

who was foolish enough

to confront him one-on-one?

I want to say don’t judge a man

by the worst thing in life

he's ever done.

A man scorned,

and a hair-trigger gun

its barrel still warm.

The killing of a lover

who wouldn't be warned.

Inspired by a terrific movie I just saw, The Killing of Two Lovers: atmospheric; understated; precisely paced; and with naturalistic performances that are utterly compelling, like a voyeuristic glimpse into real life.

In the movie, the spring releases slowly, subtly, suspensefully; then violently uncoils. The way the main character contains his emotion while at the same time expressing it is masterful. And the atmosphere is perfectly matched: a provincial town on barren prairie in the thin cold light of winter's cusp.

(Btw, no spoiler here. The movie takes a different direction.)

Possession - Oct 13 2023

 

Possession

Oct 13. 2023

Not a hoarder, exactly,

but in a long life

stuff accumulates.

Unintentionally.

Incrementally.

Imperceptibly.

And impervious to reason.

A process of accretion.

Like a crustacean's shell

that's supposed to be shed

but keeps growing instead.

Until the floors creak

joists bend

closets overflow,

and in the end

the entire mess

is left to the descendants,

overwhelmed

by all the dust-covered treasures

no one wants.

Knick-knacks and bric-a-brac,

mementos from your travels.

Yard sale steals

bargains priced to clear.

And discarded stuff

picked-up at the curb

by a sharp-eyed couple

who know a good find.

Practical people

who were raised to be frugal

and abhor waste.

All earnestly squirrelled away

while discarding nothing;

because someday

it will surely be of use,

and if not

can always be cannibalized.

I am horrified

that I, too, might leave so much behind.

So I live a minimalist life;

making do,

and anything new

means something old must go.

Bare white walls.

Sparsely furnished rooms

with a few tasteful objects.

And hardwood floors

you can actually see;

revealed and refinished

to a darkly burnished gleam

after the ratty old carpet

was stripped.

No clutter

impulse buys

frivolous indulgence.

No dumping

on my overwhelmed descendants,

who will have to empty my house,

scratching their heads

at whatever could have possessed me.

And on a long suffering earth,

the small footprint

of modest man

who accepts his insignificance

and the burden of privilege.

After all, what gives me the right

to possess all this?

And who understands

that a life built on things

is meaningless;

that on your deathbed

all that precious stuff

will be the last thing that comes to mind,

little more than junk

carted off to the dumpster.

The Primordial Sense - Oct 12

 

The Primordial Sense

Oct 12 2023

The disembodied voice

that was so mellifluous and measured

and spoke like an old friend

always addressing me 

as the listener;

singular, that is

an audience of one.

Is there anything more intimate

than a voice in your head

you carry with you everywhere?

Just yours;

not shared

impersonal

corporate.

No incidental listeners

tuning in and out,

and no competitors

for his attention

intent on every word.

Not a communal experience

with all its distractions;

candy, crinkling as it's unwrapped,

a couple

canoodling in the back row.

And not sound washing over them

as background noise

to make them feel less alone.

But rather, the two of us conversing

in a private tête-a-tête,

picking up where we left off

last time we met.

Perhaps because sound

is the first sense;

a mother's muffled voice

well before you were born,

the whoosh of blood

with every beat of her heart.

And only sound

can startle us

before the brain

can even process it.

So when he went off the air

I felt lost

abandoned

a void.

Where had he gone?

And why had I not realized

the power of this attachment?

And yes, it was a conversation

I did talk back.

Quietly, of course.

The headphones

muting the world

until it seemed to fall away.

While going directly into my ears

and contained in my head,

that familiar voice

only I could hear.

It used to be public radio, listening live. Now it's podcasts, on demand. But both are essentially the same. At its best, an intimate one-on-one experience. As it's been said, the pictures are better in radio; the theatre of the mind.

If you’re a fan of CBC radio (I should say were a fan, back before it became almost unlistenable) and are old enough, the late great Peter Gzowski might come to mind.