Alone With Your Thoughts - Feb 24 2024

 

Alone With Your Thoughts

Feb 24 2024

In a sound proof cell

you can hear yourself think.

Which is why solitude

is so hard,

and why we seek distraction

so desperately,

less and less able

to be alone with our thoughts.

Where you can hear

the rush of blood in your ears,

saliva

passing down your throat.

The complex anatomy

of swallowing

you simply took for granted,

like every other bodily function

you depend upon.

The heart

echoing in your chest

second after second

and year after year.

Which is too close to mortality

to want to hear;

beating inexhaustibly

every moment you’re alive

until you’re not.

It's as if the silence has texture,

dull, flat, claustrophobic;

the perforated tile

and thick absorbent padding

soaking up each oscillation of air

that makes a sound, 

so not even a single iota

ever comes back to you.

Your own words

sound hollowed-out

unnatural.

The closest thing imaginable

to the dead silence

that only wealth can buy.

A desert island

or gated refuge

far from the hoi polloi.

But in the sprawling cosmopolis

where the rest of us are

silence is impossible.

How precious

quiet has become.

So much noise my ears hurt

voice is nearly gone,

and even my anguished cries

will go unheard;

so lost

in the cacophony

why listen anymore?

Even here

in this padded cell

alone with my thoughts.

The silence

I so desperately sought,

yet my racing mind

can't quiet itself.

Life Force - Feb 23 2024

 

Life Force

Feb 23 2024



The dry grass

has stopped growing

in the unrelenting sun

of a hot prairie summer.

I stand

under a high blue sky

that seems limitless,

look out at a horizon

that seems infinitely far away.

While beneath my feet

the surface is cracked and creviced;

like the bed

of a desert river

that stopped flowing ages ago.

The straw-coloured blades

have been drained of their life force,

so they lie flat

over parched ground

holding out for rain.

Or will it be fire,

racing across

the vast treeless plain

under a pall of thick black smoke?

But now, it's a sea of grass,

rippling in smooth golden waves

as a desiccating wind

passes over it.

While underground

sturdy roots are flush,

harbouring the precious life force

that will survive fire

and effloresce in rain.

How elegantly

prairie grass adapts

to this unforgiving place.

And how the land

will outlast its colonizers.

The squatters who have claimed it,

and the wheat they planted

hoping for a bumper crop.

But who, eventually

will throw up their hands and flee,

after battling the elements

and admitting defeat.

Leaving the grass to grow,

nature

to heal herself.

It's curious, how little it takes to trigger a poem. Simply the words “dry grass”, and this image of a flat undulating landscape covered by a vast expanse of rippling prairie grasses immediately materialized for me. I thought about the timeless endurance of prairie grass, the struggles of the first settlers and their naïve ambitions in an unexpectedly harsh land.

As well as the environmental benefit of perennial grasses as an excellent carbon sink, sequestering it in the soil for generation after generation. Perhaps a better solution to climate change than trees. (Although this was left out of the poem. At least in any explicit way. It may be implied, depending on the reader's background knowledge and politics.)

And once again, the recurring trope of man vs nature comes up. This may seem intentional, but isn't. I suppose it just bubbles up from my subconscious: a fundamental part of my worldview that, like it or not, keeps demanding to be heard.

CrackerJack and Hot Dog - Feb 22 2024

 

CrackerJack and Hot Dog

Feb 22 2024

The boys of summer.

Something I long for

in a dreary winter

of long nights

soiled snow

and cold dull days,

when the thin white light

seems to flatten the world.

Of course, they're actually grown men,

and the season begins

in the cool damp of spring.

But still, the diamond

is a lushly verdant green,

jewel-like

under the high-powered lights

of a grapefruit league stadium.

The crack of the bat

is just as firm and final,

the thwap

of leather on leather

has the same solid satisfaction.

And the home run trot

nodding to the crowd

is just as triumphant,

despite the aw-shucks modesty

of a grown man

playing a boy's game

for millions of dollars a year.

For many,

baseball may be too slow

old-fashioned

uncool.

But for traditionalists

who can live without the glitz and glamour,

prefer the measured pace

and acrobatics,

enjoy the cat and mouse

of pitcher and batter

nothing satisfies more.

The slow building of tension,

the sudden ecstatic release.

The perfect dimension

of 60 feet 6 inches

and home to first.

The perfectly timed turn

of the pick-off at second base

and slick double play.

And there's so much nuance

l'm always learning

and seeing something new.

Not to mention

the treasured history,

the hijinks in the dug-out,

the colour man's southern drawl.

How oddly comforting

to hear the same old clichés,

the stories

you've heard before

but even more embellished,

and his signature home run call

as the ball sails over the fence

and becomes a souvenir.

It can even be Shakespearean.

The performance art

of the slugger's steely gaze.

The tossed  bat as mic-drop,

because actions speak louder than words

and there's nothing more to say.

And the manager's red-faced glare,

chewing out the ump

and grinding his hat underfoot.

CrackerJack and hot dog

it's finally time,

there's a ballgame to watch!

With the first preseason game just a couple of days away, I couldn’t resist. But then, if I didn’t watch myself, every poem would either be dogs or baseball!

I let myself totally indulge: the hell with distillation, compression, brevity; ambiguity and allusion. Which is fine. A poem that says what it says and unfolds in the fullness of time perfectly suits baseball: no clock; taking as long as it takes.

What to Do WIth Your Hands - Feb 20 2024

 

What to Do With Your Hands

Feb 20 2024

Which conveniently

in the up elevator

are nicely occupied

with shopping bags, handbags

satchels

and attachés.

But where to put our eyes?

Scanning the cramped metal box

for somewhere safe,

and if caught

nodding brusquely

and darting away.

Mine are trained on the numbers

above the sliding doors,

lighting up sequentially

as our random collective ascends.

Like a countdown clock

but at a crawl.

No one mentions the weather.

The big game.

How traffic's crazy these days.

None of the innocuous things you say

to fill the awkward silences.

No polite exchange

to give our time passing together

a touch of warmth.

So you can catch an eye

without looking away.

Crack a smile.

Or even let a laugh slip out,

like the bubbly lady

from somewhere in back

clutching that big ugly purse.

Who says small talk

is a waste.

Because the elevator

with strangers standing stiffly

and grating on each other

   —   like high fashion mannequins,

with sharp elbows

and cheekbones that cut   —

could use some lubrication.

A sense of community

in this contentious age

of mutual suspicion

and existential dread.

No politics, no sex.

Just a low pressure system

and the chance of rain.

A collective lament

for the home team.

The Paradox of Choice - Feb 19 2024

 

The Paradox of Choice

Feb 19 2024

I'd rather not choose.

Tomato soup

and nothing but;

no beef-and-mushroom

chicken gumbo

cream of    . . .   .

All burgers

well done.

And any colour you want

as long as it’s black.

As well as the girl next door.

Who is also happy to settle.

Because too much choice

and there's always something better;

the never-ending search

for the perfect match.

In the quest to simplify my life

I choose blindly,

take it or leave it,

grab the first thing.

Turns out

she's the girl of my dreams.

No swiping left.

No endless search.

No hoping for perfection.

Because I'm perfectly content

to leave those many stones

unturned.

Not worry

about what horrors may lurk

in the darkness underneath;

spiders manically circling,

frantic worms

with pink translucent skin,

the pungent smell

of warm damp earth.

The paradox of choice: that too much choice, instead of making us happier as you'd expect, actually makes us less so. Yet consumer culture is all about choice! Unfortunately, what inevitably accompanies all that choice is terrible waste. Is that wall of cereal in the supermarket really necessary?

There's just the bother of choosing: the time and energy; the frustration of not even understanding some of the alternatives. In technology, especially. So often, the engineers delight in far too many bells and whistles; stuff that no regular person has any real use for.

There's the anxiety about making the wrong choice.

Then there is loss aversion (if that isn't the same thing!): what you got should have made you happy, but what you might have let get away makes you even more unhappy. The negative feelings always seem to win out.

What studies have shown people end up doing is simply not taking anything! They are paralyzed by too much choice.

The Call That Never Comes - Feb 18 2024

The Call That Never Comes

Feb 18 2024

This waiting

drains me.

The uncertainty.

The loss of control.

The racing mind,

speculating

anticipating

aimlessly filling time.

How much of life

is spent this way?

At someone else's pleasure,

subject to fickle fate?

The check-out line,

where the little old lady

is writing a cheque

with meticulous care.

The red light

that takes forever to change.

The summer vacation

that month after month

feels months away.

Tossing in bed

taunted by sleep,

the racing mind

that won't let you rest.

The phone

you obsessively check

for the call that never comes.

The windfall you've been counting on,

that's about to drop

but still does not.

And waiting for life to start

as the years dwindle down

and your age creeps higher;

saving up

holding off

putting in time.

Until finally

you've decided

you've deferred long enough;

but it's gotten too late

and time is up.

Dead Poets - Feb 18 2024

Dead Poets

Feb 18 2024

I just read this:

Plato denounced poetry for its falsehoods

and banned poets from the ideal society.

I wonder what was said

by some ancient Greek poet said

to offend the great man.

I suppose he was a literalist;

allegory

went over his head,

metaphor

was wasted on him.

Nevertheless, I feel a flush of pride

to be labelled a subversive.

To be on the outside

looking in.

To use my words

instead of my fists.

Of course, so few bother with poetry

Plato got his wish.

Just lucky for him

there were no novelists back then

no internet.

That even the written word

was rare.

But how my silly scribbles

about missed buses

sleeping dogs

and a walk in the woods

would merit expulsion

is beyond me.

Bad enough

they still want to censor, ban, suppress.

Keep the reading to shopping lists

and ads for shoes.

But not send us into exile,

curse our progeny,

burn

our thin volumes of verse.

At least not yet.

Instead, they just don't read.

Or humour us

with a brief recitation

at weddings and funerals

and the odd circumcision.

As well as compulsory education

that's closer to surgery

than pleasure.

A forensic autopsy

that dismembers a poem

line by line,

turning bored students

into cynical Platonists,

who would rather live in a cave

than read the dead poets

let alone a living one.

In and Of Itself - Feb 18 2024

 

In And Of Itself

Feb 18 2024

I'm amazed by her memory.

Photographic.

Archival.

Infallible.

Like an attic

cluttered with ephemera

tchotchkes

and the countless boxes of stuff

hauled along with every move.

Conscientiously.

Just because.

My memories

are more snapshots than video,

more back-of-the-envelope

than encyclopedic.

Moments worth remembering.

Photos

torn, faded, folded.

Incidents

recalled poorly, or not at all.

And images, like composites,

conflated

or even made-up;

because the literal truth means less

than what it meant

and how it felt.

The date of his death, for example.

Which is there, on his headstone, if you ever cared to look.

And anyway, what use is a number

in and of itself?

And sometimes, it's better to forget.

Imagine, being unable to;

memories, both good and bad

intruding unbidden

like that ringing in your ear

you just can't shake.

My attic

is dark, dusty, spider-webbed.

The floor creaks badly,

the ceiling

is too low to stand.

But I've learned to bring a flashlight

watch my head.

And when I do need to know

she's always there to ask.

Retrieval - Feb 17 2024

 

Retrieval

Feb 17 2024



Words that elude me.

Tip of the tongue,

but I get just a taste

before it’s snatched away.

A fleeting aha,

when it’s there for the having

but quickly fades to black.

Or I follow a fragment

into a blind canyon

and find I'm stuck in there,

that stubborn bit

taking up my entire field of vision

so nothing else gets in.

The harder I try

the further it recedes.

Distraction is the key, they say

get your mind somewhere else,

and the word

will materialize

in a sudden triumphant flash.

Recently

it was periwinkle

plethoric.

Esoteric, I know;

who even needs words like that?

And names, of course

always names.

Which is most embarrassing, face-to-face.

Is this the thin edge of dementia?

Is this dense fog of bewilderment

how it feels?

Stumbling through the miasma

hands out-stretched

trying to get my bearings?

And the clever work-arounds

when I tire of waiting.

But the word is there

in some deep recess of the brain.

Practice.

Don't panic.

Distract yourself.

Amazing, how often it comes

if I'm patient enough

and relax.

The perfect word

I stumble across

just as the fog lifts.

An Eye For an Eye - Feb 16 2024

 

An Eye For an Eye

Feb 16 2024

In this war

as never before

the horrors escalate;

tit-for-tat,

deterrence and reprisal,

an eye-for-an-eye.

A one-way ratchet

clicking through its stops,

teetering

on catastrophic collapse.

Who started it.

Who went first.

Who had no choice

but to act.

All good questions,

and inconsequential.

Long memories

put the extremists in charge,

and now

we are all swept up

in their fever dreams and grievances.

A pox on both their houses.

Stop the insanity

the world implores

as more blood is spilled.

But no one's listening

and we helplessly look on.

They pray to the same God

preach the same morality.

Both count their dead

and palliate the dying

with the same cold anger,

console the bereaved

with the same futile words.

Are both numb

weary

defiant.

The irony

of our common humanity

when it does no good.

The narcissism of small difference

as Freud once said.

But enough

to kill you neighbour

and feel nothing much.

Because we all need to belong;

kill them

before it's us.

Right on Red - Feb 15 2024

 

Right on Red

Feb 15 2024

Where are they all off to

and coming from?

Emerging

from the vanishing point

as if they can’t leave fast enough,

while others head for it

in roughly equal numbers.

A zero sum game

of inexhaustible cars.

As if the traffic cancels out,

and everyone

might have just as well

stayed put.

But who ever does?

So day after day

funnelling in

to the city grid

and grinding to a crawl.

Intersections grid-locked.

Arterials

clogged like clotted blood.

SUVs

idling in sclerotic lines

choking in exhaust.

Apoplectic drivers,

raising hands

to flash the bird

up against the glass;

scofflaws turning right-on-red

fuming at pedestrians

taking too much time to cross.

The romance of the open road

— roof down

wind in your hair

tunes turned up full blast —

is more myth than real.

And why bother heading west

to the promised land

following the sun?

Not when the frontier is dead,

California's full.

No one imagined

start/stop traffic

stuck behind the wheel.

That the open road

would be impassible,

parking an ordeal.

Or that the machine

that was supposed to liberate us

has become a 2 ton anchor

of tinted glass

and rusting steel.

No more free-wheeling thoroughfares.

No expressways

freeways

Autobahns.

No pedal-to-the-metal

on flat straight stretches

through prairie fields

desert scrub.

Just pot-holes and traffic jams,

and going nowhere fast.