More Tests - March 31 2024

 

More Tests

March 31 2024

More tests, the doctors said

just as they said before.

This limbo of not knowing

is its own kind of emptiness.

Time

weighs so heavily

an hour feels endless,

while an entire day

is Everest

looming impassably.

Yet in the alchemy of memory

those weeks of waiting

seem to have gone in a flash.

As if a black hole

had flattened everything,

its gravity

compressing time.

Which would be a mercy

if there wasn’t so little of it left.

At least a diagnosis satisfies

some academic need.

The power of naming things.

The illusion of knowing.

The delusion

of being in control.

Which is really just to substitute;

one uncertainty

exchanged for the next.

When I stepped out onto the street

why wasn’t I surprised

that the sun still shone,

traffic hummed,

pigeons cooed?

That the world went on

just as before?

A city sidewalk

full of people

living out their lives:

panhandlers

holding cardboard signs,

mothers herding children,

eyes on phones.

While I, the invisible man

walked to the car

and ducked in the door.

An automaton,

with no memory

of leaving the office

or crossing to the curb,

no idea

how long I had left.

But at least no more tests

I said to myself,

waiting

and waiting some more

for the traffic to part.

My Various Selves - March 30 2024

 

My Various Selves

March 30 2024

We are all multiple

and contradict ourselves,

different

depending on who we’re with

when and where.

Like words

that contain their opposites

   —  revolution, sanction, dust  —

context is everything.

Both revolve

and revolt.

How a planet around its sun

returns to its starting point;

but also to overthrow

by means of guillotines

and blood.

As I said, it depends.

But revolutions eat their young

and hardly ever last;

if the old order

doesn’t resurrect itself,

then a new elite

will happily take their place.

As if there’s a gravity

in human affairs

that levels everything,

restraining the excesses

and pulling us back to earth.

The multitudes

made whole.

But I am either anti-matter

dark energy

or both

and feel I’ve come apart.

My various selves

are fissiparous

centrifugal

atomized;

nothing coheres,

there's no steady state.

I orbit no sun.

The centre doesn’t hold

the circle doesn’t close.

I am both known, and unknowable;

a black hole

that emits no light

so I can’t even see myself.

First Skunk - March 28 2024

 

First Skunk

March 28 2024

The skunk didn’t spray.

But neither did it flee, budge, back off.

Which I understand,

because if deterrence could prevent nuclear war

I expect it could save a skunk

as well as us.

So the pup continued to bark;

circling warily,

then sinking down on her front legs

and popping up again,

eager to play

but not quite sure.

Her first skunk;

so perhaps

some ancestral instinct told her no,

or she was thrown off

by the unblinking sang-froid

of this novel animal.

If only I could go through life

with such imperious calm,

the swaggering confidence

that’s born of respect

but also fear.

In all the excitement

my frantic commands were ignored.

While the skunk soon sauntered off,

corrupting the air

with its pungently odious scent.

Walking

as if it had all the time in the world.

As if the sea

would part in front of it.

As if a royal procession

had favoured the hoi polloi

with a regal walkabout,

while the commoners, suitably cowed

were backing off

and averting their eyes.

I can only imagine

floating through life that way.

Nothing to fear

no reason to rush.

The threat

of the doomsday weapon

so simply conveyed

with a single white stripe

and shrug of the tail;

that cold-eyed stare

of entitlement.

Starting Over - March 27 2024

 

Starting Over

March 27 2024

You can always start over.

Burn it down.

Write it off.

Leave it behind,

receding in the rear view mirror.

Which you did;

time after time

picking yourself up off the floor

just to get knocked down again.

But eventually

   —   eyes blackened,

bloodied badly,

and punch drunk

from too many hits   —

you’ve had enough

and throw in the towel,

tap out,

run up the white flag.

You resort to cliches,

and screw originality.

Because life is short

and your life force

is inexorably ebbing away.

After all, not every poem

can hit it out the park,

every metaphor

remain unsullied.

Tomorrow, I’ll write more.

But for now

I’m phoning it in,

taking the path of least resistance,

resting on my laurels.

With a defiant what-the-hell

scorning pedantry

and mixing metaphors.

The Wind in Your Hair - March 27 2024

 

The Wind In Your Hair

March 27 2024



In spring

it’s the earthy smell

of newly thawed soil,

air

scented with flowers.

Summer is fresh cut grass,

rain

on hot dry pavement.

And fall is bittersweet

with wood-smoke

and burning leaves.

But winter is Antarctica,

white,

lifeless,

odourless;

frozen air

resting densely

on an endless expanse of snow.

I once read

that after too long an absence

one thing astronauts miss

is a breeze on the face

wind in the hair.

And, I imagine, the smells of nature

in a cramped metal capsule

that contains human bodies

breathing recycled air;

who pine for showers

but ration sponge baths instead.

In April

you can close your eyes

and still know what month.

But in winter

you’re an explorer

headed to the pole,

an astronaut

high above the planet

with the walls closing in;

and the atavistic urge

to breath in the earth

leaves you aching with nostalgia,

longing

for what you’ve lost.

You only notice

when it’s gone.

Who knew there was a word for that. “Rain on hot dry pavement”: petrichor.

A Meditation on Cold - March 25 2024

 

A Meditation on Cold

March 25 2024

It’s that damp cold

that goes down to the marrow

and lodges there.

Sends short sharp spasms

of shivers up your back

and into your neck;

which you don’t notice tensing up

until you’re finally inside

and mercifully warm.

The chilly end-of-winter weather

as it shoulders into spring,

rather than the deep freeze

of blue sky days

when the cold feels clean

and briskly invigorates.

Or have I gotten too old?

Could this be frailty,

and not that cutting wind

seasonal change?

Has my body betrayed me,

my mind lost its grit?

I dress in layers

and cover my face,

wear mitts

big enough to box in.

Console myself

by thinking of summer;

its stifling heat

blood-sucking bugs

sultry mugginess,

its clammy skin and sticky thighs,

July's

sweaty underwear.

Then think of cold

as purification.

Adversity

building fortitude.

And toughness

over comfort

with resiliency as prize.

And because heat addles the mind

and thins the blood,

think of hard stoic northerners

over hot-house flowers

grown under glass.

Of winter

as an existential test;

a reminder

of the fine line

between the living and the dead.

Graveyard Shift on the Geriatric Ward - March 24 2024

 

Graveyard Shift on the Geriatric Ward

March 24 2024

On the night shift

the air's cooler

the lights dimmed.

The darkness is almost viscous;

there’s a thickness, padding through it

that seems to slow things down.

Time drags.

Nothing happens fast.

And in the preternatural quiet

even I feel relaxed,

despite the hyper-vigilance

I can’t seem to shake.

I love the solitude

even though I’m not alone,

moving among the residents

asleep in their beds.

Is there something unwholesome

about people like me?

The night people

who flinch from the light,

prefer their own company,

are fine

alone with their thoughts.

Especially the early hours,

before the sky’s first softening

when it’s not quite dawn.

The work done,

sleep soon to come,

and thoughts of the early shift

jerked from their dreams

bleary-eyed and groggy,

jangling alarm clocks

going off by their ears.

I lean back, and let my eyes drift shut.

No one tut-tutting

my slacking off;

no one

standing over me to judge.

A Day Like Any Other - March 23 2024

 

A Day Like Any Other

March 23 2024

I want to believe

something could have been done.

That they were reckless

inattentive

slow to react.

That when they woke up that morning

in an orderly universe

of cause and effect,

some premonition they ignored

could have warned them not to go.

But of course, they went.

Left on time

stayed in their lane.

So when the pick-up truck

crossed the white line

and hit them head-on,

the utter senselessness

touched us all.

Instant death

on a day like any other.

The cruel contingency

breaks my heart.

All the steps they took

   — a second saved,

a slight delay, here and there

no one gave a thought to —

that turned a close call

into fatality

seems incomprehensible;

an intersection

in time and space

that couldn’t be more improbable.

But then

who ever said

things make sense,

virtue is rewarded,

sin has consequence?

It’s a clockwork universe

but hardly orderly.

And most important

indifferent to us.

Because good luck and bad

it’s all the same.

Because if you can’t see it coming

then why not today?

And because no matter what

you’re at the mercy of others

regardless of how hard you try

to keep yourself safe.

A small piece from the weekend Globe.

I’m an atheist, but the expression “there but for the grace of God” comes to mind. We like to feel we’re charge of our own fate. But ultimately, contingency rules. Shit is falling from the sky all the time, and no matter how hard you run, it’s going to get you.

“The pastor of a Cree Nation church and other people en route to medical appointments were among the victims of a head-on collision in rural Quebec on Thursday that killed five people.

Four members of the Cree First Nation of Waswanipi, Que., were killed in the crash, a tragedy that has “devastated” the community located about 500 kilometres northwest of Montreal, Deputy Chief Rhonda Oblin Cooper said in an interview Friday.

The four were travelling inside a van that collided with a pickup truck in the rural town of Chapais, about 75 kilometres east of Waswanipi. The driver of the pickup truck was also killed.

Quebec provincial police are still investigating the incident but have said preliminary information suggests the truck entered the wrong lane on Highway 113 and drove head on into the van, which then caught fire.

Deputy Chief Oblin Cooper said the van belonged to the regional health service and was shuttling patients to appointments at the time of the collision. The office of Chief Irene Neeposh has identified the victims as van driver Abraham Ottereyes, patients Allan Etapp and Charlie Gull, and Mr. Gull’s wife, Cecile Gull.”

Making the Bed - March 22 2024

 

Making the Bed

March 22 2024

What you think about

while making the bed.

Snuggling under

that cozy comforter

on cold winter nights,

and fresh sheets

in a fragrant breeze

on a warm summer day.

Especially watching it float

on a plush pillow of air,

flicking your wrists

so it falls perfectly.

The good night’s sleep

you never seem to get.

The pillow next to yours

where her head used to rest.

And that thing you read

about the well-made bed;

the dank underworld

in that virtual space

where toxic moulds flourish.

Or even badly made;

not tucked tight

and pulled so taut

you could bounce a quarter off,

but straightened just enough to count.

So why not

leave the bed unmade?

Because what’s the point

when you’ll just mess up again?

The treadmill of futility

that’s life day-to-day;

like the sink of dirty dishes

you’re never really rid of,

and the dust from who-knows-where

that falls no matter what.

The twisted sheets

piled to one side.

The blanket

you kicked off

too hot and half-awake,

in that fitful delirium

of weirdly fractured dreams.

And the pillow case

where flecks of skin and drying sweat

impregnate the material.

Where, when you weren’t tossing and turning

you laid your heavy head.

So you don’t.

And as you leave the room

pulling the door

tightly shut tight behind you.

                 “It’s just going to get messed up again next winter.”

Close to the Sun - March 20 2024

 

Close to the Sun

March 20 2024

They’ve made plants that glow.

Hijacked

their genetic machinery

to give off light.

I can certainly see

the pleasing symmetry in this;

like a closing of the circle

they feed on light

and in turn give it back.

Yet it somehow seems unholy;

bending nature

to our frivolous ends,

enhancing plants

so they still serve our purpose

even in the dark.

But is this really beauty

or mere curiosity,

an oddity

for the jaded and bored

who need even more sensation

to feel at all?

And what then happens

when the novelty wears off?

Like human clones

and artificial intelligence,

is it science

doing what can be done

just because,

whatever the consequence?

So I begin to wonder,

are we Promethean gods

bringing fire and light,

or mere men

flying too close to the sun?

My petunias

glow in the dark,

an eerie green

that seems extra-terrestrial.

As if we’ve let ourselves become

so distanced from nature

we’re no longer us.

https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2024/03/glowing-houseplant-petunia-lightbio/677801/

The First Day of Spring - March 20 2024

 

The First Day of Spring  . . .

March 20 2024



      . . . according to the calendar.

Which is supposed to be the beginning of things.

The world remade.

A fresh start.

So why don’t I feel reborn

in this season of rebirth?

Did anything really change

when the tilt of the earth

imperceptibly shifted,

the sun set

a few seconds later?

Yet somehow

a line was crossed, a page turned

and the date made it official.

As if astrology had it right all along,

and the planets and stars

really do determine our fate.

The crocuses know better.

They still lie dormant

under the snow

in the cozy warmth of mother earth.

Perhaps

when they push up into view

on some chilly day

in the bleak light of March

I too will feel renewed.

When the air is filled

with the earthy smell

of freshly thawed soil.

When the dead grass

resurrects itself

and I watch the world green.

When the first bloom appears,

and I begin to see

in colour again

instead of bleak to dark.