A Small But Telling Gesture - Dec 1 2025

 

A Small But Telling Gesture

Dec 1 2025

He holds the elbow of the blind man,

gently steering him

between the shoppers and their carts,

coolers stacked with produce,

multicoloured fruit.

Occasionally leans in,

speaking into an ear

in a soft clear voice.

A close relative?

Paid attendant?

Or good samaritan,

who jumped at the chance

to be of use?

The white cane taps.

His years of practice show,

swinging it side-to-side

in a tight radius

that matches his pace.

His grip is light, but firm,

and what seems approximate 

is as precise as a radar beam

circling through its arc.

This is how a blind man 

navigates the world,

not with brain implants

and computerized vision, 

but the time-honoured technology

of a long straight stick,

the helping hand

of human touch.

I close my eyes, and continue to walk,

taking small tentative steps

with arms out front

feeling my way.

I hear people talking,

canned music 

wafting overhead;

am vaguely aware

something may or may not

be blocking my way.

A cloying scent fills the air,

ripe fruit

smelling of the tropics,

and the rotting stuff

in the bottom of the bins.

While fresh parsley 

cloves of garlic

and human bodies

who’ve been at work all day

add their funk

to the potent potpourri.

So the steady tap of the cane

is the one constant

that centres me.

They say the blind

have super-human hearing

a discerning nose.

As if our senses are zero-sum;

a deficit in one

made up for by another.

So perhaps he can cut through

the muddle of sound

and competing smells.

Of course, I soon stumble

as the sharp edge of a bin catches my leg.

I am not superhuman

just sightless.

Actually, less;

a mere pretender

who can never know

how blindness truly feels.

Perhaps envious as well?

Because there’s an intimacy

to the blind man and his helper, 

humanity at its best

in this small but telling gesture —

an offered elbow 

compliantly bent,

and a guiding hand

firmly cradling it.

Do I, too, crave touch like that?

Not sexual

or incidental

or with malicious intent,

but the reassuring touch

of a warm and steady hand

reaching out from the darkness

to walk with me.

Touch,

the neglected sense 

we take too much for granted.

But perhaps the most essential;

even when we imagine

we’re perfectly good on our own.

Dog Person - Nov 30 2025

 

Dog Person

Nov 30 2025

He called me a dog person.

I felt both flattered and seen.

Not a cat person, at least,

which I don’t so much admire

as am baffled by.

Suffice it to say

I don’t get cats.

Or is it “dog person”

not as descriptor, but as a noun;

a hybrid, or chimera

with a dog’s head and human body

  — a cynocephalus?

Or have I got that turned around?

Wouldn’t a canine body and human brain

be more ideal,

athleticism and smarts

all in one.

But then again, aren’t dogs more sensible,

less neurotic than us?

A simple creature

who lives in the moment

and quickly forgets,

an enthusiast

obsessed with walks, balls, and food.

  … Mostly food.

Who needs higher thought

and complicated relationships

when you can be man’s best friend?

A come-to-life plush toy

undisturbed 

by the state of the world,

who never pays the rent

commutes to work

or cleans up her mess,

and whose soft brown puppy-eyes

can get her out of anything.

Who needn’t even dress.

Although that human body

would probably want to be clothed.

A man-dog

embarrassed by his nakedness,

not lithe enough to lick.

I sent the following note to my brother when I shared to first draft of this poem. It’s as good an explanation as any, so I’m reproducing it here:

 In your email containing the WSJ article about ugly dogs, you called me a “dog person”. Absolutely!  But the term also struck me in its most literal sense. So I couldn’t resist quickly reeling off this little bit of nonsense. I know you’re not a fan of poetry, but thought you might get a kick out of it nevertheless.

Such a thing actually exists. At least in mythology. There’s the cynocephalus of medieval folklore. And the Egyptians had a god named Anubis: the jackal-headed god of mummification, embalming, cemeteries, and the afterlife, often depicted as a man with a black jackal head symbolizing decay, fertile Nile soil, and rebirth.

Passing Jupiter - Nov 30 2025

 

Passing Jupiter

Nov 30 2025

The embers glow

on a bed of cinder and ash

and scattered coals,

bright red

against sepulchral blacks and greys.

There’s no flame, not even smoke

as the weakening fire

burns cleanly down.

It’s like the life force ebbing away,

or at least how I hope my final battle with death

will end;

inevitably

acceptingly

going gently into the night.

 

The wrought iron poker

is thickly coated

in velvety black soot.

I stir what’s left;

the few embers briefly flare,

then cool

to a dull orange-red.

I watch until it’s dead.

Until the last of the fuel fades

then flickers

before the once blazing fire

snuffs quietly out.

And anticlimactically ends

in a curl of wispy smoke

like a last shallow breath.

But combustion isn’t clean.

Even cremation is incomplete,

there are still the cremains

to be returned to the mourners

in an ornamental urn

or cardboard box.

Perhaps, with sufficient heat, it would all burn

until nothing was left;

no bone

crushed into coarse grey powder

and small hard nubs,

and none of that thick black soot

adhering to the firewall. 

Every atom

to the very last

converted into energy —

from sunlight to tree

and wood to heat

then back to light again.

Which, at speed, is now passing Jupiter

on its way to the edge of the galaxy.

Just as I Love Lucy

beamed out in the 50s

reached Alpha Centauri

4 years on,

too weak

for a rabbit-eared TV

but just as many laughs.

Not an afterlife, exactly.

But more alive

than the inert matter

cooling rapidly

in the bottom of the stove.

No, I didn’t do the arithmetic. Didn’t calculate the distance to Jupiter and the speed of light. Just thought that among the outer planets, “Jupiter” sounded best! 

Some readers might see in this an allusion to a soul or spirit surviving the demise of its body; a life force or consciousness that persists after death. Perhaps, as they’re presented with a box of cold lumpy cremains, they will find the thought of some kind of afterlife comforting. I hope they do.

But this isn’t my belief. I think of death as utter extinguishment: as hard to conceive as it is, an eternity of nothingness. Because consciousness, like the mind, arises from the brain and dies with the brain; there is no spirit separate from the body. So if anything, this poem is simply the First Law of Thermodynamics in action (the conservation of energy).

Not terribly poetical, I know. But I like the circularity of this example:  light from the sun transformed into matter, then back to light (and heat of course). Nothing wasted or lost. A closed circle. So the light that fire cast on you hasn’t gone. It’s still radiating off, racing away somewhere in space at app. 3 million metres/second. 

A Serious Man - Nov 29 2025

 

A Serious Man

Nov 29 2025

I am a serious man. 

Seriousness in a man should be expected

even if it is less fun.

But the serious child

seems unnatural.

Who can’t lose himself.

Who bears the weight of the world.

Whose face betrays 

his relentless questioning

— the furrowed brow and bitten lip,

the vulnerable eyes

with their dark sleepless circles.

A joyless child 

without abandonment.

A child who is preternaturally old,

either too much of this world 

or who richly imagines the worst.

A fearful child

who can’t remember dreams

or would rather forget,

and who still insists 

on sleeping with the lights on.

Like brooding poets

and consumptive ones

he is thin, sallow, and restless.

He is not friendless,

but they’re too much like him

and never really get close.

His parents think he’s “special”,

but aren’t sure what to do

and have worries of their own. 

Serious children

were either born serious

or suffer for our sins;

the offspring of war, famine, and neglect.

They are overly sensitive,

in need of gentle handling

and attentive care;

but even if they get enough

it’s often gotten wrong. 

So if you run into one

take him seriously.

It gets better, you’ll say

but won’t be believed.

You’ll want to give him a hug

but he’ll likely rebuff you;

or, if he does accede

will stiffen up in your arms

then wiggle free.

If you’re a serious man, you’ll understand.

And if not, you will pity him,

look for someone to blame,

insist on fun.

But better than pity

and more than play

listening works.

Because his questions are good

and his vision pure,

not so much innocent

as disarmingly naïve.

The serious man is cynical,

but the serious child 

not yet. 

 

I was reading a criticism of the stereotypical tech-bro — Zuckerberg, in particular—which depicted them as unserious and careless. As opposed to serious men. 

Which a man should be. Not the adolescent frat-boy’s version of musclebound and predatory manliness. Not the manosphere’s cartoonish version. And not the unserious men — venal, social-climbing, oleaginous, ignorant, and unself-aware— who gravitate to Trump, and whom he appoints to high office.

Was the serious man once a serious child? Which doesn’t sound right: a serious man, sure, that’s the desirable version of masculinity; but serious child sounds oxymoronic. Childhood isn’t a time for seriousness. Which is the thought process that led to this poem.

I’d call myself a serious man. And I was a serious child. So even though my poems are decidedly not autobiographical, some of this is even true.

If You Lived That Long - Nov 28 2025

 

If You Lived That Long

Nov 28 2025

Suddenly, slowly, glacially.

Deliberately, thoughtfully, methodically.

Compulsively, impulsively

disastrously. 

Everything has its speed.

Even time,

which may be as constant as they say it is

but doesn’t feel that way.

I tend to dawdle

defer

procrastinate. 

If not exactly glacial

then at least putting off.

Have you ever watched a stream

in the first weeks of winter

beginning to freeze?

How it starts with a thin crust of ice

clinging to the shore

and in the lee of rocks,

then overnight

extends further out

then further out the next.

And while it may recede here and there

grows inexorably,

invisibly thickening

closing in.

Until one clear cold morning, you notice it’s complete;

the river bridged,

so even the fast water 

down the middle

is somehow solid with ice.

Not thick enough to walk across

but looks it.

What was once a fast-moving stream

is now perfectly still.

Add a dusting of fresh white snow

and it’s pristine.

Was it weeks,

or did it freeze instantly?

When the last molecule

of liquid water

flipped to its crystal form,

and a seamless bridge of ice

locked into place.

Slowly …methodically …suddenly.

And if another ice age is about to start

 — because really, how could you tell — 

even glacially.

But all things pass,

and even ages

eventually end.

When, if you lived that long

you could watch the glaciers thaw,

see time

moving in reverse.

Adverbs are anathema in poetry. If the cardinal rule of good poetry is to show it, not say it, then adverbs do exactly what they shouldn’t. So not only are they lazy, they disrespect the reader by patronizing her:  too much hand-holding, too obviously spelling it out. 

“Suddenly”, tempting as it often is, is probably the worst actor in this. So I challenged myself: not only by starting to poem with that forbidden word, but by starting it with 9 adverbs in a row!

Forget about the regular tick-ticking of the clock, the tinny drumbeat of the metronome. Because time isn’t constant, it’s highly subjective. Or at least the perception of it is. I’m not sure how physicists measure time; but I sure know how regular people do!

Only for the sake of this poem am I a procrastinator. Actually, the real me is the opposite. Possibly even to a fault. (Judicious waiting sometimes works better than jumping the gun.) Because I may have over-corrected. I used to defer, and got into trouble for it. (I suspect I let perfectionism paralyze me.) So, did I learn my lesson too well?

Labrador - Nov 25 2025

 

Labrador

Nov 25 2025

She curls up;

a tight ball of fur,

back to the wind

nose burrowed into her tail.

My dog in winter.

An outside dog

who is welcome in

but prefers the cold.

I open the door

and step aside invitingly;

she looks up 

with those big brown eyes,

thumps her tail a few times,

then settles back as before.

She is even named for the north;

her breed’s origin

in a bleak land of stunted trees

and the cold north Atlantic. 

Where her kind once swam,

a fisher’s companion

retrieving fish his net had lost,

her big webbed paws

and rudder-like tail

purpose-fit for the job;

a working dog

keen to start each day.

I envy her toughness

admire her all-weather design.

But still, could she survive without me?

Learn to hunt,

evade the wolves,

find a place, a pack, a mate?

Or have 20 millennia

of domestication

made us inextricable?

Man’s best friend,

dogs’ demigod.

She will come in, eventually.

And we will cuddle up in bed,

her warm body 

too hot 

for me to sleep well,

but her presence there

too comforting to resist.

           This poem is more Skookum than either Rufus or Peanut. A really tough old girl! 

           She passed a year ago, at the ripe old age of 15 1/2. 😢

Storm Watch - Nov 24 2025

 

Storm Watch

Nov 24 2025

A storm watch has popped up on my phone.

How reassuring

they are keeping watch

and looking out for me,

eagle eyes 

peering up;

that is, whoever “they” are.

Satellites circling,

computers whirring,

texts 

hurtling through space

in case of snow.

So I’ve been duly warned;

the first storm of winter,

and I can only hope to be stranded at home

  — snow stayed,

my obligations on hold.

But I remember the old days

when we were on our own.

How we sniffed the air

tested the breeze

squinted up at the sky.

Watched the birds roost

squirrels hunker down.

Felt it in our bones.

At the mercy of the weather gods

who were as ineffable

as the Almighty himself.

We were humble back then,

accepting our impotence

surrendering to whatever.

When life was full of surprises,

not watches and warnings

and red alerts.

A snow day, like an unexpected gift

one weekday morning,

before the alarm emitted

its klaxon-like blast.

Rolling over in bed

and looking out the window

as horizontal snow

battered the glass,

trees bent

leafless branches broke,

and impassable roads

made it feel even cozier

to be stranded at home.

Raindrops - Nov 23 2025

 

Raindrops

Nov 23 2025

The answer to why me

is why not?

Because the odds are against it;

there was an infinitesimal chance

it would be me,

so of course it shouldn’t have been.

And aren’t I entitled to better;

not saintly, but as good as any,

so in a just universe

I’d be spared.

And dammit, haven’t I had enough bad luck already,

or at least more than my share?

But it’s bad form

to answer a question with another.

And you realize, don’t you, that life isn’t fair?

Shit happens.

Fate’s random.

And there’s no such thing as destiny,

the universe has no intent.

The cosmic accident of birth

is really all you get;

the rest is a gift

with only so much given.

Which isn’t consolation, I know,

can’t assuage the pain

rage

and impotence you feel.

Because all you want 

is to shake you fist at the gods,

not shrug your shoulders

and nod fatalistically.

Why me

will come to all of us

eventually in life.

Trouble is, there’s a what, a when, and a how,

but there is no why.   

No reason in the world for this,

just rage

then resignation,

and after a while

recalibration

to the rest of your life;

the new normal,

at least until the next big thing

looms overhead

like a dark thundercloud. 

So shake your fist

pound the desk

shout, scream, and curse.

Even clasp your hands and pray

to whatever God or gods

might overhear,

atheist, or not.

But don’t ask the unanswerable.

Because shit happens

like raindrops

falling from the sky;

no matter how fast you walk

there’s no staying dry.

Take Care of Itself - Nov 22 2025

 

Take Care of Itself

Nov 22 2025

I can’t help but revisit the past.

I’m a barge

dredging through memory

and stirring up silt,

its big scoop

reaching to the bottom

beneath the turbid water

digging blind.

Sometimes, I’m an archeologist;

down on my knees

sifting the soil

with fine toothed instruments,

sweeping off my finds

with soft little brushes.

Exposing them

to the harsh light of day,

the corrosive air

that reduces everything

to its elements.

But more often than not

I’m up at night,

leaving a warm bed

and stumbling through the dark

over something I dropped

lost track of

forgot,

or never put in its place

from the start.

So I can search for the past, or not;

either way

it's always there.

As fossilized remains,

small bones

and broken ones

time turned to stone.

A mummified body,

like the prehistoric man

found in a bog

with a rope around his neck.

Or a decomposing one

buried alive;

in the dark of night

weighted down

and dumped over the side.

Good memories, but mostly bad.

Although it seems we are biased 

toward negativity;

human nature

trying to learning from the past

as best it can

to save us from ourselves.

The future is even harder to know.

You plan, hope, project.

Pursue the path you set.

Or simply drift,

because inertia is easiest.

And because there’s all the time in the world

until there’s not.

So really, the now is all that’s left.

Being present,

living in the moment

oblivious to the next.

And always 

forgiveness, as well.

Especially to yourself.

Despite the amends

you failed to make,

the regrets

you’ll take to your deathbed.

And never believe it

when they say they have none,

taking a last breath

and holding your hand in their 

cold and wasted one.

They’ve simply perfected

the art of forgetting;

learned too well

to let the past take care of itself.