Topple
Oct 12 2008


I watch a small child
toddling down the path
holding a big black umbrella
over his head.
His chubby little legs are bowed,
and he takes tiny steps
pigeon-toed,
tipping from side-to-side
hanging-on for dear life.
And the umbrella tips as he goes,
leaning precariously
almost overwhelming him
— a great black bird of prey
hovering.

From a distance
the umbrella seems self-propelled,
like some bed-time story come to life.
But then I spot the proud little man
valiantly keeping it aloft,
showing-off
how grown-up he is.

I hope it’s calm,
or a good breeze, and he’d be off,
laughing uproariously all the way
— a boy’s whole short life
spent looking up;
now towering over
the rest of us.

A Fear of Fire
Oct 8 2008


All his life
he had a fear of fire.
Ladders in every room,
escape plans.
And galvanized buckets of water
he faithfully kept filled.

Perhaps he was scarred as a child.
His eyes, transfixed by fire,
pulled
too close to the hearth.

Or a house ablaze,
the hellish screams, the burning bodies.
And the stench
of the charred blackened remains,
still smoking the morning after.

Or a forest, going-up in flames —
tinder dry,
lighting-up the night,
bearing down as loud as a freight train.
Leaving him slack-jawed
gobsmacked,
consuming all in its path, no stragglers.



So we weren’t surprised when he died in his sleep,
as he always hoped he would.
An old man as deaf as a door-stop,
who couldn’t hear
when the alarm went-off
— overcome by smoke.

The Intoxication of Crowds
Oct 7 2008


You start to live for the applause,
a junkie for standing ovations —
wired, buzzed, hopped-up,
every night, the craving
one hit after another.

All you see is the first two rows
when the lights come up;
so you feel as much in the dark as they are,
hiding-out
behind this jangling mannequin
who pretends he’s you.
You need them,
and find them contemptible.
The predictable laughs, the easy tears,
playing another eager audience
like a virtuoso
his instrument.

It’s when the lights go down
you relapse.
It’s the days in cramped motel rooms
light leaking-in.
Where the curtains never pull tight,
and day-time TV
is your only companion.
It’s the sudden crash,
after you’ve binged on their adulation.
And the love you wish you had
they cannot give.

Introverts love a crowd like this.
Pretending to be another
when the curtain’s up,
and the giddy fearless freedom
of feeling untouchable.
Or at least until you’re discovered
— an impostor
in his rented suit.

Now, it’s the sweats and the shakes and the craving
for that main-lined love.
How you feel when the lights go up
— the sudden flush
the manic high
the blissful fix that fills you.
Like that incredible night you owned them;
that night you killed.

Fall
Oct 7 2008


I mostly say “fall”
this time of year —
when life resumes;
there is order, once more.

While “autumn” is one of those poetry words
that seems unnatural
chatting with the neighbours.
But a word that conveys the melancholy I feel
— something bittersweet,
like burnished leaves
and wood-smoke.
When the days grow short
and the light, thinner.
And the air is dry and clear,
respite from the delirium of August.

I’d rather enter into winter this way
than fall,
leaves dropping
their trees stripped bare.
Or as man once did,
falling from grace
expelled from His fabulous garden.

This autumnal season,
setting the stage
for the year’s gentle exit.
When the first snowfall
can wait.
And the light has yet to fail.
And the leaves, before they fall
in all their earthly glory.

Road Trip
Oct 5 2008


Take the side roads, they said.
. . . What’s the rush?
See the place.

But what I remember most
is cruise-control
on deserted Interstates,
middle of the night —
the ghostly green of dashboard lights,
and the plush hum
of asphalt.
I have no sensation of motion, here.
It’s the darkness that goes moving past;
while I sit
in my capsule of steel and glass,
the world unfolding around me.

A soothing drawl keeps me company,
every baseball cliché as comforting
as a seeing-eye single,
or hitting a rope
and touching ‘em all.
There’s the diamond glowing green
and the crack of bat on ball
and the umpire’s emphatic call,
punching him out, strike 3.
And this perfect game
of anticipation and tension,
and its sudden exquisite release.

The game goes on,
no clock, no pressure.
And I, too, could go on like this
forever —
no crack of dawn
with its cold flat light;
no over-pass
with brightly buzzing signs,
and fast-food stands
all alike.

I’m driving on empty
just west of nowhere
in the heart of a vast dark continent;
picturing hot dogs and beer
and the home-town crowd
on their feet
cheering.

Geography 101
Oct 6 2008


A brief primer
for the directionally challenged.

Lesson 1: Prepositions.

It’s always up north.
Climbing through knee-high drifts;
covering latitude.

And down south, y’all;
dropping vowels,
inevitably letting your standards fall
in all that heat.

And out west,
leaving the comfort of home
for the frontier,
peering-out
over the edge of a continent.

And finally, back east
where your journey started;
in some big city on a great lake
or by the sea,
on time
inside
at ease.

Or you can descend
down into the bowels of the earth,
back through time
into deeper strata,
until you emerge on the far side of the planet.
Where any direction at all
will take you home.

An Inconvenient Truth
Sept 30 2008


What to do
when the truth hurts?
When it stands eye-to-eye
takes you by the neck
and tries to shake some sense
into you
— the plain truth,
the whole truth,
nothing but the truth
so help you God.

You duck and weave, of course,
learn to slip from its grasp,
make yourself small.
Or skip the definite article altogether —
because a truth
is the convenient kind,
no modifier required.
Where you can choose
exactly which version you like.

But the brutal truth
is immovable.
It’s coarse wool against your skin,
the too-tight neck.
It’s that itchy back
no one else can scratch,
— further right, no left . . .
. . . now harder!!
It’s the zit in the middle of your forehead,
blinking-out at the world like a 1000 watt light.
Before a word’s been said,
you feel Illuminated
scrutinized
and wish you could hide
— that you were nothing more
than some insignificant lie
of omission.

Dead Man Walking
Sept 30 2008


A man stumbles,
dodging a puddle in the courtyard.
Despite a firm hand on one shoulder,
and a last meal
lying like lead in his gut,
he will keep his feet dry
his prison shoes
untouched.

This is the reflex we all share,
turning away from death
unable to contain
its mystery, its terror.
An act of defiance, perhaps
— that this hard man
still has his pride.
But more likely, denial;
still sure the governor will call
the real murderer confess
the killing machine
malfunction.

The prospect of death
concentrates the mind wonderfully.
I imagine he saw the water glint
rippling across his reflection;
and the wet cobblestones, now rust-red,
incandescent
in the long light of dawn.

For just an instant
he felt the hand tighten,
and this small sensation filled him.
An anonymous stranger
he thought,
as his body was marched-off to the gallows;
the last time he will ever be touched.

Out of Time
Sept 26 2008


Even a poet
of few words
would say too much.
Because in this story, nothing occurs —
life in a flash
caught in the act
in black and white;
captured
out of time.
And what went before
what happens after
is yours to decide.

A man and a woman
who is looking away
about to embrace,
or departing, perhaps.
You see pigeons
taking flight,
and observe all the shades of grey.
Time sliced so thin
it disappears.
Yet now
you can take forever
looking in.

Did they notice the man
snapping their picture?
Do they burn
for eternity
in your unwelcome gaze?
Or do they have eyes
only for each other
— utterly present,
perfect masters of Zen?

A Rare Atmospheric Anomaly
Sept 28 2008


You’d think the smell
would have overwhelmed you
gagging,
that many fish
all at once;
their quicksilver forms
turning dull in the heat of the sun.
But it’s the sound you remember,
all those small stiff bodies
flipping and flopping on the cold hard ground.
Until they lay
gasping on their sides;
gulls circling, squawking,
sniffing dogs.

You always liked categories —
the permanence of names,
everything in its place.
So life feels safe
predictable.
But when fish fall from the clear blue sky
you know anything is possible —
that the flat grey lake
could rise-up and take you in;
or the land
you took for granted
swallow you whole.

And you,
walking by yourself by the shore
might find you’re not alone
after all.
Free fish,
like manna from heaven.
And someone special, unexpected;
who will walk hand-in-hand,
gather you up,
and believe
all your fabulous tales.

Subterranean
Sept 22 2008


Subterranean, I thought.
Dark,
immobilized,
the crushing weight of rock.

No, it feels more submerged
waterlogged
— cross-currents, under-tows,
struggling to talk.

Or could it be lost
in interstellar space
— black,
and bottomless.

Then how long ‘til I disintegrate,
the vacuum
boiling-off my blood?
My boundaries
blurring, softening,
my molecules
bursting apart.
‘Til I expand to fill the cosmos;
my atoms
become the stuff of stars.

The Game of Your Life
Sept 21 2008


They retire the numbers
of sports stars.
Hang them up
from the rafters of hockey rinks
or out by the bleacher seats;
giant jerseys
the effigies of heroes.

The rest of us
will hang up our smocks
our suit coats and frocks,
accept
a gold watch and a handshake.
No one will recall
the emptied in-box and good team player,
the unused sick days
and on-time record.
Because there is no hall of fame
for office temps,
or manufacturers’ representatives.

And then you realize
that the sports hero you still idolize
was 20-something, back then
barely shaving,
40 years younger than you are.
Your own highlight
was even younger,
that goal you scored in overtime, a sophomore
in the game of your life.
Peaked early
you console yourself.

As they say
there’s no going home again.
The old arena
now apartment blocks . . .
the high school
shuttered and locked . . .
and who knows
where the trophies and banners have gone.

And all the home-coming queens
team captains and MVP’s,
long forgotten.

On Country Roads
Sept 21 2008


On country roads,
some are hard-top
some are gravel.
Hydro poles pace your progress,
leaning, bleached by sun.
You can hear the wind
whistling through tightly strung wires,
and the indolent buzz
of insects.

On country roads
you walk
half-on, half-off
the shoulder,
and the cars keep coming for miles
— a cloud of dust,
the sound
getting louder and louder.

On country roads
drivers wave as they pass,
and after awhile
you begin waving back;
a small brief act
you find strangely reassuring.
And then, with the zeal of the newly converted
you start using both hands
and smile and clap
and turn as they pass,
sending them off
like long-lost neighbours.

Even the sour old man
hunched against the door of his battered Chevy half-ton
lifts 4 fingers from the wheel
and nods slightly, once;
forced from his misanthropy for one brief moment,
cajoled by the social norms of country roads
to acknowledge he is not alone
down here on earth.
Before he gasses it
scowling
all the way back to town.

First Frost
Sept 19 2008


Fall arrives one night
thinking we won’t notice.
The good people
sleeping,
street lights
illuminating empty streets,
and plump little housecats
who have slipped away,
stalking
hissing at skinny strays.

It comes with chilly breath
that sits heavy
where the road dips,
and in the hollows down by the creek.
It touches the leaves
their brilliant colours bitter-sweet
knowing how quick they pass.
And the grass,
which abruptly stops growing
with the first hint of frost.

I awaken, blinking
in the clear thin light
noticing something’s changed,
not sure what.
But after the lethargy of summer
I feel expectant, braced,
and can’t wait to get up.

From year to year, the seasons never repeat themselves;
except for fall
which is always the same.
It arrives quietly, one night
and usually ends, too soon, in daylight,
with an inch of sloppy snow
under low grey skies.

Pictures of War
Sept 14 2008


In pictures of war
the victims go nameless,
and less and less are they warriors.
Lost children
on pencil-thin legs.
Young mothers,
clasping listless babies
to withered breasts.
And old men,
who are no longer a threat to anyone.

How does he feel,
observing life
under glass,
his eye attached
to the camera’s narrow aperture?
Does he think about focus
depth
the effect of light and shadow?
Or is it cold sweats
adrenaline
the fear of death?
Or has he convinced himself he’s exempt —
his white well-fed body
set apart,
his noble cause
somehow protecting him?

Or is he overwhelmed by so much suffering?
Shoving it down
into drugged demonic dreams;
diluting it
with warm beer, cheap Scotch,
along with the other foreign correspondents
who gather after hours
in crumbling hotel bars.

He re-enters the known world
with his prize-winning shots
bearing witness,
and still, the war won’t stop
— all the fleeting moments
his auto-shutter caught;
his collection of subjects,
unaware
anonymous.
And now, how many merely broken,
how many dead and gone?

In another age, they might have feared
his pictures were stealing their souls.
And perhaps he did;
because the way that memory tortures him
their suffering souls still live.



This poem was inspired by a powerful radio documentary I heard on the CBC show Ideas. It was a collage of interviews with various photojournalists who had risked their lives in war zones. They reflected on many things, including their sense of helplessness and responsibility; the damage to family life; their feelings of fatalism and fear and – surprisingly – freedom; and the persisting psychological harm of the horrible events they’ve witnessed. Anyway, I’ve tried to capture some of that here. /B

Lawn Care
Sept 12 2008


The smell of fresh cut grass,
for the last time, this year.
Like a buzz-cut on the first day of school,
the lawn is closely cropped
— summer done,
eyes front,
shorn heads in obedient rows.

The snow shovel
on the hook where it hung all summer
tries catching my eye
— its metal blade flashing,
banging the wall
when the wind catches it.
And the rake, reproaching me
for neglecting the leaves last fall.

Each season is marked
by its own set of chores
— as expected as the end-of-semester-test,
cramming the night before.
The reassuring routines
of lawn care,
clearing snow,
keeping-up appearances.
This is steady work,
holding back nature.
Which will reclaim this place
eventually, of course;
after I’m gone
or our time is over.

But today, there’s the smell of fresh cut grass,
standing back
contented, spent
inhaling sweet deep breaths
— for now,
a job well done.
The autumn leaves will come
soon enough.

No Reasonable Offer Refused
Sept 8 2008


My bowling trophies
went for 50 cents each.
Now, on some fancy mantelpiece
or a glass credenza, someplace
they buff some impostor’s résumé.
All his gutter balls
forgotten.

And old yearbooks
signed by friends I don’t remember
when we all had bad hair and worse pretensions
now looks impressive
on the bookshelf of some model suite,
or propping-up a wobbly table.
And will, no doubt
come back to haunt me when I’m famous.

Even my box of hoarded papers
is gone.
But nostalgia is over-rated;
and anyway, who would want to read
school essays, mostly C's,
or ancient tax receipts,
or old letters from lovers who left
all saying it’s them, not me.

Or the wedding invitation she sent
I couldn’t bear to attend
without a date.
I imagine they’re still together,
3 kids
middle-aged
putting on a little weight,
as you’d naturally expect.
Because I like to assume the best
for people.

* * * *

A yard sale is like starting fresh
— where everything must go,
and whatever’s left
gets carted-off,
disposed of.

Hail the Size of Golf Balls
Sept 7 2008


I write at the dining room table,
candlesticks, placemats
in a mess of paper.
The chairs are tucked-in,
obedient
but uninhabited —
no clinking glasses,
no vivacious laughter.
Outside, it’s dull and wet
and the chandelier seems far too festive;
but essential, nevertheless.

Gentle rain lulls me.
I look out at a world in soft-focus,
all misty greens, and liquid.
An in-between season at an empty table
— too damp for words to stick;
no witty repartee
to prick me.

I’d rather have lightning and thunder,
and hail the size of golf balls,
and wind-whipped trees
drenched and cowering.
And then a sudden black-out —
an excuse to go outside,
where the air is electric
and everything feels alive.

Re-Entry
Sept 7 2008


We barely graze the edge of space,
just skirting the thin sliver of air
that hugs the earth
— like a polished rock
skipping along its smooth surface.

So we blast-off
atop rockets spewing fire,
— strapped-in, deafened, shuddering —
and dare to imagine
we can actually break free.
But even men like these,
in their white pneumatic suits
shiny visors
packing air,
are still attached to earth.
The home planet,
this tiny speck, glowing blue and green,
against the void’s vast blackness.

And then,
bones gone soft
muscles wasted,
they have no choice but to re-enter.
Out of breath,
dizzy from the effects
of gravity,
and utterly defenceless
against the great machinations of weather,
even spacemen come back to reality.

The best we can manage is a short time-out,
in a partial vacuum
above the fray
gazing down like untouchable gods,
everything we need
taken along with us.

Re-entry is hard
after being away so long.
But over-stay
and you will become permanent,
a tiny white satellite
circling the earth
— the brightest star,
the most brilliant reflection.

Primary Colours
Sept 6 2008


Everything here is earth-tones
and variations on beige.
Or pastels,
muddled mongrel shades
with whimsical names
that mean nothing.

I’m dying for bold strokes
— deep, rich, primary colours
that clash with the furniture and picture frames.
An unambiguous statement,
so when you enter this room
you know exactly where I stand
— no straddling fences,
no evasion.

I’m fed-up
with half-truths
and lies of omission,
with namby-pamby excuses
and waffling admissions.
I need strong language, full spectrum;
even if it is hurtful
or wrong-headed.

A small room
in scarlet and purple
— like a fresh bruise
or bad music.
Then hot pink, girls only,
all Barbie dolls
and princess phones.
Then the dark green of jungle leaves,
lush and succulent.

And then the deepest purest blue,
which is healing, restful.
My simple plan
for a place of refuge.

The Dead Give-Away
Sept 2 2008


The dead give-away
is the face
the back of the hands.

Too many years of forced smiles
abandoned laughter.
And the tears,
bitter, brackish
you could not hold back
— like ancient armies
salting the vanquished earth.
And the sun
in the freedom of summers well past,
when you were too young to know
nothing
comes free.

You used your hands,
reaching out
feeling your way like the blind.
You explored the world’s rough surface,
making contact
holding-on.
Even mountains soften
worn down by water, one drop at-a-time.
And your hands,
with their scars
their calluses
their brittle skin, stretched over thinning bones,
contain the story of a life
well-lived.

Some call it wisdom,
others call it uselessness.
How old age makes most of us
invisible.
And the rest
who are invincible
can’t help glancing in every mirror they pass,
looking
to be reassured.

By Invitation Only
Sept 1 2008


At first I thought it was gun-shots
cracking the darkness.
Until I heard the pinwheels
spinning-off,
and whiz-bangs
fizzing sparks.
Nothing to see,
but it all came to me in an instant —
people oohing and aahing, looking skyward.
A few small kids
flinching, hiding
behind mom’s steady legs.
And the teens,
too cool to be impressed.

The rest of us were already in bed
on this inconsequential week night.
But they were having the time of their life,
and could not imagine
depriving the world of fun.
Fireworks . . .
. . . hard drink, a sucker punch
I’ll bet.
What a party,
thought this uninvited guest.

Phone Home
Aug 31 2008


The latest addition
to the museum of obsolescent things
is a pay phone,
right beside the typewriter, the tape machine.
The curator was especially pleased
to find one with an analog dial,
purring as it circled back.
The part you held in your hand
was big and black,
and could break a foot if you dropped it.
And best of all — local calls, 10-cents-a-pop.
With a great wad of gum, pale pink
stuck under the seat,
hard as rock
— “pure vintage” , he beamed.

We have become impatient,
so intent on the future, rushing towards us
that nothing’s not disposable —
in just a month or so,
the latest gizmo scorned as old.
Which is why I like this discarded phone.
I like how big it is
how indestructible.
The pay phone, the newspaper box
on every busy corner,
as permanent as the city itself.

The louvered doors snap to one side
with a quick metallic rattle,
and I slip inside.
My dime makes a satisfying “kerplunk”,
and suddenly, an operator’s voice pipes-up,
brisk, but helpful.
And utterly surprised
I reel-off the number
still in my mother’s voice,
drilled-in to me
from childhood.

I can hear it ringing now,
just as a guard comes running.
“Patrons are not allowed to touch the displays” he barks, wagging one finger,
snatching the phone from my grasp.
I can just make out the faint “hello … ? ”
as he slams it back on its cradle.

The Crickets Are Loud Tonight
Aug 30 2008

The Chinese keep crickets
in tiny cages
inside.
How such small creatures
fill so much space.
How a single note, a steady pace
can make his house
a haven.


The crickets are loud tonight.
A comforting sound,
so much more than silence.
They chorus, then unaccountably stop
all at once.
A collective breath.
Or some sudden threat, perhaps.

And everything feeds on crickets, it seems.
But they keep-on chirping, nevertheless,
compelled to proclaim themselves
to an indifferent world.
Risking death
to preen for attention,
vie for sex.

Crickets making crickets,
to adorn this earth
with gentle hypnotic sound.
To console me in this private space;
submerged in such deep silence
a solitary man might drown.




This is what happens when you sit down to write, in an empty house, in absolute silence, far out in the country: the crickets are deafening! And with no particular ideas, and the stern internal reprimand that you absolutely will NOT write a lame lyric poem about crickets, what else can you do …but write a lame lyric poem about crickets!!
And a small departure – stylistically, anyway. I wrote the main body of the poem first. But I felt the contemplative setting of (what ended up becoming) the opening stanza would add something essential. There is a rarefied spirituality to this image of the Chinese keeping crickets. And since it really stands quite apart, I decided to keep it as a separate sub-title, or prologue. In the end, I think the mood it creates acts as a nice scaffold for the rest of the poem.

Marginal Life
Aug 29 2008


I watched the storm come in
over the lake.
These clouds are unmistakeable —
heavy, threatening,
pushing ahead of them this fitful wind
gusting every-which-way.
A sharp line divides the sky
— half blue,
half gloomy overcast —
bathing the shore in liquid light;
so the green hills glow,
and the water is black, mysterious.
Then thunder,
its rumbling almost continuous.

I feel exhilarated here
at the front, on the margin;
where things rub-up against each other,
where friction
heats things up.
Like opposing charges.
Or rock-striking-rock
setting-off sparks.
Or hot humid weather
boiling into cool air,
that will not be moved.
Because it’s not the center, but at the edge
where energy is spent,
creativity released,
and the unexpected
what you come to expect.

In the end, the storm just grazed us,
with flashes of light
a fierce burst of rain.
Then the sun re-emerged,
and the world felt cleansed
re-made.

Marriage Bed
Aug 27 2008


They were newlyweds,
in an age of reticence
and shame.
The first night
they kissed slow and hard,
undressed in the dark,
and made love
undercover.
And like most newlyweds, back then
their passion was inexpert, tentative;
their lust
incontinent.

So they came to know one another by touch
by scent
by the sound of her breath,
lying in bed, next to him.
Which I find exceptional
— so much intimacy,
yet such self-consciousness.

When I think of beauty
I think of colour
and light.
I think of nudes by famous masters,
and statues of naked gods.
And they do, too
I imagine.
Every night, under cover of darkness
giving himself to some classic beauty,
and she
to some immortal.
Mere flesh transformed
by love.

Collateral Damage
Aug 28 2008


Men who return from war
don’t say much.

They sit with their backs to the wall.
They jump
at sudden noises.
Wives finds them closed, impatient,
and bad in bed
— restless sleepers,
detached
when they make love.

This band of brothers
will take their secrets to the grave.
This most exclusive club
no wife can ever enter,
the dead and living together
— confirmed in blood;
welded
by absolute trust.

War stories
ignore the boredom.
There’s killing time
in some godforsaken base,
and the army’s classic refrain —
“hurry-up, and wait.”
There’s in the field, hair-trigger for days;
the faceless foe,
the constant danger.
And there’s counting-down to the end
— his faithful wife,
the home he hopes awaits him.

She looks into his eyes
and sees her own reflection
on the hard wet surface
— peering-in,
desperate to connect again.
Even half a century later,
his war is never shared
his story never spoken.
So all she can do
is gently hold him,
listening to the anguished shouts
that still contort his dreams.

Her stoic warrior;
who came back looking whole,
but feels broken.

Island Life
Aug 24 2008


Island life
is not for everyone.

There’s no end of gossip, for one;
although, since the satellite went-up,
people spend too much time at home.
And in spring and fall
when ice gets treacherous
you could go crazy with claustrophobia.
And everything costs too much, of course.

But I like the view.
I like all that water out there
— a kind of moat
keeping the world at bay.
And in just a couple of days
I can circumnavigate this place
— ducking down overgrown paths,
crossing rough shorelines
on smooth slippery rocks.
And a secret beach of fine brown sand;
where the shoes come-off,
curling my toes
in deep penetrating heat.

On the leeward side
the water is glass,
the sun rising in a ball of fire.
And to windward
you can shout your lungs out
and no one will hear a word.
In the centre, there’s a height of land
where all you can see is flat;
360 degrees of sky
touching down.

They call this a hardship post
— isolated, remote.
But I say, they’re just as far from us,
on their own little islands
of self-importance.
While out here, on the margins
we can afford to be more modest.
And we’re content to be ignored.

Full-Stop
Aug 23 2008


It takes 5 days
driving west —
roof-down, wind-in-your-hair
across the plains;
grinding gears up mountain passes;
then free-wheeling down
flying past the big rigs, lights flashing
and escape lanes for when they fail,
brakes smoking
diesels jaking hard.

You think you can smell the ocean
and it pulls you west,
following the sun, watching it set
at the far end of the world.
Mile zero,
at the cliff edge
of land —
leaning-out on the rail like a ship’s prow
still straining westward;
the whole continent
trailing in back of you.

In this frontier nation
that has not yet come of age,
the cross-country drive is like a rite of passage.
And the Pacific has always attracted you,
sure you would find some answers there.
Now here you are,
peering over the edge
at blue sky
blue water,
wishing you could keep moving on.

How the sense of motion
felt like progress,
and has now abandoned you here,
full-stop.
Long enough
to catch-up with yourself,
and whatever you thought
you had left behind.

Distant Cousins
Aug 21 2008


Where there’s one mouse
there’s sure to be another.
Folk wisdom, like this
is what comes from living in the country.
And the little buggers are quick,
darting along the baseboards
scurrying under furniture.
I now have finely tuned ears
cocked for the thwack of mousetraps
— each snap
a small triumph of man over beast.

I know I should learn to share,
be more generous.
We are, after all, distant cousins,
eating
sleeping
caring for our young.
This tiny grey creature
will not run-up my pants leg;
will not nibble on my toes as I sleep;
will not eat me
out of house and home.
Yet I cannot endure even knowing
I have mice.

My traps are baited and set,
a final meal for the condemned.
Peanut butter,
as irresistible to mice
as it is to men.

My Warm Bright Kitchen
Aug 20 2008


My warm bright kitchen
smells of coffee, brewed fresh,
and the over-ripe scent of bananas
turning to gold.
In the big bay window
I see a towering maple,
its leaves flashing green and silver.

Through a small plastic box
in the far corner,
fencing-off a neat triangle of dust
I only notice in fall
when the waning sun slants-in just so,
word of the world leaks-in.
Each hour
a man’s cool clear voice
intones body counts,
dispatches from the war,
earthquakes in distant time zones.
He is well-trained,
his sonorous voice
concealing the pain.

I feel guilty,
thin-skinned, flicking it off,
before his words can penetrate
any further.
Before the inconsequential scratch
becomes gangrenous
— breaching these cozy walls;
overwhelming my frail immunity.

Neighbourhood Watch
Aug 20 2008


When I sit on the deck,
pondering the weather
watching for the leaves to change,
the squirrels chatter and fuss.
The more irritable ones line-up
tut-tutting from the trees
— like testy neighbours
scolding incessantly.
A brave one scampers along the rail,
testing me.
And half-eaten pine cones
sticky with sap
lie scattered on the stairs like booby-traps.

I feel like an intruder, here;
even after all these years
barely tolerated.
The squirrels will consent to ignore me
as long as I remember my place
— a quiet observer;
no sudden moves,
and far too slow to give chase.

Garden State
Aug 19 2008


New Jersey makes me smile.
Just mention Newark, Hackensack, Hoboken,
and I can’t help myself.

It gazes over the river
at the skyline of New York,
the envious ugly sister.
Wise guys,
getting rich on contracts
for hauling garbage
who sound like Tony Soprano.
And tough guys,
who talk with their hands.
And how unlikely —
state troopers shooting bears
in suburban backyards;
sunrise over the ocean.

It entered the Union
one of 13 states
with Pennsylvania, Virginia;
but like a junior partner
— no Declaration
no landed gentry
no social graces.

If I were a State
I suspect I’d be New Jersey —
bourgeois,
middle class,
and, despite the jokes
vast tracts of untouched forest.

My own secret garden
— never that far
from the Turnpike.

Domestic Matters
Aug 17 2008


She probably saw it
all along.
The way women know these things.
The way they remember.

After all
it was just getting together, hanging around;
or — old-fashioned as it sounds —
a date.
And then
I couldn’t help myself, picturing her face
— standing at the sink,
trying to sleep,
idling at intersections
when the light turned green.
Infatuation, you’d have to say;
which would be madness
if it happened any other way.

Until friends became lovers, one day
— her place
all night long.

Now, it’s been years
and we’re still in love;
but somewhere in there
more partners than lovers.
Which makes me think of business cards,
a legal practice
— our specialty, domestic matters,
like clogged drains
cooking supper.

They call this attachment,
a kind of intimacy I could never have imagined
that day,
fumbling with her blouse
in the back row of the movie house
— the Bijou, or the Palace.
The first kiss
when all the walls came down,
and I could feel her eager tongue
just as hungry as mine.

Now every night,
each partner turns down the lights
bids the day good-bye.
And takes his or her lover
like the very first time.

Out of the Blue
Aug 16 2008


The electrical storm
took-out the porch light,
wired for motion;
and the stainless steel pump,
underwater
underground.
It passed over in minutes
— out-of-the-blue,
a black cloud.
Then, oblivious
quickly moved on.

Now, strangers approach in darkness,
and the shadows taunt
shape-shifting all night long.
And rivers of cold black water
flow free,
bursting through cracks in the earth
a hundred feet down.
And, for an instant
the power of an atom bomb
lit right through me;
as transparent as X-rays,
lighting me up.

I feel exposed, now.
The summer sky
unpredictable.
And all my illusions
that all will be well,
no longer enough.

Sweet Corn
Aug 14 2008


Sweet corn
in summer,
comes in a cool green envelope
untouched.
And like a pretty girl
tossing-back her long blonde hair,
its silky tassel
entices you.
And nearly as sweet to kiss.

A peach, in season
looks like the setting sun.
With its soft blush of fuzz
rich against your lips,
and the weak resistance of its skin,
and juice, dribbling down your chin
bursting full of sticky sweetness
— no matter how expert you become
at eating peaches.

Blueberries
where the high country was scorched by fire.
The bush is thick and ripe
for the taking,
and you kneel down
in praise of plenty,
cramming them in hand-over-hand.
Purple fruit,
with a sprinkle of small green leaves
— no fussy eaters, please.
Before an early frost.
Before the birds come.
Before the bears
strip them clean.

How The Other Half Lives
Aug 13 2008


Who doesn’t wonder
how the other half lives.
How convenient,
the world divided in two.
Like those who win
and those who lose.
Or those who don’t
and those who do.
Or those who lust
and those pursued.

There is no in-between here,
either one of us
or of no use.
The ones who look before they flush,
then those who are less curious.
Who long the boom
or short the bust,
or eat spaghetti
twirled or cut.
Or men, who leave the seat up,
sleep-walking back to bed.

Imagine, to be one with one-half the world;
instead of one
among the whole 6 billion,
as inscrutable
as every other.

When even knowing yourself is tough.
But to know another
— a friend, a lover —
as baffling as the rest of us,
may be all the luck you can hope for.
Even if a lifetime
of downs and ups
of cut and thrust
and her taste and touch,
is hardly enough
to know.

An Epic Poem
Aug 12 2008


You read a poem
at your desk,
counting the seconds until recess.
Or perhaps to impress a girl;
the whole time
distracted by her perfection.
So far
no hero, no quest,
but you want to see what happens next,
sticking it out to the end.

A single page
— you know, you checked —
and nothing much has happened yet.
But you’ve heard poets are masters
of misdirection,
and you’re all keyed-up for the unexpected,
some clever twist
some slick deception.

And just like that
the poet has you where he planned
all along
— at the end of the page,
keenly awaiting
the sequel.

Background Noise
July 29 2008


You can hear your heartbeat
waiting for sleep to come.
The room, still
the night, muffled;
your ear pillowed,
undercover.



You can hear the world start-up
when the wind is done.
Insects click and buzz,
the life-blood
of the garden.
A squirrel runs
in sudden starts and stops,
scurrying along the fence-top.
And birdsong,
emerging out of nowhere.



Even at 2 in the morning
the city is noise;
but by then, you can make out its stories.
The screech of brakes,
a horn that won’t let go.
Another siren dopplers by
— by now you hardly notice.
Edgy laughter, walking past.
And a giddy voice
drifts-in from the dark,
clicking across the city’s hard surface,
wobbly
on long pointy heels.

You feel less lonely
when the city’s like this.
In daylight, it’s oblivious;
ghosting through 2 million souls
unnoticed.
But at 2 am, your voice will likely be heard:
They’ll ignore you
screaming bloody murder.
Speak softly, though
and someone’s sure to listen.

Blood Brothers
July 27 2008


Oaks are perfect for tree forts,
with their heavy spreading branches
and dense cover of leaves;
perfect
for keeping secrets.

It wasn’t built by dads, but by us.
From found wood, scrounged nails
— bent, a bit of rust —
before safety
bubble-wrapped childhood.
And finished up
with a radio
a deck of cards
some stolen smokes.
And no girls
— ever!

There was a secret password, of course
you swore you’d never tell.
And no kid brothers allowed.
When a new boy moved in
he was initiated into the tribe,
a ritual I still feel honour-bound to hide.
Let’s just say
we were blood brothers
when we made our vows.

Rendezvous at noon, in summer —
food scoffed from the fridge,
comic books.
But the best part was looking down;
which is something
when you feel powerless.
Kids, who wanted to grow up too fast
in our half-way house,
before the first turncoat turned his back
and we saw him kissing a girl.


No one ever fell,
no one was ever hurt.
But all it took was one more summer
before we all came down to earth.

Timing Lightning
July 27 2008


I timed the lightning.
A jagged flash,
as lamps flicker and speakers fizz
counting up ...
to the unholy crash
— flinching at thunder,
despite myself.

The storm is moving fast —
rain
like heaven opening,
and wind
like the wrath of God.
And just as sudden, the torrent stops
— torn leaves and scattered branches
and a whiff of ozone,
electric
in the muggy air.

The big spruce is down.
The wind
snapping its trunk like an after-thought;
the stump splintered, ripped.
It lies at an angle
resting lightly on the trees around it.
As if they had opened their arms, catching it
gentling it down,
showing respect for this majestic survivor
when its time had finally come.

A worthy ending
for such a fine old tree.
Instead of chainsaws, in its prime.
Or beetles, taking their time;
killing
from the inside out.

Taking Passage
July 25 2008


I have taken passage
on a slow freighter,
slipping-out to sea;
making steam
in the chilly glow of dawn.

Charred stacks pump-out thick black smoke,
burning its load
of heavy oil.
The long hull, streaked with rust,
ploughing through choppy water
pushing into waves,
looks brittle enough to break
— the ocean shrugging its shoulders
in a sudden blow.

The crew speak Tagalog, or Creole
and avoid me.
The officers are polite, but distant;
laughing
at inside jokes,
raising too many toasts
to the voyage,
to home.

I spend days looking out to sea,
— the cold green water
hypnotic,
the air, sharp with brine.
There are birds
which I know have been aloft for a thousand miles,
barely flexing their wings.
At night, a rare ship goes by;
a dot of light on the horizon
teetering over its edge.
And down the side
the phosphorescent glow
of a living ocean,
churning-up in our wake.

This passage seems out of time;
the land extinguished,
a mile of water
underneath my feet.
And out of place;
the southern constellations
unknown, unnamed.
This is both journey
and destination,
standing on the upper-deck, all alone.
Where I long ago lost count
— how many days out;
how many to go.

City Fathers
July 23 2008


It was during the renovation
a contractor’s shovel clanged
off the steel box,
surprising us.
A mere 30 years
yet we’d all forgot
— the time capsule,
buried on some grand occasion.
When they were heady with the triumphs of the past,
and the future
was not so certain.

So they sent a time traveller out ahead,
wishing us well
hopeful we would receive them graciously.
And we
— disappointing in our T-shirts and jeans
in place of sleek silver suits, all the same,
as befit the future earthlings —
giddily unearthing
this treasure chest.

Some reel-to-reel tape
— dignitaries making speeches, I suspect.
Kindergarten art work,
none of whom became the next Picasso
we can now be sure.
And the paper, that day.
Apparently, it was mostly sunny
chance of rain.

So 30 years
and nothing much has changed.
Except how unworthy we must seem
to those small-town boosters,
who believed
they had something worth preserving.

No one could come-up with anything else to add,
so we re-sealed the box
and launched the capsule
back to the future.
Where the great thinkers will ponder the past;
baffled
by reel-to-reel tape,
and nostalgic
for a simpler time
of earnest men
and good intentions.

A Momentary Lapse
July 22 2008


On the undivided highway
past the “last gas” sign,
just rocks and trees and a gravel shoulder,
it feels impossibly slow
— the land immense,
your progress, imperceptible.

The tipping point
of dusk,
the sky deep blue, and luminous;
which just deepens the darkness down here
— the road difficult,
the headlights
feeble.
Then night
free-falling in from space,
when lights come at you for miles,
roaring past
in a white-knuckle blast of blindness.

The white line is hypnotic,
especially in darkness
reflecting back.
And reminding you
of your own thin white line
— all your life
hanging
by a thread as fine as spider silk.
Perhaps fighting-off sleep
or turning-up the heat,
nudging the wheel an eighth-of-an-inch as you reach,
breaking the painted line.

You drive in this splendid solitude
of steel and glass;
yet utterly depend
upon every passing stranger.

Barbershop
July 17 2008


I want a shave
in a real barbershop,
men only.

The regulars, who always wait
leaning-back in stuffed green chairs;
shooting the breeze,
arguing.
Posters of hockey stars
tacked to the walls,
and faded pin-ups
now middle-aged.
There are worn-out magazines, same as before,
about sports
and wholesale hair product.
The chair is a piece of industrial art,
like a throne
in red naugahyde
and heavy gauge steel.
A radio plays constantly
top 40 tunes from our youth,
about lovers who drove too fast
and surfing dudes.
And the barber is always Italian
in a sharp white smock,
with “Luigi” or “Vincenzo” stitched above the pocket.

I feel the chair ratchet back
as my eyes drift shut.
Hot towels, the steam rising deliciously.
Then warm shaving cream
that smells of mint
and eucalyptus,
and reminds me of my father.
Such unaccustomed luxury;
the attention
almost intimate.

The slapping sound
of honed steel
on a worn leather strop,
then the feel of a straight steady blade
as it bristles across my face,
scraping clean
a strip of smooth pink skin.
The absolute trust
is a kind of surrender,
and I gratefully relent.

It ends with aftershave, an astringent splash;
when I am forced to return to the upright position,
descending back
to earth.


- - -



I wore a real pair of shoes for the occasion
in rich brown leather.
A perfect day for a shave,
as I flip two bits to the shoe-shine boy.

Comfort Food
July 20 2008


I’ve been told women look warily
at shoes —
turning up her nose
at discount sneakers;
making mental notes
about the snakeskin;
wondering if a guy who can’t be bothered to buff
is worth waxing for.

Me, I keep my gaze strictly from the neck up,
listening attentively, nodding,
— especially after the unfortunate incident
I let them go wandering.
No, I judge people less obviously,
asking early on
what they eat to forget.

In a moment of weakness
is it chocolate she reaches for?
Or does he cram his pie-hole with cake?
Or tuck-in to meat loaf,
leaning back, pants undone
hazily nostalgic for mum?

I tend to be suspicious
of anyone consoled by liquids,
from cocoa to spritzers
spiked with gin.
The fried egg sandwich is good, though,
and on white bread with mayo, a cinch.
But never admit
you seek comfort in tofu or carrot sticks.
I once did,
and all I ever met
were famished vegetarians.

Just say grilled cheese
which is always safe,
or ice cream, straight from the carton;
and any man can get away
with socks and sandals,
no problem.

The Year From 2 to 3
May 26 2008


The year from 2 to 3
was half my life
so far.

Now, I think more about seasons.
How much colder, this late spring.
How summers used to be magical;
when school stopped,
and the days seemed longer
hotter.
And how still I feel
in the long dark night of winter,
when time goes mercifully slow.
Although fall’s still bittersweet
— fresh-cut grass
and wood-smoke.

Birthday done,
a single candle for convenience.
Taxes over,
how I manage to lose a year
yet save all the receipts.
It snowed today,
yet in less than a month
the days will start getting shorter.

So I try to live in the moment,
to be mindful, focused.
I like the stillness, here,
when I stop the chatter,
feel myself breathe
all the way out.
In the eternal now
there is so much room to roam,
no dead-line, no purpose.

Just as the meaning is found
in the space between the words.

A Deer in the Headlights
Oct 21 2006


A deer in the headlights
is not frozen.
She stands on the shoulder
exposed,
all furious motion
-- her brown eyes glistening
with liquid light,
her body rippling
muscles tight
under taut skin and tawny fur,
and one foot trembling
held-up in the graceful etiquette of flight.
Then her ears stiffen and her nostrils flare
sucking air
before she darts
uncoiling full-speed into the clear,
a blur in the high beams
so close,
we both smell the fear.

Except when that first step falters;
nimble feet
unaccustomed to asphalt.

Barbershop
July 17 2008


I want a shave
in a real barbershop,
men only.

The regulars, who always wait
leaning-back in stuffed green chairs;
shooting the breeze,
arguing.
Posters of hockey stars
tacked to the walls,
and faded bathing beauties
from 20 years ago.
There are worn-out magazines, same as before,
about sports
and wholesale hair product.
The chair is a piece of industrial art,
a throne of red naugahyde
and heavy gauge steel.
A radio plays constantly
top 40 tunes from our youth,
about lovers who drove too fast
and surfing dudes.
And the barber is always Italian
in a sharp white smock,
with “Luigi” or “Vincenzo” stitched above the pocket.

I feel the chair ratchet back
as my eyes drift shut.
Hot towels, the steam rising deliciously.
Then warm shaving cream
that smells of manly things,
and reminds me of my father.
Such unaccustomed luxury;
the attention
almost intimate.

The slapping sound
of honed steel on a worn leather strop,
then the feel of a straight steady blade
as it bristles across my face,
scraping clean
a strip of smooth pink skin.
The absolute trust
is a kind of surrender,
and I gratefully relent.

It ends with aftershave, an astringent splash;
when I am forced to return to the upright position,
descending back
to earth.





I wore a real pair of shoes for the occasion
in rich brown leather.
A perfect day for a shave,
as I flip two bits to the shoe-shine boy.

Driving With the Roof Down
July 15 2008


When I was a boy
I could name every car
driving past.
In some other place
I might have known the types of snow
or wild plants;
or some other time
the ranks
of angels.

Somehow, cars were sexy
before I even knew the word,
let alone what it meant.
And back then
the names were a muscular kind of verse,
like Road Master
or Power Wagon.
Ford favoured alliteration
— the Fairlane, the Falcon —
the proud hunter de-clawed
in a boxy sedan.
But Thunderbird was perfect,
and I’d shout excitedly
when a sleek T-bird went purring past.
And names that tried too hard
like Impala,
the fleet long-legged deer
rendered static
earthbound
in a four-door full-size car.

Because boys like powerful machines.
And cars are freedom, too
— the back seat
the drive-in
making speed.
And 16 was the on-ramp to life,
the keys dangling just before your eyes
counting-down birthdays.

Now, I drive to work
and back
fighting traffic, pumping gas,
and my car is named for a number.
But in summer
on the open road
there is still romance,
and a middle-aged man reaches back
to the boy
— driving with the roof down,
the wind in his thinning hair.

On Becoming a Man
July 14 2008


At some point, you become a man.
No one could ever say what, exactly;
so I always thought it was one of those things
you’d know when it happened,
and there was no going back.

At 13, I read from the Torah,
right to left, chanting uncertainly;
but felt no different afterward.
Before that, my body started acting-up,
but I managed to let it pass.
Which could have been it, actually,
the beginning of my mastery
of denial
— the first test of manhood, some might say.

How to knot a neck-tie.
Learning to shave,
like some steamy initiation
with its ritual letting of blood.
Kissing a girl
without wiping my lips in disgust.
Driving lessons, dad’s Buick,
navigating that big land yacht
into parallel park.
And the first part-time job.

And the rites of passage went on —
from graduation,
through the first serious relationship,
to mortgaging my soul
to the bank.
You’d think fatherhood, for sure;
but even there
a man is on the sidelines
cheering, holding hands,
somehow excluded from the intimate bond
only mothers have.

The problem is
it’s one step forward and one step back,
so even a grizzled old man
can feel like an impostor.
And under all that bravado
you are still 13
where you somehow got stalled;
looking out
from this large awkward body,
that just kept on growing
‘til it stopped.

Climbing Trees
July 13 2008


Trees belong to childhood.
They do not speak,
even when spoken to.
And like the child
standing there
rooted, powerless
always told what to do,
excluded from the adult world.
And like trees
growing imperceptibly;
then grown-up overnight, it seems.

So kids clamber up trees,
commiserating together.
They swing from branches
or tie ropes, and inner tubes,
and when the adults are distracted
climb to forbidden heights.

Which may seem odd,
because trees are so very old
— their twisted bark,
their hidden roots
penetrating deep into cold dark soil.
But how much different than kids and old folks,
who also feel powerless
and have plenty of time
and seem to understand each other well.

Most of all, I like their forbearance,
so silent, so still;
never objecting to kids
building tree forts,
scuffing their branches.
Or hanging upside down, full of laughter,
taunting the others
sticking-out their tongues.

Audi TT Roadster
July 10 2008


The ad said 0 to 100
in 6.1 seconds.
So who are these people
with too much money,
who measure out their lives
a tenth of a second at a time?

And how often do you go
from 0 to 100
anyway?
Perhaps they come to a dead stop
on the on-ramp,
then floor it
— eyes forward,
white knuckles gripping the wheel,
then butting into line
come hell or high water.
And probably not even stopping
at 100;
which is, after all, mere child’s play
to the serious driver.

It takes a good 20 seconds
to nurse my old Jeep up to triple digits,
a whole 14 seconds more.
That’s precious time
I’ll never recover,
14 seconds gone.

14 seconds
driving into the setting sun.
When I look up
at a russet and magenta sky,
so stunning
I forget all about the drive.

Between Interruptions
July 10 2008


Life goes on
between interruptions.
Then you squeeze in what you can
in those brief moments of freedom
— late at night
when the house is still
the chores all done.

Or perhaps, it’s the other way around —
you follow your passion
until life drags you back,
interrupting what you live for.

You wish it worked the way your body does,
pumping blood
processing air
making the necessary repairs,
leaving you free to attend
to life’s higher calling.
Like a household of well-mannered servants
neither seen nor heard;
while you soak in the tub,
or make love
in the master-bedroom.

You get old soon enough,
time measured-out in diapers
and pay cheques
and new car loans.
So you let nothing interrupt —
with the phone unplugged and the door bolted,
you’re free
to practice the bagpipes,
or read steamy novels,
or write that poem.

Or interrupt yourself,
announcing a trip to the corner store.
Then decide to walk,
and take the long way home.

Killing Time
July 1 2008


Luckily, it was August.
On a wilderness lake, somewhere north
deposited one-by-one around the shore,
each alone.

This was not survivalist,
not to let the busyness of cooking and comfort and warmth
distract us.
We were to explore the inner self,
become mindful, focused.

Luckily, late in August, there aren’t many bugs.
But the nights are cold,
and underneath my plastic sheet
my handful of gorp* a fond memory
I felt the unaccustomed burden of time.
And loneliness, which I know well.
And the primeval fear of the dark
— leaves stirring,
the crack of a branch,
something calling, close by.
And it was then, the drizzle began.

So the first dawn was a miracle
— survived the night
a chance at warmth.

Back then, I failed at this.
I let my mind play tricks
and pitied myself.
I fantasized about the end of it,
and mercilessly killed time.
But here I am, remembering, 30 years on.
And the lesson of gratitude, as well;
especially for the simple things
like food and blankets and screens,
and basic human company.

And now, I am no romantic, no Thoreau,
and do not believe that only ascetics can achieve enlightenment
only suffering create great art.
So my mind may wander out-of-control;
but my body, in comfort, stays home.


* Since spell-check questioned this, it may be necessary to explain. “Gorp” is the acronym for “good old raisins and peanuts”, that famously delicious and high energy food well known to all wilderness travellers. (I usually cheat, and add dried fruit, granola, and smarties as well!)

Guesswork
July 6 2008


I do not know what “the truth”
is in answer of,
because it’s not the answer, it’s the question
that comes hardest.
And anyway, I’m suspicious of the definite article,
because truth is never exact
— each eye-witness, his version,
every world-view
baffling to all the others.
And most of all, the values by which we judge
keep changing;
for the better, I can only trust.

Even this table is guesswork,
its hard polished surface
its fine grained wood.
Because matter is mostly empty space,
an order of magnitude
to which we can’t help but remain oblivious.
And if you map the firing of the optic nerve,
its density of data
is wholly inadequate
to depict the complexity of the actual world.
Which means that our brains fill-in the blanks,
some impenetrable chemistry
of memory, and feeling, and belief.

So even a hard-headed scientist like me
takes the world on faith,
stumbling about this place
mostly blind,
convinced what I see is true.
When all is really illusion;
my conviction, mere conceit.

There was a much better poet than me
who believed
that the eyes are a window into the soul,
and by peering into their black bottomless depth
I might penetrate your very essence;
each of us, surrendering,
letting down our defence.
That our eyes, locked together
our gaze, generous,
might reveal to us some truth;
or at least, get us that much closer.

Even if only to confess
how badly we want to know,
and how much
we need to be known.

Vegetarian Sex
July 8 2008



“This film contains scenes of violence,
explicit language,
and raw sex.”

As much come-on as caution
I suspect.
And then I tried to picture it;
raw sex, that is
as opposed to the other kind
— perhaps par-boiled, smoked, or deep-fried?

Explicit language, I like;
because after awhile
a poet gets sick and tired
of metaphor and ambiguity,
and could use some good old Anglo-Saxon certainties.

Violence, though, makes me squirm,
like some cheap voyeur
with no concern for consequence
— just one clever edit
and all the severed and dead
neatly vanish.




But no vegetarian sex,
and no over-cooked meat
dry and grey and tasteless.

I want steak tartarre
I want red and dripping,
a glistening well-marbled slab.

I want it warm and wet
the carnal scent
of flesh
— that little edge of danger
that feels transgressive on the tongue.

I want the top cut,
the soft underbelly, underdone.
Like raw oysters, freshly shucked
in hot sauce or mustard
— all tongue, no teeth,
so salty-sweet, and slippery.

I want it raw, and unprocessed
unschooled and unrepressed
— like pure animal sex,
all free-roaming lust.

Dirty, messy, smelly sex
to remind us that we’re mortal
and made of flesh and blood.
No edits, no dubs;
the director’s final cut.

Grounded
July 5 2008


Until I left home
I slept in the basement,
in a bright yellow room
underground.

The life of the house carried-on above me,
muffled voices
creaking joists
water, pouring down through pipes.
So no one noticed me there;
padding about on the hard concrete floor,
reading in the dead of night,
my bedside lamp
unobserved.

Most of all, it was cool in summer;
and in winter, the furnace rumbled its warmth,
faithfully keeping company.
It was a back-split
so I could walk directly outdoors
— bare feet on grass
soaked with cool dew,
starlight silvering the lawn,
the city unnaturally subdued.

And here I am, decades later
in another back-split, another basement
— far too predictable in my ways.
Is it the strength of concrete,
the firm foundation?
Is it some nesting instinct,
returning to the place I know?
Or is it being grounded,
nowhere else to fall?

I get the morning sun.
But at night, it’s dark and peaceful,
and like some nocturnal creature
I burrow underground,
wrapping myself in earth.

Porch Door
June 29 2008


I’m tempted to say lawnmowers,
especially the kind you push
— the pebbly sound of moving parts;
the whir of its thin curved blades
sharp as scythes,
flashing through verdant grass.
Or kids, shouting in the distance
— the sharp crack of bat on ball,
nailing the sweet spot
in fine-grained ash.

But I think it’s the screen door, most of all
— wood-framed, well-weathered.
That satisfying “thwack”
swinging shut behind you.
And the rasp of the spring when the wind catches it,
flapping, open wide.
And the angry buzz of mosquitoes
on the other side,
smelling blood.
And late at night, the porch light burning
as a moth as big as your fist
hurtles against the dented screen
over and over
— a loud insistent banging
as if a small carnivorous bird
wanted in.

In those golden summers
we would be gone all day long,
running out with the dew still burning-off
slamming the door behind us.
Or in-and-out
— appetites bottomless;
guzzling fruit drink
that was comatose with sugar
and glowed fluorescent green,
a colour not found in nature.

And hot nights, just the screen door closed
— a cool breeze,
or sleeping-out on the porch.

Found Music
July 2 2008


These wind chimes
are a tiny satisfying extravagance.
Just think of all that wind
a responsible citizen
would set about capturing.
I imagine Rube Goldberg contraptions
of great blinking batteries
and blades, whirring and flapping,
to power TV screens
iron lungs.

While I just waste it
tinkling sweet delicate bells
— like my own private calliope
just outside the door.

Found music
that gives the wind a voice.
From the south, it’s fitful,
warning of violent storms.
From the west
steady, fresh,
a well-scrubbed gospel chorus.
While north is clear and cool,
making the bells dance and twirl
delighting in the bracing air.
To the east, there’s brooding cloud
and the wind has a menacing edge,
as the chimes flail erratically
playing manic discordant jazz.

While the weather vane creaks as it spins
finding its place;
the soloist in this orchestra of wind.

North
July 4 2008


On the first day out
you’re up with the sun, paddling hard
— making sure you get over
at least one portage.

Because then, everything changes,
stepping-out into the clearing
at the water’s edge.
The lake, open.
Wilderness as far as the Arctic Ocean
thousands of miles north.
Getting by
on muscle alone.

Most of all, you notice the silence
. . . and then the sound,
creatures that you’ll never glimpse
you know are keeping watch.
The manic howling of wolves
after dark.
A loon’s haunting call,
echoing over the water.
And out of nowhere
the sharp slap of a beaver,
like a gun-shot going-off.

There is mystery in these sounds
and purpose.
So you paddle your canoe
without saying a word,
smooth quiet strokes.
For now, you feel like an intruder.
But in a couple of weeks
heading back
you will have earned your place here,
and these sounds as familiar as home.

Still, they keep their distance,
with so much space
in which to disappear.

The Fridge Again
June 30 2008


When the fridge shuts-off
the sudden quiet startles me;
as if this silence occupied space,
had weight
and substance.

And then my ears prick-up, picking-up sound.
The wind, rustling.
Birds, disputing real estate.
And the trills of mysterious bugs.
The neighbour’s dog is chasing squirrels again
— manic barking
and the rodents scolding back,
safe from attack in the tree-tops.

Inside
my chair grates on the old pine floor.
And a tap
drips
like Chinese water torture.
Now I hear my pen, making chicken-scratch on plain white paper.
And later, the keyboard clacking,
like an army of frantic mice.

I miss the tap of footsteps
overhead.
I miss the creak in the stairs.
I miss her voice
girlish,
more like laughter than words.
And I miss the sound of the door
as the latch clicks shut,
coming
...going
...closed.

The fridge again,
that reassuring noise
— flattening the sounds that tempt me out of my head;
filling-in the voids.

Storm Warning
June 26 2008


All day, storm warnings
— risk of hail, lightning bolts, heavy rain.
The sky is dull, the breeze fitful.
There is a sense of things pent-up,
of watchful waiting.
The world is holding its breath
and the suspense exhilarates me
— like electricity,
the knife-edge of change.

I can hear rain, pounding down
the tin roof deafening.
I can see glass, streaming
like a ship at sea.
I can feel my heart race
the ground, shaking underneath me
— thunder directly overhead
like 2 freight trains colliding full speed.
And the wind, smashing the shutters shut
rattling the gutters and eaves.

Or maybe, more of the same,
the wind shifting, indecisively
the birds unnaturally quiet
and the claustrophobic sky
made of wet concrete.

I am tantalized by heavy weather;
which is neither blood-lust nor death wish,
but more my own powerlessness
at such overwhelming force.
So I watch and wait, impatiently,
helpless even in this.

Chopin’s Heart
June 25 2006

When I read this, I just happened to have a CD of Chopin playing. So I couldn’t resist! And it made me think of these bizarre cults of veneration and preservation: the mystical force attributed to pickled body parts!


I read that Chopin’s heart is kept in Cognac
in a crystal urn
in the Church of the Holy Cross.

While a grotesque Lenin floats in a vat of formaldehyde,
his puffy face
flattened-up against the glass.
And didn’t they preserve Mao,
his bloated form decomposing in some air-conditioned crypt
— the ultimate indignity.
Hitler, we are reassured, was crushed in his bombed-out bunker;
but rumours persist he was whisked away to Argentina
where he yet may live,
a stooped old man, tending his precious vines.

So in 1849
they still believed the heart contained man’s essence,
his courage
his soul.
And here is Chopin
stripped-down to his essentials
immune to time,
still toasting us
with fine French wine.
While the others are impostors and idols,
their preservation
a desperate denial of death,
their display
an obscene veneration of evil.

Chopin was dead at 39,
a short magnificent etude of a life.
His body long ago returned to earth;
but the heart is pure,
and the music
immortal.

Con-Men and Grifters
June 24 2008


We are all con-men and grifters
— with the curtains drawn
the porch-light burning
we keep our secrets.
And deceiving ourselves even more than others;
believing in love,
finding meaning in numbers,
and then hoping that ours
will never come up.

We admire the con-man,
even if we’d never admit it
— the quick-talking fixer,
the utter conviction,
the self-confident slickness
of the man.
And though he doesn’t leave pictures
— all evidence quietly spirited-away —
he is an artist of human nature
zeroing-in on our weakness like a shark
— blood in the water;
the fast swimmer
here and gone.

I want to believe the just are rewarded.
I want to believe in a merciful God.
And I want to believe the world will go on
like perpetual summer.
So when he thunders his sermon
like an old testament prophet
I, too, will shout “Amen”,
and bow my head to be blessed,
and tithe my 10 percent.

Last Dance, Slow Dance
June 24 2008


Last dance, slow dance.
The girl with mismatched pants, bad teeth,
who knows she won’t get asked.
Two boys, smirking
jabbing elbows, talking trash,
relieved they won’t have to chance
some ice princess
too stuck-up to hear them ask;
and class-mates, laughing.

And awkward kids
hands clasped, skin clammy
swaying stiffly together.
A girl’s body, rake-thin
pressed-up against;
and his eyes fixed on her neck,
several inches taller.

And the glitter-ball
casting sparkles around the walls,
where the basketball hoops are festooned with balloons
and posters make it look like Paris.

A slow waltz, that seems to go on and on.
And the good thing is
as long as the music plays
you don’t have to say
anything.

Waiting
June 23 2008


What does it come to
adding-up the time;
waiting in line,
waiting for your luck to change,
waiting in the rain?

You were once eager, unfazed,
pacing impatiently.
Sometimes, they’d hold your place,
or save a cold plate of leftovers.
And after a while, it started to grate,
hearing “take a number”
“hurry-up and wait.”
And then, you gave in to laziness,
arriving too late
making mistakes
deferring the necessary changes.

And in the end, you were left,
with the same old questions
the answers unsaid.
After so many years of waiting, hopeful
you were sure the revelation was near,
but nothing’s become any clearer.

If only you’d stayed
impatient,
pushing your way in to the front of the line;
had lived for today
instead of waiting to die.

Tall Grass Turning to Seed
June 21 2008


There is the smell of fresh-cut grass.
There is the levelling,
decapitated weeds
for once, obedient.
And there is the surgical edge,
carving order out of chaos
one mower-width at a time.
So, finally finished
I stand hands-on-hips and survey
my contained little world, neatly tamed
with bourgeois pride,
no irony.

Black-fly season, the first hot day,
in long sleeves
gumboots
bug hat,
squinting through mosquito net and tinted glasses.
I work up a sweat, cutting grass,
and wonder about giving back
to nature
what I imperiously claim to possess.
Because, like so much that we have
it can start owning us, instead.

I picture wildflowers
and tall grass turning to seed
and whatever wind and birds may bring.
Or will it be weeds
— black-flies breeding in the cool moist undergrowth;
and wary neighbours
staring icily,
too polite to speak?

French Immersion
June 18 2008


The best way to learn how to speak
is falling in love.
You smile, you shrug
you make signs, you touch,
fumbling with unaccustomed shyness.
Your speech is child-like,
which keeps life marvellously simple.
And the first time she whispered in your ear
nothing was lost in translation.
And now, making love
you forget all about
syntax and conjugation,
because her tongue has a language all its own
only the two of you truly know.

This is like a river
where it runs-up against the sea,
the bracing mixture of salt and sweet.
And the tide, pushing back,
turning fresh water brackish.
Or ocean currents, when they collide,
welling-up in new life
churning the air into weather.

Because it’s on the margins
on the edge
where differences rub-up together.
Where two people meet
with just enough friction for sparks,
and tongue-tied lovers
learn a new language by heart.

Collecting Art
June 17 2008


The very rich
do not brag about gas mileage
or wait in line.

They collect art.
They sniff wine.
They pronounce upon the relative merits
of domestic vs. imported
nannies.

They itch to drive,
the chauffeur crammed into the back seat
of the Masserati;
but can’t
because it wouldn’t do
for the help to sit idly by.

Peacocks roam the estate,
the dogs get walked
daily,
and towels touched once, then replaced.

Me, I’ve started with a garage sale masterpiece,
original frame.
It hangs above the sofa,
where the dog dozes noisily.
An island in a wild lake,
wind-whipped waves,
the sun breaking through.
There is room for a single tent,
a secluded beach,
one canoe.
My money is useless there.
The dog jerks
. . . chasing squirrels in his sleep.

The First White Man
June 15 2008


So far, the year without summer.
Plenty of rain
and cloud all day,
hugging the earth like wood-smoke.

At least I have an excuse to let the lawn grow.
And the peepers are still loud, still mating
in overflowing swamps and ponds,
condominiums for happy frogs.

I walk down by the zigzag creek,
now a swollen mountain torrent.
Where familiar rocks are submerged,
and small drops
pound-down, deafening,
and the cool mist
quickly drenches me.
A massive tree
is newly lodged in the narrows,
picked-up like a twig of kindling.
I tight-rope across
the wetly treacherous log,
to find a virgin forest
unexplored.

Because perspective changes everything,
and on this side
time could have turned back centuries.
I am a voyageur
the first white man to leave his steps;
where starving black flies
are keen to try
my pale piggy flesh,
and the primeval forest
is green and fresh.

I think I might just stay.
Back when the world was undiscovered,
and there were long hot summers,
and the silence
was deafening.

State of Nature
June 15 2008


It’s June that brings me closest to my mortality.
Not September
with its skeleton trees,
and dead leaves, swirling in the lee of the shed.
Nor January
when winter locks-in,
the month of night.

Because in June, nature presses-in
relentlessly.
Raspberries, with their subterranean tentacles
sending new shoots poking-up through the grass.
And trees, strangling the stairway
that make me duck, brushing past.
And picking weeds from the cracks in the patio
by force of habit,
bending each time I pass.
Yet tomorrow, even more come back.

In June, I am pre-occupied by order,
when nature seems out of control
in this ferocious window of growth.
So if I should miss a single season, or even a week
the place would go wild,
as invisible as lost Mayan cities
swallowed-up by the tropics.
And I realize that what I have built will hardly last,
my illusion of permanence a constant battle
against disorder,
the natural state of things.
Like me, it will disappear without a trace,
consumed by forest.

Perhaps, in some unimagined future
they will excavate this place,
re-construct my ancient way of life
from scraps of paper
faded photos.
Or, more likely, all that remains will be a cracked foundation,
overflowing with ripe red raspberries
and songbirds, gorging.

Rounding Error
June 13 2008

This started with a radio documentary I listened to on CBC, called “Children of the Holocaust”, an award-winning piece produced by Karen Levine and narrated by Timothy Findley. In it, he quotes the numbers I mention in the poem; which got me wondering ...


Collateral damage can’t be helped
in modern war
— nervous pilots, with hair–trigger fingers,
friendly fire,
settling scores.

Civil wars are worse,
brother against brother
civilians held hostage to blood.
Where famine takes the children first,
and disease comes quickly after.

The thing about genocide
is how efficient it is;
orderly queues,
industrial ovens,
cattle-cars
pulling-in on time.
I read that 1 million children died
maybe 1.3,
murdered by Nazis.
300,000 lives
as rounding error.
In Rwanda
they were burnt, in a church, alive.
I picture people down on their knees
calling-out to their Lord for relief;
who must have been pre-occupied, just then.
Cyclon-B is heavier than air,
so they clawed over bodies to breathe
— emaciated corpses
piled-up as high as the ceiling.
While in fire, the smoke tends to rise.
So they died sucking air on the floor;
mercifully dead of smoke
before the flames spread,
before the smell of burning flesh.

Sometimes, war takes a rest,
but despots still kill with neglect
— mass starvation,
refugees festering in squatters’ camps.
While the world watches and frets
apparently unable to act.

Back then, they chose to be passive
and millions died.
Now, we take a stand
then ring our hands, and sigh.
We proclaim the end of genocide,
condemn crimes against humanity,
strike conferences and sanctions.

In this brave new millennium;
too much like the last one.

The Smell of Wood-Smoke
June 11 2008


I like the smell of wood-smoke
fresh-cut grass
green hay,
stacked in a tin-roof barn
where light angles-in between the slats.

And the first thaw of spring,
with its pungent smell
of decomposition
and snow mould.
Later, the earthy scent of fertile soil
you can’t resist digging-in,
bare fingers
raking through its sun-warmed wetness.

There is one day late in spring
you would freeze-frame, if you could
— every leaf fresh
on its firm thick stem;
every blossom unblemished;
and the lawn, newly cut
luminescent.
The shadows are long
and the birds have been calling for hours.
The early morning mist lifts-off
leaving every blade and petal
with tiny pearls of water.
And the smell of hot black coffee
and fresh cut grass
perfumes the garden.
Even the weeds can’t offend,
dandelions, scattered about
like yellow polka-dots on a cotton dress.

This moment soon will end
in the decadence of summer.
So I drink it in,
inhaling its sweet intoxicating scent.
Until I forget
in the bittersweet smoke
of fall.

Dark Ages
June 10 2008


“The most violent feuds in developing countries
are motivated by women
and pigs.”
So says my daily paper
quoting a British academic on the Dark Ages,
sifting the fertile earth
over mass graves.

Fortunately, we are now fully developed.
And our age is one of constant light
— cameras in our faces,
and billions of blogs
breathless with self-regard.

But I fear he’s confirmed the worst feminist’s belief
of women as men’s property
— as esteemed as pigs,
worth less.
Me, I just see our pretence
and men, the most despised sex.
Because despite living in the future
the conceit of enlightenment
the essential things never change,
men still driven
by conquest and wealth
— still helpless
at a woman’s naked beauty,
still greedy
for the greasy spoils.

But unlike them, we will leave no mass graves,
our wounded consumed by fire
— cities razed,
our final solutions,
dead bodies
bull-dozed and burned.

Hanging On
June 9 2008


One day
something overtakes you,
the sudden realization
the future is gone, vanished,
and there is only looking back.
Hope has turned
to disillusion, disappointment,
and all that forward motion
seems pointless.
If you were capable of faith
that might sustain you,
but as it is
you know you’re alone
and the universe magnificently indifferent.

Force of habit makes another day pass
uncounted,
and seasons blur into years.
But you hang on
because ingratitude is the worst sin imaginable,
and because unlikely things do, in fact, happen
— like falling pianos,
like the phone call
you don’t know you missed.

A Few Days of Steady Rain
June 7 2008


What refuge to take
when the earth beneath your feet betrays you?

Live long enough
and people will turn on you,
lovers disappoint,
children drift away.
But without solid ground,
how to have faith in anything again?

I have never lived through earthquake
— showers of plaster-dust,
crystal tinkling on the sideboard,
the bedrock you counted on
unsure.
When great cracks appear in the earth,
and soil can liquefy
into quicksand.

But there were days when the rain
kept on-and-on,
the way water can be implacable
wearing its way through canyons of solid rock.
Until rivers roared
and culverts burst their load
and water undercut roads,
turning sand into slurry
and sweeping the fractured asphalt away.
There comes a tipping point
when the water suddenly rises
with unstoppable force,
leaving you stranded on this tiny island of higher land.
There is nothing solid left,
and you can’t take a step
without the earth sucking you under.
And the world that may re-emerge
will be unrecognizable.

That’s all it takes;
a few days of steady rain
to rip away
the world you never imagined
breakable.

Family Man
June 2 2008


The man who snapped,
who heard voices in his head
or was occupied by demons
or thought he was blessed,
executing the will of God.
And we are lost
to explain,
not a loner
or a failure
or unloved.
He was middle aged and middle class,
and incapable of so horrendous an act
say his friends.

Which would make anyone wonder
if we, too, have a switch in our heads,
a little toggle, where a random slip
or bad genetics
or some nasty rejection
could make us tip into incomprehensible evil.
How far a step
from swatting bugs
to the slaughterhouse
to this?
Because we have all consorted with death.
And he is everyman,
too close for comfort.

He was a family man
never known for violence.
And in his terrifying love,
would leave no one behind.

What Keeps a Prairie Boy Humble
June 1 2008


Out west, they get their backs up
when you call it flat.
Because it’s the absence of trees that makes it prairie, not flatness.
You can feel it in your legs, walking
— the swell of the land, rising and falling
like a vast land-locked ocean;
and the steady wind
waving through grass.
And the sloughs and bluffs and moraines,
the footprints of ancient glaciers.

And it’s a sky as high as heaven
with its clear blue light
that reminds you of your place,
a tiny speck
on a treeless plain.
So you can stand in sunshine
looking hundreds of miles away
at clouds as black as anvils,
and dark curtains of rain,
and bolts of lethal lightning
strobing down
— all utterly soundless.

Which is what keeps a prairie boy humble:
the indifferent sky
that overlooks this patch of earth.
And how a minute of hail
can smash a season’s work.