Good Company - Nov 9 2022

 

Good Company

Nov 9 2022

They are predicting

the first storm of winter.

Which starts early here,

well before

the end of fall.

A low pressure system

edging in

with gusty winds and frigid air.

A mix of sleet, snow, and freezing rain,

ice pellets

and bad roads.

I depend on weather reports.

But it's as if the dogs know;

that 6^th sense

of the wild animal

that still resides in them.

Right now, the steady drip-drip-drip

of a light shower

drumming gently on the roof.

While I sit

alertly gauging the sound,

wondering when

the weather will turn.

Anxiously wait,

fully expecting

to be stranded for days.

But this

is the peculiar pleasure of a winter storm,

snow-stayed

in the cozy warmth

of this small snug cabin.

A roaring fire

and a good book.

Comfort food,

and a thick down quilt

to snuggle under

during the long cold nights.

And, of course, the dogs,

who doze lazily

and never complain.

Who are always

a reassuring presence;

good company

no matter what.

Calm

when I get worked up,

unmoved by my moods

and frayed temper,

and as trusting in me

as are small children

in their all-powerful parents.

While I fuss, plan, prepare,

taking nothing for granted

and methodically thinking ahead.

But most of all

they are content to live in the now,

as opposed to my everlasting

existential angst.

The calm before the storm.

Where I sit

with a mixture of dread

and anticipation.

And the dogs

happily oblivious,

stretched out together

on the battered couch

waiting to be fed.

Lost Dreams - Nov 8 2022

 

Lost Dreams

Nov 8 2022

I slept fitfully.

Not the deep sleep of oblivion

but dipping in and out.

The way a smooth stone

flat on both sides

skips across the surface

of a still black lake.

So all I have

are fragments of dreams,

as insubstantial

as the wisps of fog

drifting over the same still water.

Strong emotions

that felt important,

and something

that's been deeply troubling

finally resolved.

But what?

Like a skipping stone

that slows to a stop

and is irretrievably gone.

So, is the sleeping version of me

preternaturally wise?

Does the subconscious have answers

my waking self

can neither access

nor understand?

I lie still

eyes closed

trying to prolong that twilight state

between sleep and wakefulness,

but the harder I reach

the further my dreams recede.

Although perhaps

it's best not to see

into that dark subliminal place

where dreams reside.

Let them do their work

out of sight.

Leave night

to the bottom-dwelling me,

that subsurface creature

who never comes up to breath.

A Love of Jazz - Nov 7 2022

 

A Love of Jazz

Nov 7 2022

We shared a love of jazz.

Our relationship

like the players

improvised;

we knew where we hoped it would go,

but were happy to play it by ear

on the way there.

And how carefully we listened,

hearing each other out

speaking openly.

Like those virtuoso solos

when a single instrument

takes centre stage;

like the jazz musician's

call-and-response

and precisely cocked ear.

For me, I imagine stand-up bass,

a big steady piece

a background player,

keeping time

with a deep resonant voice

you feel as much as hear.

While she was the smooth sweet sound

of a sax;

all sexy curves and gleaming brass,

bending notes

with her firm wet lips

and powerful tongue.

But what I truly love

is when the musicians show restraint;

not the speed and complexity

of a show-stopping number,

but the pure distilled sound

of a slow ballad,

performed as if

there was all time in the world,

and with enough space

and frugal orchestration

to easily lose oneself.

Just as we gave space;

not trying to change the other

into someone they're not.

And what's the rush

when something's sure to last?

I picture us

in an intimate club

in smoky darkness

at a small table for two.

On the slightly raised stage

under hot overhead lights

sweat is glistening on the faces

of the self-assured players,

who always look cool

no matter what.

There's a distant look in their eyes,

so fully immersed

they seem oblivious

to the people out there.

And, as if by muscle memory

they make it seem effortless;

all nimble hands and puckered lips

and long controlled breaths.

They hold their instruments

as if they know them by heart;

drumsticks a blur,

the flashy brash

and burnished wood

so easy in their hands.

Jazz musicians,

making music

as if they were making love.

Like we once did

and wish we still could.

My Future Self - Nov 6 2022

 

My Future Self

Nov 6 2022

I'm not very good

at imagining my future self

and looking out for him.

I know this

because the past versions of me

didn't do it very well.

After all, current me

has priority,

so why not one more slice of pie,

second mortgage,

nasty divorce?

That things didn't turn out

as I expected

is no surprise.

After all, no one really gets it right.

The question is

if I could go back in time

with what I know now

would I do it any better?

A tempting thought

but I think not.

Not when you consider

that my temperament

and essential flaws

haven’t really changed;

that I'm guilty of the same short-sighted thinking,

am just as weak

when instant gratification

tests my resolve.

And the future

would feel as far away;

like the earthquake

that happens to strangers

on the other side of the world

you know should be deeply affecting,

but you just nod sympathetically

and go on with your day.

If only I'd been

the grasshopper, not the ant;

remembered to floss,

hadn't kept putting it off,

or refused to stop

whatever it was

that never once worked.

And the lottery, of course

was clearly no financial plan.

The future,

as if it were singular

predetermined

and the best of all worlds,

when between now and then

there are so many possibilities

contingencies

blind-sided turns.

The future,

that hypothetical space

as big as the multiple universe.

But which will probably end up

feeling like more of the same;

not a place, an end, a summation,

but more the muddled middle

of hoping for the best

and living for today.

To a Life Well-Lived - Nov 5 2022

 

To a Life Well-Lived

Nov 5 2022

A dead body

bloated and decomposing

eventually floats,

lying half-submerged

on the ocean surface

rocking gently in the swell.

Salt water

softens the skin,

which will turn a sickly pale

be nibbled on by fish.

Scavenging birds

will circle unerringly,

taking turns

tearing at the melting flesh.

And soon, the cloying stink of death;

a mix of mothballs

rotten eggs

and bad fruit,

meat

forgotten in the car

on a sunny afternoon.

And when it sinks to the ocean floor

the stricken whale

will be a feast;

decomposing from the inside out,

carved up

by scavengers

who will consume even the bones.

Food

for those who depend on death

for survival;

the microbes

of the festering gut,

the bottom-dwellers

in the benthic desert

of permanent dark.

The Bible says

ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

Foretelling that we, too, will return;

the virtuous cycle

of life and death.

So bury me

in a thin linen shroud

beneath a fruiting tree;

deep enough

wild beasts don't dig me up,

but shallow enough

the living soil

will consume my mortal remains.

Where worm-infested apples

with soft pulpy centres

will fall.

Will be turned alcoholic

by industrious yeast.

Will brown and shrivel and slump

into fertile soil,

rotten matter

scattering hard brown seeds

that may or may not

survive the winter.

Then geminate in spring,

far enough from the mother tree

to catch the sun,

sprouting tender leaves

and sending down roots

into the rich loamy soil

where my body rests

In subterranean dark.

Hard apple cider

infusing the ground

beneath the first wet snow.

Where I'd like to imagine

raising a glass

to a life well-lived;

a nod to my survivors

a salute myself, 

the dear departed

raising a toast.

Jim Harrison has a book of poetry called Dead Man's Float. When I saw this title, I was envious (the kind of title that instantly piques your curiosity and draws you in), and immediately pictured a rather morbid forensic scenario. (Although, not having yet read the poem, it could very well be about learning to swim!)

But playing around with the idea, it only took a few lines to realize that if I wasn't more intentional, my version of this poem would quickly become a police procedural — another formulaic network drama. So then it became a dead fish, floating belly up, and then the carcass of a whale. That called to mind a sequence from David Attenborough's Blue Planet, which is when I knew I had something that would take me somewhere with more appeal and poetic possibilities than a coroner's case, mob hit, or murder mystery.

I do hope, though, that dead body in the opening stanza provides some misdirection: that the reader will immediately picture a human corpse, and certainly not a whale.

I had just finished my final proof-read of the first draft when I went back and added the closing stanza. To paraphrase Chekhov, if you introduce a gun in the 1st act, by the 2nd or 3rd it must go off. So here, where — in a spirit of mischief — I’d dropped in that incidental reference to natural fermentation, what else to do but make a final toast with it?!!

Can't Go Home Again - Nov 4 2022

 

Can't Go Home Again

Nov 4 2022

I fell asleep

before the story ended.

The time honoured ritual, of course

intended just for that.

But still, who doesn't prefer

a definitive end

over unfinished business,

a neat resolution

instead of ambiguity?

The hero triumphant

moral hammered home,

a certain return

to the status quo.

Now, I toss and turn.

There are no bedtime stories

no one to shut off the lights.

And since then I've learned

that I wasn't any hero,

good doesn't triumph,

and life goes on,

its convoluted plot

too involved

to be easily so resolved.

As if things could return

to how they were before.

Children

whose beautiful innocence

parents wished to protect

above all else.

And the kids themselves,

whose only wish

was to grow up fast

and experience the world.

Where Goldilocks

gets eaten by bears.

Jabberwocky

defeats the boy.

And Oz

never pulls back the curtain,

Dorothy

doesn't find her way home.

Darkness Falls - Nov 2 2022

 

Darkness Falls

Nov 2 2022

Darkness falls slowly

then all of a sudden.

I notice this, sitting in my easy chair,

lights off

shades up

looking outside.

I'm tempted to metaphor;

does everything happen like this?

A tipping point,

then unstoppable slide

all the way down.

Except the planet turns

stars appear

the moon shines.

And then, sunrise;

a clockwork universe,

more sine wave

than descending line.

So even if history doesn't repeat

it surely rhymes.

And where am I

between endless night

and the promise of dawn?

As a congenital pessimist

I know which metaphor

resonates most powerfully   —

   —  darkness

disaster

from bad to worse.

Irreversibly so.

The world, plunged into darkness

because we failed to learn.

One of those over-caffeinated days I'm not ready to stop writing. Unfortunately, reading one too many Atlantic articles about war, climate change, conspiracy theorists, and democracy in peril leads to poems like this!

A Life in Poetry - Nov 2 2022

 

A Life in Poetry

Nov 2 2022

I hung the painting upside down.

Over-watered the dahlias

wore mismatched socks.

The dog was sick   —

vomiting on the rug

then promptly scarfing it up.

And the poem was lost

when I hit delete

instead of save.

The day, though, was beautiful.

warm, cloudless, dry

in a spectacular fall.

The universe, as usual

indifferent to my troubles

unimpressed by the triumphs.

In middle school English

there was pathetic fallacy,

nature

in sympathy with us.

In real life, no such thing;

she is oblivious

and we're on our own.

Turns out

I knew the poem by heart.

The painting

didn't matter anyway,

it was the abstract art.

And in the end

no one noticed the socks.

The dog, of course, is always happy

so what's the harm?

We were also taught

that poetry rhymes.

But nothing is as neat

as a nice rhyming couplet.

Life is dissonant,

with uneven meter

inconsistent diction

and line breaks

that aren’t yours to make;

sometimes, in the mid

dle of a word.

And while a good poem

is ambiguous,

it finishes

when just enough's been said.

But in real life

events are unpredictable

   —   things end where they end.

Sometimes

simply stop.

Chronic - Nov 1 2022

 

Chronic

Nov 1 2022

He asked where it was

when it came

how it felt.

Offered helpful words

like sharp, burn, pulsate.

The interrogation continued,

appetite?   . . .sleep?   . . . urination?

I thought of Inquisition,

thumb screws and whippings

Torquemada's victims.

The infliction of pain.

The forced conversion

to a blighted life

of pointless suffering

you can't explain.

And worse, invisible to others;

no bruises or scars,

surgical incisions.

And although it's intermittent

it's also unremitting;

the memory

baked into my body

inscribed on my brain,

the anxious anticipation

of its random return.

They never found a cause.

Chronic, he eventually pronounced,

as if a name

even one so vague

was answer enough.

Which is all he had,

questions and answers

and inconclusive tests,

a pat on the back

and hands in the air.

The pain is still there.

A life sentence

with only the power of prayer

to please my Inquisitors.

An interesting piece in today’s Atlantic (https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2022/11/living-with-chronic-pain-philosophy-lessons/671958/).

I admire people who suffer like this, who are sometimes doubted, and who exist with constant uncertainty, but still manage to live meaningful, productive, and fulfilling lives. And how useful to read these personal and philosophical reflections: a reminder of my good fortune; a prod to gratitude.

Afraid of Dogs - Oct 27 2022

 

Afraid of Dogs

Oct 27 2022

In the cramped waiting room

a succession of ailing pets

and their anxious humans;

birds in cages

and cats in crates,

a cavalcade of dogs.

Along with some exotic fish

and the odd listless reptile.

Whom their people insist

have real personalities

and show plenty of affection.

Even though

their faces are impassive

and they're mostly inert,

blinking lazily

with a fixed gaze

I find unnerving,

and only now and then

a slow sweep of the tail.

Not to mention

looking too prehistoric

to imagine relating.

And so many dogs, of course,

either straining at their leases

and wagging happy tails,

or quivering in their owner's arms

ears flat

anxiously scanning the room.

Is it true

that we begin to resemble our pets?

Elegant people

escorting fastidious cats.

Outgoing folk

pulled by goofy dogs.

And social-climbing snobs

flaunting

their pedigreed aristocrats.

Not to mention the oddballs

and characters

and sketchy individualists,

cradling geckos

slit-eyed snakes

and sleepy bearded lizards.

Who look like tough little pugilists

with their thick ruffled necks

and big pouty heads,

crouched on short crooked legs

and splayed-out feet.

My old girl

is a more sensible pet,

suitable

for a conventional human like me.

She also loves the vet,

and in this crowded room

is her usual excitable self,

pulling incessantly

on the unaccustomed leash,

licking the receptionist

with a bright-eyed affection

even she can't resist,

and greeting every visitor

with a froth of doggie slobber

and a cold wet nose.

She sniffs manically

at everything

especially the food;

as if smell had all the answers

to life's persistent questions.

While I'm an introvert

and warm up to people

slowly, if at all.

So we hardly resemble each other

conventional or not.

But obnoxious as she is, I'm proud of her,

and can only try to learn

from this good-hearted dog.

How to look forward to the vet

and make the best of it.

How to be more open

loving

non-judgmental.

Meanwhile, I apologized to all concerned.

The busy receptionist

whose smile seemed genuine.

The sour cat-lady

with her look of disgust.

And the tattooed girl

with the hard face

and coiled snake,

who was dressed in all black

and seemed afraid of dogs.