Small Pleasures - Oct 8 2023

 

Small Pleasures

Oct 8 2023

The boiler rumbles to life,

pipes burble, rattle, ping

as heat courses through,

and the first hint of warmth

begins to trickle out.

After a sweltering summer

and months at rest

   —   sitting heavily

in a cramped corner

in a damp basement

on a cold concrete floor   —

the oil burner, and its massive boiler

do what they are there for:

like dutiful soldiers

waiting for the order

to fire.

If only everything in life

was so reliable.

If all it took

was a simple turn

of the thermostat.

But really, what more could one desire

than a cozy room

on a chilly afternoon

in a blustery fall?

In my quiet life

of low expectations

and frugal celebration

I take quiet satisfaction

from small rites of passage 

such as this.

So the first day

of heating season

deserves to be recognized;

a milepost

pointing to a change in season,

the feeling of a fresh start.

And a definitive end

to a taxing summer

of record-setting heat.

Hardly earth shattering

or life transforming.

But this is how it mostly goes;

basic needs, satisfied,

and the small pleasures of daily life

quietly enjoyed.

Succession - Oct 7 2023

 

Succession

Oct 7 2023

Underfoot

the crunch of leaves

in a warm sunny fall.

The squeak of freeze-dried snow

in a cold hard winter.

While spring

brings the squelch of soggy soil

sucking sound of mud,

and kids

in rubber boots

splashing through standing pools

of ice cold thaw.

Although I'm not sure about summer,

because bare feet

on hot sand

are quiet,

and no one walks on water.

I think more of smell;

the first rain

on sun-baked blacktop

after a long dry spell,

the scent of wild flowers

and freshly cut grass.

Of course, it's always summer somewhere.

Even now,

as fall is fully ripening

and winter's bearing down

just over the horizon.

Looming

like a heavy cloud

that blocks out the sun,

casting a cold dark pall

that will last for months.

Dark Humour - Oct 6 2023

 

Dark Humour

Oct 6 2023

Have the young

always been this humourless?

Is it possible

we were also that huffy

judgemental

ungenerous?

I guess that's the price

of youthful ideals

when the future seems so bleak.

As well as what you'd think would come

of the need to gain approval

from others like you.

While the old

have long ago

cast off any illusion

of changing the world,

retreating into private lives

and their intimate circles;

content to be small,

resigned

to an inconsequential life.

But mostly, we have ceased to deeply care

what others think of us;

no need to pose,

signal our virtue,

valorize purity.

Not when belonging

is no longer everything

and we have nothing left to prove.

Or perhaps, as age

has made us more and more invisible

we’ve come to better understand

our own insignificance.

More than enough time

to have failed often,

learned to laugh at ourselves,

and — if only grudgingly —

accepted our impotence.

The big picture

is no longer our concern;

not enough time for that.

So lighten up, we tell the young

don't take yourselves so seriously.

Laughter is good

and youth doesn't last

and the truth hurts less that way.

Even “dad jokes” and puns

are worth a smile.

Not to mention the dark humour

of politics

which offers endless amusement.

Where ridiculousness

intersects with pomposity,

and all you can really do

is give your head a shake

and laugh out loud.

Here's a good one. Definitely “dad joke” material. (With thanks to the Atlantic's James Parker.)

What do you get when you give a whale a camera?

Moby Dick pics.

If that doesn't elicit a smile, I don't knew what will!

I have no clue where these come from, except that they just keep coming. I have no idea — zero! — what I'm going to say; I just sit down — well-caffeinated and in the mood to write — and put down the first thing that pops into my head. The rest writes itself.

I'm very lucky: I get to experience the “flow state” every single day!

10 Miles in No Time - Oct 5 2023

 

10 Miles in No Time

Oct 5 2023

So I looked it up.

10 miles is all,

the distance between

lightning and me

when there is no sound.

I counted the seconds, waiting expectantly

but the thunder never came,

and the feeling of something incomplete

was overwhelming;

all that energy

building-up

and barely contained

coming this way.

A fitful wind swirled.

A chill descended.

And overhead, the sky darkened

the blackest blue.

A big anvil cloud

that seemed lit from within

was bearing down,

lightning flashing

across the sky.

And in the eerie quiet

I stood frozen

in the strobe-like bursts,

my skin a ghostly white

in the cold electric light.

You'd think sound would travel hundreds of miles,

that silence was safety

and I could watch detached;

a bystander

to a spectacular show,

protected by distance

and nature's indifference

to something so small.

Which is how we've grown accustomed

to navigating life,

watching on screens,

exempt from time,

and hiding behind

a gauze of anonymity.

Or like the witness

to a mass shooting

who looks on paralyzed,

something so unexpected

he fails to act.

The bystander

we're quick to judge

after the fact,

who could have intervened

but simply stood.

But now

I was small

exposed

and had no control;

10 miles

in no time at all

at the speed of light.

Like the muzzle flash

and impact

before you hear the gun,

the sight of blood

before you feel it,

lightning comes

out of a soundless sky

just like that.

The Oddballs and Ostracized - Oct 4 20232

 

The Oddballs and Ostracized

Oct 4 2023

Some geese are holding out.

Despite hearing the flocks

heading south

a month ago

   —   squawking and squabbling

in the ragged Vs

that signal fall   —

I heard some sounding off

in the dark

on a clear November night.

Is it the unseasonable warmth?

Are they a stubborn pair,

proud non-conformists?

Or are they, like an old irascible couple

still arguing

about the fastest route,

which rest stop is best,

how to miss the crowds?

I've been told they mate for life,

and we all know

how that goes;

a spirited fight

that's quickly forgotten.

Or perhaps they're bachelor birds

who never attracted a mate,

but are still keen to breed

as nature intended?

Sending out their plaintive cries

and hoping for a reply

while the world's still green

the sun still shines?

Or are they outliers,

whose DNA has somehow been tweaked

so that they leave late;

nature's way

to save a species

when conditions change?

Like mosquitoes in October,

early blooming flowers

that risk a sudden frost.

The oddballs and ostracized

who suffer for their difference

but will save us in the end.

Or be caught

by an early winter

a sudden snow?

End up frozen

in darkness

bereft of hope.

Speak Up - Oct 4 2023

 

Speak Up

Oct 4 2023

She accused me of mumbling.

While I claimed

nothing had changed,

that she should pay better attention

or simply didn't care.

Eventually, things worsened.

When her back was turned

what else could I infer

but that she was ignoring me,

fuming under my breath

and more and more

keeping stuff to myself.

Not deaf, but hard of hearing.

Which comes on slowly,

and like the frog in hot water

is hard to notice.

But it was easy to see

how over time

she retreated into herself.

How her body shrank

face flattened

eyes glazed.

How even her hair

went a shade greyer.

And now, too late, I understand how 

swaddled in cotton wool

the mind dulls

attachment frays.

Too bad

we're the sort of people

who armour ourselves with words,

value intellect

over emotion.

Never learned

to share feelings

find comfort in hugs.

I guess you'd call us repressed,

perhaps even cold.

Because touch

never goes deaf.

And close up

you can whisper in her ear;

the same warm wet tongue

as when you were young

and eager to listen,

the same hot breath

as when you were urgent

and fearless

and words weren't nearly enough.

When she brought you out of yourself,

and long before

receding into hers.

From a Distance - Oct 2 2023

 

From a Distance

Oct 2 2023

From a great distance

the surface of the earth

resolves into abstract art.

The forest for the trees, as is said,

and our vision

hardly distant from the ground

is as singular as that,

familiar, circumscribed, granular;

figurative art

that is technically skilled

but unimaginative.

The despots

of the last century

branded abstraction as degenerate,

the corrupting influence

of the Jews, and homosexuals

subversives intellectuals.

But without this distance

how much beauty are we missing?

The drama

of our brilliant green and blue planet

so reduced to the mundane

it's hardly worth noticing.

While these striking images

reveal how fragile it is;

the beauty

of its remote and untouched places

incrementally threatened

day by day.

As well as how small;

a lonely planet

on the fringes of the Milky Way,

barely visible

against the blackness of space.

Here's a link to the Atlantic, where some of this year's finalists in the nature photography contest sponsored by Nature TTL are featured, and which set me off on this poem. (Unfortunately, I'm not able to copy them here.)

https://www.theatlantic.com/photo/2023/10/winners-nature

And while I'm at it, here's a song I love — even despite the “God” stuff! — which immediately came to mind with the opening line.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCzORgC1NpM

I wanted to close with the famous image of “Blue Marble Earth” taken by the Apollo 17 astronauts on their way to the moon. Unfortunately, I am also prevented from copying So I suggest you simply Google it. 

A Word For Everything - Oct 1 2023

 

A Word For Everything

Oct 1 2023

There is no word for this

I find myself saying

when language fails.

I feel envious of the Germans

and their run-on Jenga words,

great tottering towers

of guttural sound

that hold nothing back,

probing the darkness

in the human heart,

spelling out a worldview

of Teutonic candour

cluttered with consonants.

Weltshmertz and shadenfreude,

2 familiar words

English has, quite sensibly

already conscripted.

Then freundschaftbeziehungen

and backpfeigfengesicht,

respectively

“bonds of friendship”

and “face in need of a fist”.

But my favourite is the Yiddish, verklempt,

that ineffable feeling

of the clutch in your heart

when you are overwhelmed by emotion

and tears are beginning to well.

How fortunate

that when English colonized the world

it was not precious

about purity,

appropriating words

from everywhere

without apology.

How lovely

to speak a mongrel tongue

with an insatiable appetite.

But still, it's not German,

the language

with a word for everything,

a specificity

that strips meaning down to its spine.

Too bad

my thick tongue

isn't up to it.

And that my ear hurts

hearing such great compounded words

barked out

with German precision.

An alphabet soup

of tongue-twisters,

so specific

no contingency

is ever missed.

A Day of Rest - Sept 30 2023

 

A Day of Rest

Sept 30 2023

Our ancestors

   —   puritanical, repressed, conformist   —

had a common day of rest,

kept the Sabbath

honoured its sanctity.

When corner stores went dark

and even street cars didn't run.

But we are modern, progressive, impatient

and need no such coddling;

jealous of our freedom,

we love shopping,

consecrate work.

I regret this permissiveness,

the atomizing force

that scatters us

in every direction,

confines each one

to a hall of mirrors

lit from within,

gaze fixed

on our personal reflection.

If only we could take time

pause

put off

for 24 hours,

and do it all together.

Resurrect the Sabbath

and keep it faithfully;

if not a holy day, then secular,

and by whatever name

fits best.

No preachers or prayers

guilt or shame.

Just a day of rest,

In which to collect ourselves

reflect

decompress.

The internet off

and no shops to tempt us;

no watching the clock

or fear of missing out.

Bible Stories - Sept 29 2023

 

Bible Stories

Sept 29 2023

The Tower of Babel,

where God cursed its builders

with a confusion of tongues.

Of course it crumbled,

with so much distrust

and misunderstanding.

But if things had been different

how high would it have climbed?

As high as heaven?

High enough

to see the naked emperor

for what He really was?

The omnipotent divine,

too insecure

to let humankind come close.

Or would they have run out of air

and realized

that no one's there,

the ineffable Creator

a figment of questioning minds

keen to explain?

So if not the Tower

and an insecure God,

why the failure to communicate?

Why divide

into clans and tribes

and petty rivalries,

empires

and shaky alliances,

nation states

drawing lines in the sand?

Not by decree

of some deity

from His high and mighty throne,

but by ourselves.

Because we tend to “other”

stereotype

dehumanize.

Because we’re more comfortable

with “our own” kind,

people like us.

Because small differences

seem to matter

far too much.

The tower abandoned

and its bricks scattered

or converted to weapons of war.

Not a lingua franca,

but a call-to-arms

and battle cries.

Not a monument to greatness

but genocide.

Smoking rubble

salted fields

and dying breaths,

scorched earth

reeking of death.

My Slow Hermetic Life - Sept 28 2023

 

My Slow Hermetic Life

Sept 28 2023

For a long time now

I’ve been out of the conversation.

Not even listening in

or hoping to be included.

Pop music.

The endless rounds of gossip

and celebrity news.

Catty rivalries,

juicy scandals,

the latest meme, and viral sensation.

Youth culture

consuming itself

in frantic iterations,

the newest slang

only the cool kids

get to use.

The incessant buzz

of talking at each other,

people chatting, dishing, berating

seeking validation.

Because it all passes

in a day or two.

Because memories are short

scandal or not.

Because celebrity doesn't last

and fame is forgotten.

Even that

isn't what it used to be,

and what's more

probably never was;

but its emptiness

only becomes apparent

from the inside looking out.

So I am content

leading this hermetic life,

an eccentric

oblivious to a world

that never stands still.

Listening to old music

that's proven timeless,

reading instead of watching,

and talking seriously

minus the froth.

Perhaps ignorance is bliss

if you think you know

what's worth ignoring.

Or perhaps I'm just averse to change

and old at heart,

a curmudgeon

whose snooty disdain

is mere pretension.

But either way

the conversation continues,

the airwaves are full

the noise ratchets up.

Entire nations

distracting themselves;

entertained,

up-to-date,

afraid of missing out.

Literal - Sept 27 2023

 

Literal

Sept 27 2023

When push comes to shove, she said

and I wondered what she meant.

A friendly nudge

up a steep hill

when my step faltered?

Or a firm shove

over the edge of a cliff?

Why do I keep doing this?

Interrogate sayings

parse meaning

infer intent?

The English language

is a thing of beauty,

but can be treacherous

In the wrong hands.

Because while words can't kill

they draw blood;

like a lethal dagger

dangling over your head,

hover in the air

long after they're uttered.

She meant nothing, of course

by this cliché,

it was simply something to say.

What I've learned since

is to read, rather than listen;

follow her eyes

catch her tone

decipher body language.

Words have meaning.

But often, they don't.

An odd origin story for this poem. The expression appeared in something I was reading, and for some reason it stuck. And the only way I could get it unstuck was to write it out of me. So I put down the opening line, and then let stream of consciousness — along with my ear — take over.

I suppose this is a pitfall of being so attentive to language. Sometimes, you become a concrete thinker and hear metaphors literally. Or don't hear them so much as see the possibilities, ambiguities, and misdirections; and then want to play with them.

If there is a theme to this poem, it's that communication is fraught. So be a generous listener, and hear with all of your senses.