Bedside Table - Dec 2 2023

 

Bedside Table

Dec 2 2023

The stack of unread books,

half read ones,

and those I barely started,

dog-eared

where I left off.

Like a wordless rebuke

each time I turn in bed.

Lip balm, hand cream, eye glasses,

as if to remind me

of my decrepitude

and mortality.

A lip shmutzed glass

a quarter full

of flat water

lukewarm.

And the alarm clock,

that jangles me from sleep

at such an ungodly hour.

The sum of a life

on the bedside table

I can't help but face each morning.

I reach for the snooze,

then roll away

half-awake

snatched from half-asleep.

Screw my eyes shut,

bit never tight enough.

Because at daybreak

the light is unsparing;

a flat white

that seems to drain every colour

and lay the room bare.

The low sun is relentless,

reaching under the bed

and into the far corners,

lighting up the dust-balls

that found refuge in the dark.

The stack piles up.

like a Jenga tower

tottering

The water's been changed

but not the tumbler,

and now there's another ring.

And the glasses

with the loose left arm

were placed face down,

so chances are

the lens has been scratched again.

The alarm clock sounds

loud as ever;

I hit the snooze once more

and turn to face the wall.

Needless to say, as a gentleman of leisure, there is no alarm clock and no there are no early mornings.

All I had when I started writing was an image of a stack of unread books on a bedside table, and from there the poem found its own way.

In the Glass - Dec 1 2023

In the Glass

Dec 1 2023

My reflection in the window

looks back at me

then looks away.

I follow my eyes

where they take me

until I can't,

imagining

it's I who wills them where.

The ancients thought they worked

like X-ray vision,

superheroes

beaming out lines of sight

and training them on the world.

But we know better.

That they are receptacles, taking it in.

That we see what we want to see

and miss the rest.

That the brain fills in

worlds in our heads.

That I'm still in the glass

searching

wondering

curious,

just as I am

standing here.

I finally forced myself to keep one mercifully short. (Although after writing this, added 4 more lines. My prolixity is incorrigible!)

It's also about time I stopped holding the reader's hand, which my usual conversational style does too much of.

While on the other hand, this kind of poem — less linear, more open to interpretation (which doesn't come so naturally to my logical mind and its pedantic attention to detail) — respects the attentive reader by letting them make of it what they will, which I think can be a much more rewarding experience. It invites re-reading. It leaves space.

Flightless Bird - Dec 1 2023

Flightless Bird

Dec 1 2023

The slow moving emergency

it's easy not to notice,

carrying on as before.

The stalemated war,

fought to exhaustion

and neither won nor lost.

The bad marriage

that's harder to end

than simply make the best of.

We can all see

how it's destined to turn out.

But when denial

is the path of least resistance

you simply take a step

and then the next

until you're too far gone,

counting on the future

to take care of itself.

Or, instead of drift and complacency

take agency and act.

A game-changing weapon, perhaps.

Internal combustion, scrapped.

A clandestine affair,

then divvy up the assets

and hassle over custody.

Apparently, ostriches do not

bury their heads in the sand.

But we are experts at it,

imagining

some deus ex machina

descending from the heavens

to rescue us.

It's magical thinking

that will undo us in the end.

It turns out that the ostrich

is lying low

to go unseen,

hunkering down

from predators

and rival birds

instead of fight or flee.

As if the biggest bird in the world

   —   black and white

against the sand

pressed impossibly flat   —

could hide in plain sight,

imagining

that so long as it kept its head down

life would go on as before.

Reading the news, and as demoralized as usual.

The Ukraine/Russian war stalemated, with the future of democracy and the rule of law at stake in an increasingly autocratic world. In the Middle East, a never-ending war that becomes ever more intractable and feeds on itself.

The climate emergency, as another COP confab degenerates into the familiar litany of pious pronouncements, insincere promises, token gestures, bad statistics, short-term thinking, and the usual human greed. This is the difficult business of collective action, in which it's hard to see the benefit of being the first mover. In which I, with my oil-fired furnace and ICE car, feel like just another hypocrite. A fast moving emergency, yet the streets are just as choked with cars, everyone's still living exactly as before.

I'm not married. But it's a situation we all recognize, and so a good stand-in for all the examples of drift in our personal lives.

The trouble is, everything turned out OK in the past. All kinds of potential catastrophes. Narrow escapes, that looking back seem preordained. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here now. So why worry? Why act? Surely, we'll muddle through again. And anyway, what difference can one person make?Saturday, December 2, 2023

Yellow Cab - Nov 29 2023

 

Yellow Cab

Nov 29 2023

From my seat behind the driver

I found myself distracted

by the back of his head,

bobbing to a soundtrack

of Bollywood songs.

A glance

in the rear view mirror

and I quickly looked away,

the queasy feeling

of the street receding

in its off-kilter tilt.

So I turned

to the steamed-up window

and watched the city rushing past,

resting my cheek

against the cool tempered glass.

The fan blasted

hot recycled air,

the radio crackled

on-and-off

with the dispatcher's gravel voice.

There is something glamorous

about a Yellow Cab

in the city after dark.

Especially in winter,

snuggled into the corner

of the big back seat.

Busy streets

city lights

flashing neon signs,

snow

falling through the cone

of the taxi's bobbing lights.

Contained

in its warm hushed interior,

protected from the cold

and churned-up slush;

not in any rush . . .

or thinking of much . . .

and trusting the driver to drive.

He wants to know where I’m from

because he can clearly tell,

and I mention a place

he's never heard of;

the small town boy,

wide-eyed

in the big city

for his first time.

Like a cab ride

in a classic movie

in grainy black and white.

Humphrey Bogart, perhaps

or Clark Gable,

slipping a cigarette

from a crumpled cellophane pack.

But instead

it's just me

in the back seat

with no one at my side.

Where is my Audrey Hepburn

or Lauren Bacall?

My leading lady,

eager ingenue?

For Someone Else to Solve - Nov 28 2023

 

For Someone Else to Solve

Nov 28 2023

Emptying out the change

that bulged in my wallet

and weighed down my pocket,

I asked the cashier

to convert it into bills.

She sighed

and looked annoyed,

as if I'd asked her to empty the till

and hand it over.

Paper money,

except that these days

it's plastic.

Which means

when the end of the world comes

the bills will long outlast us,

indestructible

in the thin geologic layer

that will contain the history

of our brief existence here.

They say you can't take it with you

glory is fleeting

memory short.

All true.

Forget fame and fortune,

they're meaningless.

And even plastic money's transient;

its value a fiction,

based on tacit agreement

and social trust.

But the cashier

couldn’t care less

about a strict gold standard,

or wheelbarrows full

of paper currency;

all business

she simply corralled the coins

and scooped them into the till.

2 crisp 5s, and a couple of 1s

to complete the transaction.

I already felt lighter.

And since we're all still here,

preoccupied with daily lives

and our own personal troubles,

the end of the world

is better left

for someone else to solve.

After all, money

that's still worth something

is burning a hole in my pocket

    . . . so, what on earth to buy?

The Hymns They Know by Heart - Nov 28 2023

 

The Hymns They Know by Heart

Nov 28 2023

From my seat

at the back of the sanctuary

I look out over the heads

that still have hair

and see mostly grey.

The faithful have aged,

while their sons and daughters

who need to catch up on sleep

or sleep it off;

who stopped believing,

or questioned God

and never heard Him answer,

don't bother to attend.

After all, kids keep them busy.

They are spiritual, not religious.

They reject the teachings

as hypocritical

and misogynistic.

The pews are mostly empty

as more and more go missing

from month to month.

The congregation

sings thinly

the hymns they know by heart;

weak voices

bad lungs.

But even here, there are few true believers.

Most of them

come for the company,

the friendly chat

over tepid coffee and stale cake

that follows the formalities.

And in a headlong world

of bewildering change

the ritual is a comfort,

Sunday after Sunday

anchoring the week.

Privately, they may think about meaning

justice

an afterlife,

but no one's debating

the fine points of theology.

They talk as they've always done;

grandkids

and innocent gossip,

doctor visits

and winter holidays.

Sports, of course

and sometimes even politics;

but watchfully

because no one wants a fight.

The young people

who will live forever

and are busy with important lives

put in appearances

on Easter and Christmas.

For weddings and christenings.

And to pay their respects

at the funerals and wakes.

That seem to come

more frequently these days.

Death, the great leveller

for both the pious and profane

as well as the unsure.

When even atheists go to church.

Following along

by holding the prayer book and mouthing the words

a little after they're said,

but surprised to find

they're singing the songs

and know the hymns by heart.

Downtown Y - Nov 27 2023

 

Downtown Y

Nov 27 2023

The smell stuck to you

all day

and maybe the next.

The heavy chlorine.

The pong of bare feet

in dingy locker rooms.

The human sweat and humid heat

confined for years

in that dark musty building.

So much chlorine

it looked like heavy water,

the extra neutron

making the bottom dark

and the lane lines waver;

bacteria

didn't stand a chance.

The same stagnant water

that sat all season long,

simmering

in its concrete vessel.

Where toddlers pissed,

snot-nosed kids

stewed

until their skin turned soft,

and old ladies

in heavy perfume

exuded scent;

the way onions

sweated over low heat

smell no matter what.

The old downtown Y

I went to as a child

learning to swim.

A whiff of that smell, and I'm instantly back;

pinching my nose

on the edge of the pool,

dreading

that first cold immersion.

The new place, though

is light and airy,

and I don't even notice the smell.

Except, that is

for the teenage boys

peering into steamed-up mirrors,

eyeing their peach fuzz chins

and searching for zits.

The young men

with sculpted facial hair,

posing and flexing

after pumping up,

who douse themselves in manly scent

they've been led to believe

will make the ladies swoon.

They will outgrow this, of course;

find a girl

fall in love

and have children of their own.

And when they're old

will choke in the smell

of another adolescent

trailing a cloud of body spray,

thinking back to the pool

when they were callow themselves

and didn't know any better.

Smell

is a time machine,

transporting us back

to those singular moments

of embarrassment and dread

that will be with us forever.

Which persist

the way the stink of chlorine

and stench of body spray

stick to your skin

as if a part of you.

Even Wolves Learn to Dread - Nov 26 2023

 

Even Wolves Learn to Dread

Nov 26 2023

If on my walks

the woods seem strangely lifeless,

   —  as if the rabbits

had retreated to their lairs,

foxes

made themselves scarce,

deer

hunkered down quietly  —

it must be the dogs.

Frisky, and incautious

they tear through the underbrush

like little kids

let out to play,

released from their nap

at the Tiny Tots nursery

Budding Blossom preschool.

No quiet introspection

or contemplating nature

with companions like this;

domestic animals

and the human master

even wolves learn to dread.

So I have no way of knowing

the state of the world.

Like Heisenberg

observing subatomic particles,

the instrument itself

interferes with their behaviour;

just as we intrude,

stomping through the woods

barking at shadows

stepping inattentively.

Even the love of dogs

and their companionship

cannot make up for what we miss.

For what Thoreau valued most.

Sitting patiently

in his Concord forest

all by himself,

quietly observing

and putting into words

exactly what he saw.

  

The solitude, and simplicity

we need.

The world

as it should be seen.

The Survivalist's Guide - Nov 26 2023

 

The Survivalist's Guide

Nov 26 2023

There's a strict order to things.

Breathing first,

then water, sleep, food.

From minutes to hours

and days to weeks.

We all know thirst.

But not how it feels

to drink your own pee,

still warm

and tinged with blood.

As we've all been sleep-deprived,

bleary-eyed

but oddly energized, as well.

And the deep narcotic sleep

that follows.

Appetite, of course, is far from starvation.

Although they say that in time

the hunger goes

cravings subside.

As if the body learns acceptance.

Not enlightenment

or Zen equanimity,

but at least sensible, under the circumstance;

a new homeostasis

based in reality.

Not so with breath.

When the lion goes for the neck

and throttles the throat

in its death grip jaws

there is no serene acceptance.

The eyes dilate

heart quickens

vessels constrict.

Then air hunger and fear

as vision tunnels,

perception dims,

hearing dulls;

the sound of blood

pounding in the ears

all that's heard.

A fierce struggle

that soon subsides.

I have no way of knowing,

but suspect

from the look in its eyes

a calm then settles,

the world of pain receding

in a warm endorphin rush

to ease the end.

How evolution would select for this

I have no idea;

the gazelle is dead,

there is no inheritance.

If you're a believer, I guess

it's the mercy of God;

after all, animals may not have souls

but they're still His creatures.

Or perhaps, not every gazelle dies;

the survivors

helped by the absence of pain

to slip the lion's grip

and live another day.

The world of eat or be eaten

has never heard of Maslow

or his hierarchy.

There are only basic needs;

survival

one breath at a time.

Did you notice your last

hearing this,

the last breath you took?

Of course not.

A thing you only notice

when it stops.

Trembling Aspen - Nov 26 2023

 

Trembling Aspen

Nov 26 2023

Of course the trees are alive.

Trembling aspen

with their dancing leaves,

weeping willow

crying without tears.

How we name them

is how we see the world;

breathing life

into the inanimate,

sentience

into the senseless.

Projecting ourselves

into all there is.

The teddy bear

with the threadbare fur

that had turned a dirty yellow

I wouldn't, for years, let go of.

The car I christened

computer I yelled at.

The walls with ears

and seas without remorse.

But the trees do live

and I wonder what they're crying for.

Is it the lost Eden, a world despoiled?

Or simply physics;

leaves, quivering in the wind,

branches

maximizing sunlight?

Here, the aspen are plentiful.

They grow fast, die young.

But in the prime of life

appear unconcerned with death,

their green and silver leaves

dancing joyfully

in any kind of wind.

They make a loud rustling sound

that seems to shimmer,

like tiny bits of glass

tinkling as they fall.

Who knows what inner life

they might have.

Could we even recognize

such a different way of being?

Who would even think

to look?

Summering - Nov 25 2023

 

Summering

Nov 25 2023

Not what I did on summer vacation

but summering.

Said

in a mid-Atlantic accent

with patrician superciliousness.

Something rich people do

on private islands

and beach front property.

Who also winter in the tropics

at exclusive resorts,

jet-setting somewhere else

when they get bored.

This verbing of nouns

would also suggest springing and autumning.

Or, for the less fortunate, falling.

A hurtful word,

when the poor

are getting even poorer,

the middle class

taken down a notch.

Perhaps, in October, we're all homebodies,

a month of rest and replenishment

before winter starts.

No need for a verb

before a blazing fire

sipping hot ginger tea;

not when the sun sets

in late afternoon,

and even the dormant grass

isn't listening.

Any noun can be verbed.

Try it yourself

in this festive season

that begins with Thanksgiving,

runs through Christmasing,

and ends with midnighting

on the cusp of New Year's Day.

I encountered this word, and right away wanted to play around with it.

As a conservative when it comes to change in language (which, I admit, isn't how language works, and is about as useful as trying to stop the tide coming in!), I tend to turn my nose up at the rampant verbing of nouns; even though English is full of such words.

It's odd about “summering”. No matter what, I find I can't say it without falling into that supercilious med-Atlantic tone of voice. It's a word an average person of modest means would never comfortably use!

The poem doesn't really work. But is still kind of fun, and I can't bring myself to hit delete.