Waiting Room - Dec 11 2023

 

Waiting Room

Dec 11 2023

The waiting room

had an antiseptic smell,

bruised yellow paint,

and black vinyl chairs

with heavy steel frames

that had seen better days,

and clearly

weren't made for comfort.

People slouched, slept, paced.

Old magazines

were thumbed and thumbed again.

A vending machine

dispensed stale sandwiches

and over-priced snacks.

Occasionally

a brisk doctor

or sympathetic nurse appeared,

commiserating

or delivering updates.

A prognosis, perhaps , for anxious loved ones;

maybe how many years,

sometimes how many months.

Just as walls absorb smoke

   —   cigarettes, thick with tar

a cigar's heady smell   —

the paint and plaster soaked up stress.

The space

seemed charged with it;

accumulating over the years

from tense bodies and scattered minds

confined

to its over-heated air

and mean furnishings.

I was there most of the night

waiting;

a room

intended for just that.

But an afterthought, it seemed to me.

As if bad things never happen.

As if loved ones are a bother,

better off at home

waiting by the phone.

Before the new

state-of-the-art hospital.

Before the old General was torn down,

turned to rubble

in a vacant field

under a dusting of snow.

Before the yellow paint

and porous plaster

were carted-off and land-filled,

bulldozed under tons

of ripe and rotting garbage.

Interred

unceremoniously

with no mourners looking on.

But before that

had their moment in the sun;

a brief chance

to bask in fresh cleansing air

and feel spring come alive.

Back and Forth - Dec 10 2023

 

Back and Forth

Dec 10 2023

I was surprised by the yellow-tinged fur.

Aren't these noble creatures white?

And the glazed look in its eyes

as it paced back and forth

in its ersatz enclosure.

A crowd watched.

Small children squealed,

tired parents sagged,

and the few teenaged boys

intent on cool

looked suitably bored.

The polar bear was born here.

Never knew

the ascetic beauty

and stunning vastness

of the far north.

Never swam in the sea

hunted for food

won a mate.

It was a warm spring day.

The coat had thinned

and I could see the black skin underneath.

I felt unworthy

gawking at this captive animal

there only for our pleasure.

Who continued to walk

back and forth

along the same well-worn path,

like a catatonic inmate

confined to the asylum.

Continued to hold

its thousand-mile stare,

the way you can look

and still not see.

Continued to think

polar bear thoughts

and feel who-knows-what;

the mind

of a sentient creature

I can only guess at.

Lots of articles in the weekend Globe about animal welfare.

This was particularly inspired by one about “conservation-washing” in the zoo industry and the moral case against captive animals.

I'm really pleased how this first draft turned out. Again, the conversational style that works best for me.

Not Meant for a Creature of Flight - Dec 9 2023

 

Not Meant for a Creature of Flight

Dec 9 2023

Several rivers

wend through the city,

converging toward the lake

and their journey's end.

Some are still wild,

protected

by narrow strips of green

behind Potemkin trees.

Although the sounds of traffic you can't help but hear

make it hard to sustain

any illusion of wilderness.

Others are contained

between concrete walls

and chain link fences.

Or diverted underground,

where only a few old-timers

recall they ever were.

Deer

wander down these corridors,

sometimes stumbling out

into parks, backyards

and busy city streets.

Where, wild-eyed

they freeze, bolt, panic,

evading traffic

hooves clattering

desperate to cross.

Or, bewildered and lost

zigzag back and forth,

slipping and sliding

on the slick pavement

not meant for a creature of flight.

The other day, there was one in the parking lot

of the big-box store,

exhausted

confused

all by itself.

Some shoppers stopped,

feeling sorry, but helpless.

While others ignored it,

lugging bags and herding kids

fumbling for car doors.

I'm not sure

how it turned out for the deer.

But understand

how it feels to be alone

in an alien place

drawing stares.

Or at least imagining them

   —  as if you anyone really notices

or actually cares.

Because, after all, who isn't a solipsist

too busy with himself?

The shady green corridors

where we both feel at home.

Where, if you focus hard enough

you stop hearing the cars

sirens, horns.

Where the sound of rushing water

and wind in the trees

make it seem like you've escaped;

the illusion

that you're in a place

you're safe

and really belong.

Now here I am, reverting to form.

Have to admit, this more prose-like conversational style is more to my liking!

Literally. If you lost the line breaks and wrote this out as a paragraph, it would be grammatically correct prose.

After Taste - Dec 9 2023

 

After Taste

Dec 9 2023

The co-existence

of savoury and sweet.

I suspect I have the two in me,

both competing

and complementary.

As well some salt in the wounds

and a host of bitter dregs,

hoarded

and expressed as entitlement.

Does my love of vinegar

say something telling?

How it excites the tongue,

its tingle of astringency

cuts through

the cloying aftertaste.

But as I sour on myself

find I’m reverting to bland.

Smell has waned

taste numbed;

like cardboard

in a dry mouth

hard not to choke on.

So why this craving for sweet

so late in life?

And how demoralizing to recall

how over-ripe fruit falls

of its own accord.

How its sweetness ferments

flesh turns

as it returns to the soil.

How everything ends

in worm food,

the stench of decomposition

the earthy smell of loam.

Trying something a lot less linear than usual.

This is not natural for me. My mind prefers logic and order.

But I'd prefer to move away from that, because what my poetry generally lacks is the ambiguity that gives the reader room, not to mention invites rereading.

     . . . Trouble is, as I edited, it ended up becoming too much as usual!

Delinquent Son - Dec 8 2023

 

Delinquent Son

Dec 8 2023

They imprint us like baby ducks.

The food our mothers made

when we were young,

and the kitchen she ruled

was redolent with her cooking.

How long

since I've eaten brisket

gefilte fish

potato kugel?

Or compared,

and found the pretenders wanting?

Just the aroma

would be enough

to satisfy this craving.

The rich umami scent

of a lesser cut of beef,

slow-roasted

in its own succulent juices;

caramelized onions

smelling unaccountably sweet.

But we were kids

and that's just how it was.

Fast food and packaged treats

beat home cooking any day.

Nostalgia, of course, casts its golden glow.

Because I think she disliked cooking,

would have preferred

being out in the world,

instead of labouring

over a hot electric stove,

the daily chores

of domesticity.

Now, I cook a few simple dishes

no one will be nostalgic for.

No love of cooking;

but perhaps, cooking with love

is enough to excuse

the burnt food and soggy vegetables.

The lost art of cookery.

A family heritage spurned.

The traditional dishes

that survived generations

of persecution

dislocation

and industrial food

will not be passed on,

and I wonder if my forbears

who believed in continuity

are somehow dishonoured by this.

Her delinquent son, the bad cook,

who knows how to microwave

and is good at reheating.

Who avoids the kitchen,

doing as she was tempted to do

but dutifully resisted.

20 Kinds of Pasta Sauce - Dec 7 2023

 

20 Kinds of Pasta Sauce

Dec 7 2023

The background music

is a bouncy tune

I'm not supposed to notice.

In the doldrums

of a Tuesday afternoon

in the Food Bazaar

or Big Bob's Grocery Emporium,

the up-tempo number

is designed to raise the mood,

make the brightly lit space

as big as an airplane hangar

seem crowded with shoppers

bustling up and down the aisles.

The choice is daunting.

The abundance

seems barely possible

    . . . and may not be for long.

But still, we take it for granted,

as if it just happens

and always will.

20 kinds of pasta sauce

and canyon walls of cans,

invitingly placed

face out.

Packages of cereal

full of empty calories

loom over my head,

a loud parade

of cartoon characters

competing for attention.

The most tempting

shelved to meet a child's eye;

prime real state

which is also for sale.

Buy, everything urges,

even if we're not aware

of the subtle prompts.

I manage to get away

with 2 kinds of ketchup,

a dented can of soup

reduced to half price,

and the advertised special

I doubt I'll even like.

Cellophane-wrapped tomatoes

and a head of iceberg lettuce,

carefully selected

from the ”farm-fresh” vegetables

so brightly displayed;

a colourful cornucopia

overflowing

the downward sloping shelves.

Forgetting where I parked

I wander through the lot

like a lost soul.

The jaunty tune

I never heard

is still repeating in my head;

an ear-worm

that has burrowed nicely in

and seems determined to stay.

I never buy iceberg lettuce or cellophane-wrapped tomatoes, give the cereal aisle a pass, and make my own sauce. (Ketchup and canned soup also don’t go into my cart.) But then, I’m not your typical shopper!

I suspect the modern grocery store — which hasn't been around for long, even though we’ve known nothing else — is unsustainable. The transport and industrial farming, let alone the factory processing, are all fossil-fuel intensive. Climate change may badly affect agriculture. Consumerism as a way of life is equally unsustainable. Not to mention meaningless and unsatisfying!

Choice can be paralyzing. And it means that many more chances to make the wrong one. Which ends up making us less happy, not more: the second thoughts become a loss, not a gain; and we are in general far more sensitive to loss.

And while abundance is nice, much of it is hardly necessary. After all, how many kinds of potato chips does one really need?

Dead Inside - Dec 6 2023

 

Dead Inside

Dec 6 2023

I read that the difference

between life and death

is complexity.

Inanimate objects

can go in only one direction

   —  the rock erodes

wood rots

palace crumbles  —

while life goes on;

from simple cells

to Einstein's brain

and Michael Jordan's body.

The universe

will eventually end

as a single black hole,

lightless

and at absolute zero;

nothing left

to fall into it.

Distilled down

to something so simple

it becomes immaterial,

the last bit of energy

exhausted.

But complexity is hard

and simple answers feel good.

The demagogues and populists

who offer black-and-white solutions

with no time for nuance

also shed no light

possess no gravitas.

While they may be charismatic

they're as insubstantive

as massive black holes;

which, hard as you look

can't be seen.

Yes, the odd X-ray may escape

as some poor lost soul

crosses its horizon

and is instantly atomized;

but radiation is lethal,

so even skeptics, and men of honour

who resist his allure

still risk becoming

collateral kills.

The simple-minded demagogue

is dead inside,

no matter how well

his rants and raves disguise it.

Whatever life there may have been

was long ago consumed

by ego

greed

vulgarity.

While the enablers

who hope to profit,

and his followers

unwittingly fooled,

all refuse to see

that they, too

will die in darkness with him.

Way too long. Can’t imagine many readers sticking with it. But felt good to write.

The most challenging constraint was not using Trump's name. That would have encouraged me to go on even longer, while sacrificing its wider resonance.

The last stanza: can't they see that everyone and everything Trump touches turns to shit? Impoverished. In jail. Reputation in tatters. The final line: unintentional, but I now notice how it echoes the ominous catchphrase of the Washington Post.

Wintry Mix - Dec 5 2023

 

Wintry Mix

Dec 5 2023

Hovering

all day

between snow and rain.

On the grass, a thin cover of white,

while the pavement stays clear

glistening wetly.

Heavy snow

melting as I hold it.

The tipping point

where matter changes state,

and with the slightest nudge

could go either way.

Which is how I feel as well.

Unsure,

on edge,

on the cusp;

teeter-tottering

from one state to another.

For days

nothing changes

and there's no sense of finality;

neither cold or warm

dry or wet.

Which perfectly matches my mood;

stuck

in this state of drift,

where even what looks like change

doesn't stick.

Mild as it is

this wet cold

cuts to the bone,

the dull sky

feels claustrophobic.

Added to the misery

are two wet feet,

my winter boots

soaking through

as I cross the grassy field.

At least it's perfect packing snow

and I can't resist,

remembering how it felt

when we were kids.

But even the snowball

doesn't last for long,

and I’m left

standing empty-handed

in a vacant field.

Like a wet sponge, wrung out;

cold melt,

soaking my glove

and dripping through my fingers.

Life As We Know It - Dec 4 2023

 

Life As We Know It

Dec 4 2023

My sense of dread

at the state of the world

gets more and more intense.

The existential threats

seem to multiply,

politics

sinks deeper into the swamp,

and ignorance of history

means we’re bound to repeat.

So I've withdrawn

into my small hermetic life.

As the world burns

democracy dies

and the death toll rises,

washed my hands of it

and thrown up my arms in disgust.

This is the luxury

of an old man

who accepts his powerlessness.

Who, with so little time left

feels exempt from consequence,

and so can afford

to ignore the future;

which, after all

has no place for him.

Yes, a misanthrope and pessimist.

But also a realist

who knows that civilizations end,

and the only thing that will save us

is ourselves.

Which is hardly grounds for hope.

And who himself

is expert in complacency,

having lived most of his life

aimless and adrift,

waiting

for it to begin.

And now

having had more than enough

of magical thinking

and losing track of years,

I'm waiting still;

but this time, for its end.

Jeffrey Goldberg, the editor of The Atlantic, wrote in his introduction to the Dec/Jan ('23/'24) edition — which is all about the dangers of a 2nd Trump Presidency — I encourage you to read all of the articles in this special issue carefully (though perhaps not in one sitting, for reasons of mental hygiene!)

I made that mistake. Which explains this poem. Not that I needed the prompt to want to write it. More a case of it becoming too hard to restrain myself from a subject I try to avoid, regarding it as unsuitable for poetry as well as inexcusably self-indulgent.

Well-Seasoned Birch - Dec 3 2023

 

Well-Seasoned Birch

Dec 3 2023

Well-seasoned

and even grained

the wood splits easily.

The axe

   —  a honed wedge of tempered steel,

forged, ground, annealed  —

is carried by its own weight

and lands squarely;

a satisfying thwack

as it buries itself

and divides,

following through

to complete its trajectory.

I find my rhythm, piece after piece;

the muscle memory

of measured swing

and hard finish,

working methodically

through the pile.

I take in

the familiar smell

of sawdust and singed wood.

Kick aside

bits of bark and wood chips.

And despite the cold

have doffed my gloves

unzipped my coat.

My collar

is clammy with sweat.

I think about the decades of sun

contained in the fuel

that will burn in hours;

to the tall trees

and their welcome shade.

But winter is coming

and it's no time for sentimentality;

the trees are simply lumber

the wood heat.

The battered axe

is hung back on its peg;

the heavy head

glinting steel

along its sharpened edge,

and the curved hardwood handle,

burnished

from winter-after-winter

of work-hardened hands.

Which are callused and cracked

and cold again.

I feel a chill

and head inside

to kneel before the fire.

Last year's wood,

burning brightly

with the power of a thousand suns.

Apex Predator - Dec 2 2023

 

Apex Predator

Dec 2 2023

Unnervingly close.

Wolves, howling in the darkness

as we walked the trail.

Oddly, the dogs seemed oblivious.

As if their cousin, canis lupus

was too distant to recognize.

Which really shouldn’t surprise me;

my happy-go-lucky girls

are lovers, not fighters

and know only play.

We've bred the wolf out them;

they'd be easy pickings

for a roving pack.

I can see them scurrying behind my legs

as if their omnipotent protector

could save anyone.

If, on the other hand

I met Australopithecus

or Neanderthal

would I feel any fellowship?

Would we stand, gazing eye to eye

and see our shared humanity?

Would we extend a hand,

reaching across the millennia

to tentatively touch?

I felt an animal spirit rise

hearing them,

a stirring thrill of wildness

and threat.

Howled back, and heard silence fall.

Because they know

that man, the apex predator

means danger

not prey.

We're afraid of them, as well,

but also romanticize.

While they have no illusions

about our kind

and never come hear;

having learned the hard way

only fear.

On reflection, they may have been coyotes — a far less charismatic animal!\

Actually, I'm also not sure the wolves around here are any longer wary of people, going out of their way to avoid us. From stories I've heard, they've become comfortable around humans, more brazen. And not only unafraid of dogs, but antagonistic, seeing them as territorial threats.

So if not nearly the evil wolves of fairy tales, still very much worth keeping well away from.