My Late Lamented Youth - June 4 2024

 

My Late Lamented Youth

June 4 2024

Neatness counts.

Attendance will be taken.

No horseplay allowed.

When you stand, don't slouch;

Stomach in

chin up

shoulders back.

But for now, sit quietly;

no fidgeting

eyes front.

I was a compliant child.

Polite

good marks

on time.

I feared

the “permanent record”

that would follow me through life,

craved approval

while hated standing out.

My friends were also good kids

who deferred to authority.

Didn’t let drugs or sex

corrupt us,

rock and roll

lead us to depravIty.

So if I said I regret

my wasted youth

will you even understand?

Back when we knew we’d live forever

so weren’t in any rush.

Back when we knew all we needed to know.

Back when the straight and narrow path

seemed more than enough.

Because the world was just.

Because we were destined for greatness,

and best laid plans

never fail.

Because good things come

to those who wait.

Unmoored - June 1 2024

 

Unmoored

June 1 2024

I’ve become more and more unsure

of what it is I’m seeking.

Or perhaps, I’m too skeptical to be a seeker,

too grounded

in this material world

to be open enough.

Mysticism

is beyond me,

spirituality

seems too self-important.

Or is it not so much wanting to find

as wanting to be found?

Which means I’ve never not been lost.

Unmoored,

despite my attachment

to what I can measure and touch.

Not even God

could come to my rescue.

Because belief doesn’t work for me.

And because a deity

as needy as Him

does not inspire faith.

So lost I remain.

So never have belonged

and never to.

So long unsure

I've given up the search

for my place in the world

for now.

Loose Threads - May 30

 

Loose Threads

May 30 2024



My mother would straighten.

A nudge here and there

to set things just right.

Another light dusting,

bed sheets tucked tight.

All the spines aligned,

titles upright.

She bequeathed this to me.

I too

putter, neaten, fuss.

Have a place for everything,

an unerring eye

for the least insurgent detail.

I would love to be more laissez faire,

but it seems it’s in the blood.

If only life

was susceptible to straightening.

If it didn’t throw up curves

setbacks and diversions,

wasn’t booby-trapped

with irksome dead ends.

Didn’t sabotage

our best laid plans,

trap us in cul de sacs

that turn back on themselves.

If only I were in charge,

able to keep myself

like a neatly kept house;

every knick-knack

in its appointed place,

no blind alleys

to stumble down,

no loose threads.

But life isn’t

and I am not.

Events happen,

and more often than not

I’m inadequate.

It seems the universe

prefers it this way.

Because space/time is curved.

Because nothing is straight

as long as light bends

and matter attracts.

Because even the earth

wobbles erratically

as it circles the sun,

its central axis

tilted up.

No Godzilla - May 26 2024

 

No Godzilla

May 26 2024



On a hot day

under merciless sun

there was instant relief

stepping off the trail into the trees.

The cool damp shade

felt like a weekday matinee

in the summer heat

in a funk of nothing to do.

When pushing through the heavy doors

into the dimly lit space

and blast of cool air

felt like a life-giving breath;

an air-conditioned escape

back when homes were not,

and summer days were long,

and whatever was on

we’d greedily watch.

Of course, day length hasn’t changed

but we have;

there’s something about age

that makes time go fast.

The ground was spongey underfoot.

A welter of branches

made us earn every step.

Light filtered through the leaves

and the air was evergreen;

the fresh scent

of spruce and pine,

the earthy smell

of damp fertile soil.

No silver screen, of course.

No Godzilla.

No Curly, Larry, or Mo.

No lonesome cowboys

or heroes fighting wars.

Just the theatre of the mind.

Just the deep dark forest

to rest the eyes

and revive the soul.

Clutter - May 24 2024

 

Clutter

May 24 2024

I am at home in clutter.

Tchotchkes,

collectors of dust,

the stuff I dropped

and failed to pick-up.

Because why trouble myself

when I know exactly

where I left it?

Nor am I bothered

by a cluttered mind,

bursting with facts

trivia

plans;

with memories

I can’t recollect,

feelings

I don’t understand.

Perhaps, if I sought more clarity

I’d be better off.

If I sat

cross-legged

in a sparsely furnished room

in pin-drop quiet.

If the walls were white

blinds drawn

lights nicely dimmed.

Could minimalism

be a better choice

than hodgepodge gallimaufry?

Trouble is

I am comfortable with clutter

and prefer it here

in a place I call my own

that’s rumpled

lived-in

homey.

And after all

why neaten up

when it’s been so long

since I even noticed?

Nor am I bothered

by the racing thoughts

that ricochet off my skull.

An overheated cortex

that threatens to overflow.

The monkey chatter

that goes on and on

no matter what.

Questioning

answering

and wondering why.

Talking to myself

nonstop;

even out loud, sometimes.

My poetry is rarely autobiographical. The cluttered surroundings certainly are not. (I prefer order!) I suppose it should be more personal, confessional, authentically intimate. Most poetry is. Contemporary poetry, anyway.

However, the cluttered mind and monkey chatter are absolutely me! Even the talking out loud. But only when I’m alone, I hasten to add.

The white-walled room is a bit of a pet peeve. Because I’ve noticed how all the interiors in the real estate listings and house beautiful spreads are invariably this cold sterile white. Which I quite dislike. The clean spare look is fine if you want to create an impression of order and roominess for a prospective buyer. But it’s not any place I’d like to actually live. I prefer warm woods and earth-tones. I suspect that future decorators will look back on this fad just as we look aghast at the turquoise walls and deep shag rugs of the 1960s. I doubt it’s a look that will age well.

(Coincidentally, in editing this poem, the following article appeared in the weekend Globe. These are exactly the sort of interiors I prefer.

PHroouused

The Globe and Mail (Ontario Edition)

May 25, 2024

Read more...

Underfoot - May 21 2024

 

Underfoot

May 21 2024

The potholes have turned into pools

from the heavy rain.

Under a full moon

and far from artificial light

they glitter enticingly,

precious jewels

scattered

on the long gravel driveway

in the unearthly gloss.

There is found beauty everywhere.

Even muddy water

and badly graded lanes

trashed by freeze and thaw

have moments of grace.

No need to look up

or walk a straight line.

Just take care

to keep your feet dry

when it unexpectedly strikes.

A Long Weekend in May - May 20 2024

 

A Long Weekend in May

May 20 2024

Walking the dogs

beside the river

near the end of May,

the fresh spring air

is alive with scent.

It’s not yet summer here

but my nose is tempting me.

Not just the pine

balsam

spruce

that line the winding path.

Not just the fertile soil

that smells of loamy earth.

But also burgers

sizzling on the grill,

woodsmoke

from bonfires

they can't help building higher,

and fresh cut grass

mixed with gas exhaust.

The pong of wet dog,

who have braved the frigid water

still running-off

from a late winter thaw.

As well as a strong whiff of pot,

left behind

by other walkers

out to clear their heads,

a sweet skunky odor

that clings to the air

and won’t let go.

It would have been cigarettes

back when,

but who smokes these days?

We are visual creatures

and only notice smell

when it overwhelms

or strikes a chord.

The promise of spring.

Nostalgia

revulsion

despair.

A long lost love

a scent reminds you of,

and that golden summer

that overnight

turned to dross.

Tomorrow

a return to work

and the final month of school.

But for now

squeals of laughter

where friends have gathered

around a backyard fire,

along with the sound of breaking glass

and a few choice words

from hot-tempered men

downing too many beers.

And the roar of the river

running fast and high;

water

that in the fullness of time

will find its way to the sea

thousands of miles from here.

Sleeping Dogs - May 18 2024

 

Sleeping Dogs

May 18 2024

Surprisingly, the dogs let me sleep.

Instead of jumping on the bed

they retire to theirs,

and with a patience I’m incapable of

await my pleasure,

either defaulting to sleep themselves

or attentively eyeing me.

I wonder if this deference

is an expression of empathy

  —  which I believe dogs possess  —

or is simply a matter of hierarchy;

that I am the alpha

to their lower rank.

If only it were as simple

with our kind.

Who are never quite sure where we stand.

Struggle to find our place.

Revisit relationships

in a tacit back and forth

of concession and ascendency.

The pecking order shifts,

status is unclear.

But here, in this house, I am uber alles.

So it’s odd

that I obtain no licence

freedom

swagger from this.

Because despite my status

I am at their beck and call,

their utter dependency,

our compact of care.

At the mercy

of those liquid brown eyes

that both seduce, and implore;

looking up at me

with bright expectancy

inviting me to play,

or begging for food

and love

and belly rubs,

a scratch behind the ears.

The decider

and all powerful provider

who needs his rest.

They Tell Me to Breathe - May 17 2024

 

They Tell Me to Breathe

May 17 2024

This feeling of expectancy.

Of something impending

being on edge.

Not sure when

or even what

I’m so anxiously waiting for.

Is it the air,

somehow charged

electric

all pent-up,

that the minus and plus

can be kept apart

for only so long?

If only the calm would break

and this waiting be over.

If only I knew

when and what.

They tell me to breathe

in through my nose

all the way,

then slowly exhale

through an open mouth

until I’m all emptied out.

To compose my mind

cede control

surrender to fate.

But all I feel

is my heart race

jaw tense

thoughts scatter.

The endless before,

unknowable after.

Presence - May 15 2024

 

Presence

May 15 2024

The post-it note

I’d stopped noticing.

That had been so long in place

the ink had faded

edges curled

adhesive lost its stick.

Which is how it caught my eye;

its absence

like a vacuum

drawing me in.

As if the brain, in its depths

keeps track of these things,

reassuring us

as we go about our business

that there’s an order to this world

whether we know it, or not.

It had fallen to the floor.

Of course, the reminder meant nothing anymore,

so who knows

why I left it up so long.

Yet that empty spot

was calling out to be filled,

the way your tongue

keeps returning to the hole

where the tooth was pulled;

worrying the gum

and probing incessantly.

Even a blank note would do;

the empty space filled

order restored.

And now, there it was,

an eye-catching yellow

as distracting

as the emptiness had been.

Still, it felt right,

like something

on the verge of tipping

set firmly in place.

A reminder

that absence is not nothingness.

And that being present

is a thing in itself.

That showing up

is comfort enough,

no need

to speak up

or draw attention to yourself.

Name Dropping - May 13 2024

 

Name Dropping

May 13 2024

I have trouble with names.

Not thingamajigs

and stuff you do what with,

but people

proper nouns

first and last.

I come by this honestly.

Once, my father called me “Blackie”,

our mongrel dog

we wisely named

by the first thing we saw.

He’d reel off the other kids’

in a practiced litany

before hitting on mine.

He was known to have even called my mom

by the wrong name;

luckily

he had a merciful wife.

They say forgetting

is essential to memory.

I take solace in this,

and until I forget myself

I’ll take it in stride.

So I don’t mean to be impolite

if I’m at a loss for yours.

It will come, eventually;

just not, I’m afraid

when I need it most.

Writing My Way Out - May 12 2024

 

Writing My Way Out

May 12 2024

Once again

I try to write my way out

of despair.

Even knowing

that this is impossible.

That words on a page

or pixels on a screen

will most likely not be read.

And even if they are

nothing will change

no minds will be bent.

And while writing focuses the mind

and, for a time, can even distract from my distress

the futility persists;

like a coal fire

that smoulders underground,

spreading invisibly

for years on end.

So my last resort

is the defiant act

of venting my angst with words.

Like medieval medicine,

where being bled

lets the evil humours breathe,

the body

purify itself.

Leaching,

the universal cure

for dropsy

breakbone

ague,

the black dog

of melancholia.

Anyway, words clarify thought,

which is something I need

when I’m feeling overwhelmed.

They also comfort me

that I’m not sitting passively

while the world burns,

but rather

am the man of action

I always imagined I was,

stirring passions

changing minds.

And even though

I am last of all an optimist

I can’t help but try to reach across,

sustaining hope

to at least be heard.

So I write.

At best, tapping out words

and offering them up to a world

that doesn’t care to read.

Or, at worst

leaving them to posterity,

for whatever that is worth.

As if the long term

is the sure thing

our kind has always presumed.

As if the blunt force of faith

could rescue me

from existential despair

and creeping misanthropy.

Wind - May 12 2024

 

Wind

May 12 2024

It’s a foul weather wind.

The way it gusts.

The subtle change in light.

The hint of warmth

that seems unnatural

this time of year.

And how I feel in my bones

the sudden pressure drop.

But now, as well, the scent of smoke;

acrid

corrupt

unnerving.

An atavistic sense of dread

rises up in me,

some collective memory

embedded in my DNA.

I look southeast

and see a darkening sky.

The wind picks up

birds quiet

the smell of fire;

some ash falls

in coarse greasy clumps.

The world feels even vaster than it was,

and in my smallness

I am a whim

a speck

an afterthought.

And now, an uncanny calm

that’s even more ominous.