Single-Speed Coaster - July 7 2025

 

Single-Speed Coaster

July 7 2025



We never locked our bikes.

Dropped them on the ground

outside the everything store

in the low-rent strip mall

where we got our sugar highs.

We measured out exact change

which was all we really had;

pushing nickels

one-by-one

across the glass-top counter

  —  which are bigger

than a 5-cent coin should rightly be

but never mind,

pinching out dimes

squeezed firmly

between finger and thumb,

and parting with quarters

like giving blood.

Back when a dollar went a long way

and we were good at saving-up.

The bikes were freedom machines.

The privileged kids

with their fussy 10 speeds,

and the rest of us on single speed coasters

made of thick tubular steel

that were indestructible

but weighed a ton.

We were free range kids

in the middle of the 20th century

who didn’t know how lucky we were

in those analog decades

of shared prosperity

and suburban smugness;

when the only change, we were sure

would be for the good.

I always bought a Sweet Marie

which I’m sure you’ve never heard of,

chocolate and peanuts

around caramel fudge.

Worth every cent, if you ask me.

Or was

back when a dropped penny

was worth stopping for.

The Sweet Marie,

a confection

made only here,

and discontinued

the year they retired the penny.

2013   . . .

which should mean something

but really doesn’t;

just another year,

just rounding up or down,

just that things change

and sometimes for the worse.

Did at least my rugged bike survive

the march of obsolescence,

abandoned

flat tires and rusting chain

in the back of some garage?

Almost as old as me

and already an antique.

My riderless steed,

yearning for some free range kid

to come and rescue it.

Pretty much it. My first bike (see below). A vintage CCM (“Canadian Cycle and Machine”, which hardly sounds like the manufacturer of sleek cutting edge racers!) Except that the fenders on my first bike were white, not chromed.

The Sweet Marie was like an O’Henry, or down-market Snickers. I also favoured Eat Mores, which were what it sounds like: they were super chewy and took a long time to eat. A good penny-stretcher for a frugal kid.

Secret Tongues - July 3 2025

 

Secret Tongues

July 3 2025

Only when you learn a new word

do you notice the void it fills,

an absence

you were happy with

all your life 'til now.

Like limerance,

a word I stumbled across

when reading of love;

“limerance”,

the intense infatuation you feel

at the start of a new romance,

that exquisite high

when you’re as alive

as you've ever been.

Obsessive love like that

can’t last,

how could it?

It either dies of disillusionment,

or enters the long contented life

of attachment.

But you can’t help chasing it,

because love's as addictive

as any drug.

And because, like heroin

no high is ever as good

as that first ecstatic hit.

Young love

crushing hard.

That state of limerance

we long to rekindle

when the thrill is gone.

And that, when things get stale

leaves you wondering why

you were once so mad for her,

felt

such insatiable desire.

Words beget words,

and this one brings to mind

limbic

glimmering

a liminal state,

as if edging into obsession

flirting with insanity.

But also limited

and even limp.

So the word contains

both its beginning and its end.

Is a wee bit of Limerick

in it as well?

The mystical town

where leprechauns materialize

from out of the mist

and then as quickly vanish,

where Irish wit

takes sharp-tongued delight

with an impish little smile.

As well as the mystical town

where your pot of gold

might — at last — be found.

A single word

that contains multitudes.

But the man who made it up

said he simply liked the sound.

So a word

with no etymology, or Latin root,

no reason to exist

except how it rolls off the tongue.

Who knew

you could choose a word

for its beauty alone.

A word I’ll never use

after I'm done with this poem.

Because what use is a word

that's so obscure

no one's heard it before?

A word

like the leprechaun

who’s there, but really not,

like the ones we know

but go unheard

because we only hear ourselves.

So a word

that will stay

between you and me.

The secret tongue

just the two of us speak.

Born and Raised - July 1 2025

 

Born and Raised

July 1 2025

I'm not religious.

Although I apparently have one.

Born Jewish

raised a bit that way

and not at all practicing;

but still

I feel the weight of history,

and an identity like this

at least gives me a place

in a complicated world.

Not to mention

it's a label

they won't let you forget.

So, a gastronomic Jew.

A cultural Jew.

A nominal Jew,

even though

I check the box marked "Atheist".

But what interests me here

is the word "practicing".

We practice religion.

Sure, the rituals and incantations

High Holy Days.

But also the sustained effort

that should lead to perfect faith.

Because it takes practice

when the obverse of faith

is doubt

and doubt is ever-present,

and because we all sin

like it or not

against our better nature.

But sometimes, it's just belonging

we all need,

familiar ritual

and the feeling of community.

People who practice their religion

but don't care about theology,

are merely amused

by heated Talmudic disputes

and the parsing of words.

Who contend with faith

or could even dispense with it.

Who may just kind of believe,

but take great solace

in the hallelujahs and hosannas,

in lighting the candles

reciting the prayers

joining in song.

Even if

their voice is lost in the crowd

like yours was

when they stuck you in the back row

of the school choir

with all the other grade 9s

who couldn't hold a note,

were told, sotto voce

to simply mouth the words.

My Next Door Neighbour - July 1 2025

 

My Next Door Neighbour

July 1 2025

My next door neighbour

who is a big man

with strongly held views

used to be a teacher.

I think he would have been a strict one;

no chewing gum

or late assignments.

Presiding over his class

he would have stood behind the desk

hulking over it

looking intense;

turning his back to write

chalk would get lost

in his meaty hands.

I can see it breaking against the board

when he really went at it,

a man

who loved the subject he taught

and believed in the job

he’d been entrusted.

The kind of teacher you learn from

intimidated or not.

And the kind

you have a good-natured laugh about

at the 20 year reunion

after a couple of rounds,

middle-aged men

a little fat around the middle

fondly reminiscing.

But no first name

because he’ll always be “Mr.”.

To me, of course, he’s the dog lover,

the guy cutting the lawn,

the handyman

who’s good with his hands

I can always call on for help.

And now, long retired

I imagine he’s smaller than he was

in the prime of life

with his football days behind him;

although I must admit

he still intimidates me

a grown man

at least a bit.

I wonder about the teens

he sent out into the world.

Did they learn from his example?

Did they acquire knowledge?

Was their curiosity fired?

A good neighbour

can help you change a tire.

But a good teacher

can change a life.

I still remember mine

from back in the day.

Too late

to let them know.

The inspiration for it was this personal essay from today’s Globe, which you might also enjoy:

https://globe2go.pressreader.com/article/281745570382732

Compatriots - June 30 2025

 

Compatriots

June 30 2025



Of the many kinds of love

love of country

strikes me as the kid brother

who tags along;

tolerated

but mostly ignored.

After all

you don't share a bunk bed with it

as I and my brother did.

Don’t fall into it

besotted.

Don’t declare before the world

with arcane formality

“till death do us part”.

And don’t repay in its old age

the loving care

it once gave you.

Not when it’s just an accident of birth

a fluke of geography.

Love of country

almost seems improper.

Sure, there’s attachment, belonging, a sense of “usness”.

I’m fond of our flag;

a simple maple leaf

in bold red and white

against a clear blue sky.

And name another founding document

that contains as sensible a promise

as “peace, order, and good government”.

But too much flag-waving and fist-pumping

seems unbecoming.

Dividing people

into them and us

leads to nothing good.

And when patriotism

turns to jingoism

“a refuge for scoundrels” comes to mind.

So if you hear blood and soil from a frenzied crowd

watch your back.

Yet we’re shaped by the culture

we grew up in.

Our native country

is part of our identity;

one of the many hyphenated nouns

that make us who we are.

And people die for it;

buried

in a flag-draped casket

as the anthem is played

and taps rings out,

an honour guard

fires 3 shots.

A citizen, now

of that great country

not found on any map.

A country feared more than loved.

A country

from which no one’s yet returned.

The land of the dead;

the final resting place

where in the end

we’re all compatriots.

I’m embarrassed by how much I write about death. But although this poem doesend on a morbid note, it’s not at all about death. It’s about our commonality, despite national boundaries and superficial differences. It’s just that death is the great leveller, the most potent manifestation of our shared humanity.

There’s been a lot of patriotic talk here in reaction to Trump’s racist and xenophobic “America First” crusade. I feel patriotic, but at the same time distrust that feeling.

When I think of love of country, I wonder if the word “love” is somewhat misplaced. Because compared to all the others — filial, fraternal, romantic, maternal, and spiritual — patriotism is a kind of love where you can have too much, and nothing good has ever come of it. There’s a fine line between healthy patriotism and blind jingoism.

I apologize to Christians who might object to from which no one’s yet returned. But aren’t there always exceptions to the rule? And anyway, atheists get to take liberties!

Duo - June 27 2025

 

Duo

June 27 2025

It’s true, I am high strung.

Like a violin’s upper string,

stretched

until I ping

when lightly plucked,

my thin treble note

a little shrill and piercing.

But tighten too much

and I might snap.

Or would "neurotic" be better,

its detached clinical tone

and aura of science

sound less strident

to sensitive ears?

Or you might say touchy, temperamental

tuned too tight.

Which, despite the overtone of weakness

beats callous and unfeeling.

I come by it honestly.

I’d say my mother was neurotic;

but then

she’s not here to defend herself

if defensiveness is needed.

My father was much sturdier;

a bassoon’s deep woody tone

to her high-pitched violin.

Or maybe a brass, like B-flat tuba.

A good match

if you believe in opposites;

two instruments

that complement each other.

I have yet to find mine.

Although with age

I’ve become less violin

and more viola;

more robust

with a lower, more soothing tone.

I can only hope for cello.

Yo Yo Ma

playing Bach

unaccompanied.

I’m thinking, of course, of Bach’s Cello Suite No 1 in G Major. A well-loved piece, beautifully played.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1prweT95Mo0&authuser=0

The Beginning of Life - June 25 2025

 

The Beginning of Life

June 25 2025

I will leave no descendants.

I suppose, in a Darwinian sense, a failed life

a biological

dead end.

Even a betrayal

of all who came before.

Evolution depends

on survival and reproduction.

I managed the first, as far as it goes;

a full enough life

almost fully done

But I failed to breed

have not seeded the earth.

My genes

will not be tested for fitness

by whatever contingencies

life comes up with.

Have I had influence?

Have I left a legacy

passed my birthright on?

Will I be read

or even remembered,

perhaps granted just a fleeting thought?

Of course, these are questions everyone asks

hoping the answer is yes

but knowing better.

Because back as little as 2 generations

and we’ve already lost track;

the great grandfathers

we only know

by one formal photograph

in grainy black and white,

if even that,

the countless forbears

who gave us their name

but left no trace.

So no children to disappoint me, or make me proud.

No children to fear for

or care about.

No minds to mold,

and no surprises

when a child comes out as who they are

already formed.

Because in nature

there are no blank slates.

And because the engine of change

is mistakes;

garbled DNA,

a snake in the grass,

failure to navigate

social bonds.

But mine will remain untested;

evolution

will be left for the rest to decide.

I am the end of a line

that stretches all the way back

to the beginning of life,

an unbroken line

until now;

for 4 billion years, survival

until I let them down.

Bird in Hand - June 23 2025

 

Bird in Hand

June 23 2025

I could feel its heartbeat in my hand.

The tapered wings were neatly folded,

the body oddly still

but not yet cold.

It must have all been airy bones

and precisely sculpted feathers,

held together

by cotton-batten flesh;

as if, dropped

it wouldn’t plummet like a rock

but waft gently down

like dandelion fluff.

Who knows

why I picked it up

beneath the window

it must have hit.

The bird wasn't dead, at least not yet,

and I continued to cradle it

cupped in both my hands.

I had no choice.

The act of intervention

had made me instrumental

in the life of this bird;

relinquishing it

would have made me complicit

in its untimely death.

But eventually

the stunned bird perked up

and exploded from my hands,

a blur of frenzied wings

slapping the air.

I can’t remember how long I stood

bird in hand,

a bystander

who stops to watch

a life and death struggle.

But will never forget that tiny heart

beating impossibly fast,

the delicate body

that seemed mostly air,

and the fierce life force

that pulled it back

from the shadow of death

that briefly passed over it.

Bottom-Dwellers - June 22 2025

 

Bottom-Dwellers

June 22 2025

The weather gods

who must have grown bored

of the usual seasons and occasional storm

are playing games with us;

threatening rain

with angry cloud and gusting winds,

then dangling summer sun

in the fleeting breaks

before snatching it away.

I can hear them cackling

with juvenile delight

in their celestial redoubt,

lounging about

like effete aristocrats;

playing keep-away

like toddlers drunk on power.

Or could that be thunder

coming our way?

Rain?   . . . for real?

As if they know how much we need it

down here

in this desiccated tinder-box

of parched earth and blasted crops,

livestock

dying of thirst.

So perhaps not bored gods

teasing us

like gleeful little kids,

but malicious ones

we somehow crossed

afflicting us with heat.

And even if there are no deities

or higher power

but only ourselves

we’re still as powerless;

left to contend

with whatever comes,

while feeling whipsawed

between hope and despair.

Or, as now

from faint hope to false

to none at all.

An atmospheric ocean

is roiling overhead

like water on the boil,

while we can do no more

than anxiously look up

from way down here

on its bottom-dwelling floor.