A Bigger Back Seat - Oct 18 2022

 

A Bigger Back Seat

Oct 18 2022

My first car

was cramped, under-powered

unsafe at any speed.

Mushy brakes

made stopping an adventure,

and the grease-encrusted engine

ran rough

and stunk of unburned gas.

But I loved that car.

Took pride

in driving stick,

despite the finicky gears

and slipping clutch.

The car was freedom.

Made me feel

like a real adult.

And was even fun to drive,

or kind of.

Much the same

as was learning to ride a bike.

Especially back in the day

when we were free-range kids,

before parent was a verb

and there was no such thing as play-dates

and helmets were unheard of.

The exhilarating speed.

The edge of danger

free-wheeling downhill

feet in the air.

The access it gave

to the larger neighbourhood

this shy kid never knew

was even out there.

A heavy one-speed clunker

painted candy-apple red;

an ugly colour

that was never cool

not even then.

But on it

I was a cowboy on his stallion

chasing cattle thieves,

a motorcycle cop

siren on

fighting crime.

And in the badly used Honda

I was self-reliant;

the designated driver;

a lady's man.

Or would have been, I told myself

if only the gear shift

hadn't been in the way,

the windows were tinted,

the back seat bigger.

If only the passenger seat

didn't stick to your pants

with some indelible substance

unknown to Man.

Now, I drive a nice car

with power everything

that looks like all the rest.

While the old bike

is rusting in some landfill,

the Honda

recycled steel.

But the first car

like the first kiss

is something you never forget.

Just as I remember

all the girls who were smarter than me;

who would never consent

to riding shotgun

on such an iffy seat

in such a suspect car

unsafe at any speed.

The Last Word - Oct 17 2022

 

The Last Word

Oct 17 2022

The last word,

delivered smugly

before turning abruptly

and exiting the room;

like the metaphorical microphone drop,

as if to declare

argument over

problem resolved.

But sometimes, it's not a word at all.

It can be a glance, a grimace

a gesture of hands,

a telling silence

that look in her eyes.

Or just a pause.

Because you keep coming back to it;

like worry beads

you compulsively finger,

the intrusive thought

the stove's left on

door's unlocked.

You want to put an end to it,

but can't help but feel

there's more to be said.

And then the real last word.

The final parting

when she packed up and left.

The death bed confession

through trembling lips.

The last man on earth

shaking his head.

A scream, a whimper, a rueful regret?

Nothing triumphant there.

Because of the mess

we've made of things.

Because even the sun

will eventually come to an end.

Because nothing is forever.

And then the cacophony

of electronic voices

radiating out into the cosmos

long after we've passed;

incrementally weakening

but never fully gone.

That is, if there's anyone out there

listening in.

An epitaph

to extinct humanity

crackling through space,

until time itself

reaches its end.

Again, I simply chose a phrase/expression/cliche at random, and then riffed; challenging myself to play with it and see where it went.

I think this time, I knew roughly knew what I wanted that to be; the idea of the literal “last” word.

Yes, it's a bleak ending. But is understandable, given my mood and current world view: disgusted with my fellow man; deeply pessimistic; in an existential funk. Because — impressed by our stupidity, greed, denialism, and lack of foresight — I can't help but feel it's an end that may come sooner than we ever imagined!

Near Miss - Oct 14 2022

 

Near Miss

Oct 15 2022

At first, I thought firecrackers

had made those dull repeated thuds,

small bangers, bottle rockets, cherry bombs.

I pictured kids

in the gravel pits

killing time,

or good ol' boys

who never really grew up

with a juvenile idea of fun.

When I realized

it was guns.

Deer season,

when hunters in orange vests

prowl the woods

or lurk in sturdy blinds

and fire off at random.

Or so the sound makes it seem.

It's dangerous out there

every fall.

And strikes me

as essentially unfair:

firearms that kill

from a safe sanitized distance;

and skittish deer,

whose lives depend

on agility and speed,

an exquisite sense

of vigilance

hearing

scent.

Not to mention

bad aim.

So I'm watchful

when I'm out with the dogs

on our customary trail.

Which is where they found the big buck

dead and disembowelled.

Who must have staggered off,

limping badly

dripping blood

before lying down to die.

Whose carcass excited

my madly barking dogs,

sniffing avidly

as they edged in closer.

Turkey vultures hovered.

Cantankerous crows

annoyed at our presence

were protesting noisily

circling overhead.

And was that rustling in the underbrush

a fox scampering off?

There might even have been wolves,

skulking in the distance

cautiously observing,

unaccustomed

to waiting for their turn.

You never know, with wolves,

too smart and stealthy

to give themselves away.

And the hunter,

commiserating with his buddies

for the near miss.

Next time, he mutters,

reloading his gun

before hunkering down to wait.

Geriatric Dog - Oct 16 2022

 

Geriatric Dog

Oct 16 2022

My geriatric dog

who has lived beyond any reasonable expectation

is showing her age;

the grizzled chin greyer

rheumy eyes duller

thinning coat coarser.

She sleeps more,

her gait has slowed,

obedience comes and goes;

which I suspect is bad hearing,

but could very well

be her usual wilful self.

But most alarming

is how her muscle is wasting.

So what was once sturdy and cuddly

is now all skin and bone.

In our extended time together

I have aged as well

if not as fast.

But resist those loaded words —

senior

elderly

geriatric.

And hate the prospect

that I, too

may soon lose muscle mass,

turn into the frail old man

I watched my father become.

Not to mention

get even more contrarian

than I already am.

Sadly, this older version of me

is already more impatient

jaded

judgmental

than my younger self.

While the old Lab

who may be smaller and weaker

has become milder and sweeter

with the same big heart.

And still, despite the wasting

uncannily strong.

I've always envied

the character of dogs.

Have thought the highest compliment

would be to be considered an honorary Lab.

And now, she humbles more more;

the grace

with which she ages,

the innate dignity

and inner beauty

that persist,

superficial changes or not.

So while I am quickly becoming

a cantankerous old man,

she is as much the puppy

she always was.

Who hasn't a mean bone

in her body.

And who, no matter what

knows how to give and receive love

with the unaffected ease

people like me find hard,

but comes so naturally

to small children

and good dogs.

Piano Lesson - Oct 14 2022

 

Piano Lessons

Oct 14 2022

Piano lessons

after school

in a house that smelled

of boiled cabbage

with a minor chord

of incontinent cat,

backed

by an occasional note

of mildew and mould.

The teacher's modest home,

which was just around the corner

but felt like a foreign land

to this shy sheltered pupil.

Under protest, of course,

because I had no talent

no interest

and even less dexterity,

not to mention

how tone-deaf I was

(still am).

And, of course

how I couldn't stand practising.

Oh, I sat there, all right,

in the dim basement

on the cracked linoleum

at the darkly varnished upright

we got 3rd hand;

cold fingers at rest,

day-dreaming

of anything but.

Now, looking back

I think she was just as much

putting in time,

exasperated by my incompetence

and lack of preparation.

And how even though I imagined her

as merely an instrument

for the purpose of torture,

and a spinster

well past her prime,

she must have been so much younger

that I am now,

had a life of her own

even someone to love.

But kids are solipsists,

and her personhood

never crossed my mind.

I still can't play a thing

or sing on key.

And feel badly

how much I resented

my parents' earnest aspiration

that I become more fully rounded.

Piano lessons;

what the respectable middle class did, back then.

And now, I envy people who play;

taking requests

tunes by ear

the life of the party.

Even better, guitar:

the cool guys

who got the girls

or at least caught their eye.

These days, no one wants a piano

or even has room.

So our old wobbly upright

is probably long gone,

rotting in some landfill

or cannibalized for parts.

Frankly, it was likely out of tune

the whole time anyway.

And a couple of keys were duds;

no note

just a dull wooden thump.

Like me, unmusical.

I can only hope

that my long-suffering piano teacher

(who's name I forget)

had some promising students

who made her happy

and did her proud.

After contending with me

the least that she deserved.

No reason to have written this except that the title “The Piano Lesson” caught my eye as I flipped by a play review I had no interest in (https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/09/26/the-burdens-of-history-in-the-piano-lesson), and thought it would be fun to riff on. Especially because I do occasionally think back to those miserable lessons, the tortured practice sessions, and the vague memory of a long-suffering piano teacher.

Bad News - Oct 13 2022

 

Bad News

Oct 13 2022

It dipped below freezing last night.

This is how it begins;

in minor increments

that feel like 2 steps forward

1 step back.

I would have slept through it

if the dog hadn't whined to go out.

Wouldn't have known

that winter had dipped in its toe,

made the first tentative move

to shoulder autumn aside

and assert its rule.

The first snow

will likely disappear as well,

a light flurry

that leaves a lacy whiteness on the grass,

then vanishes

as soon as dawn breaks.

Transient

     . . . until it's not.

And the long winter night.

At first, a little earlier each day

then suddenly a lot.

Until it feels like it's always dark;

a brief half light

in the tightening vice

of a late sunrise

impatient sunset.

Even spring, in dribs and drabs

until one day it's a torrent.

And summer

in a sudden swarm of bugs

that pin you down indoors.

The natural order of things?

Good news

a smattering;

bad news all at once.

Late last night/early this morning, the deck had the appearance of a heavy dew. But it was really the thinnest skim of ice, and slippery as hell. (Wasn't entirely the dogs. We all went outside to pee! ) I was surprised by this. As if summer had slipped almost directly into winter, and fall was over before it even started.

Insomnia - Oct 11 2022

 

Insomnia

Oct 11 2022

Behind the black-out blinds

I know enough to give it time,

but still

my eyes won't adjust

to the utter darkness.

So I feel my way,

stumbling about

hands out-stretched

as if probing for unexploded bombs,

bumping into walls,

bashing battered shins,

dashing lamps to the floor.

Until eventually finding the bed,

relieved

to slip between

its cool crisp sheets,

in my darkened room

snugly cocooned

under warm heavy covers.

A glimmer of light

leaks in one edge,

body heat

warms the sheets,

and the beat of my heart

thumps in the ear

that nestles against the pillow.

As if returning to a womb

I don't even remember.

But can imagine a reddish glow

diffusing through the skin,

the muffled notes

of a mother's voice,

and the sound of blood

pulsing through her veins

in a steady soothing rhythm.

I drift

into deep untroubled sleep

and awaken restored.

Still dark, in the morning,

and who could tell

if I've slept 9 hours

or been gone 9 months.

If sleep is a rehearsal of death,

each night

a small glimpse of oblivion,

then rising from its depths

is to be reborn.

So I feel for the insomniac

who cannot surrender,

fighting sleep

and failing harder

the harder she tries.

The light of day

hurts her tired eyes,

and darkness is merely a limitless place

for a racing mind

to rage

and ruminate.

So she sleepwalks through each day

desperately seeking rest;

a half life

of dulled awareness

that’s more like slow death.

A delirium

of long days

of painful light,

and endless nights

of uncertain murk

tossing and turning in bed;

when it's too light for sleep,

too dark to feel safe.

The guy came today to repair my new blinds. They're not perfect, but dark enough! So I put down the first line, and then — as usual, with no outline or objective — just riffed. As always, where it goes is as surprising to me as I imagine it is to the reader!

Dinosaur Bones - Oct 10 2022

 

Dinosaur Bones

Oct 10 2022

I was not one of those kids

obsessed with dinosaurs.

But I can see the attraction

of a gargantuan animal

to a powerless child.

And extinction

only adds to the appeal

of such exotic creatures;

the lure

of the unobtainable,

the magic

of a distant past.

Who knew

most were hardly apex predators.

Were, instead

vegetarian

watchful parents

and endearingly small,

parading about

in gaudy feathers,

grazing together

in peaceful herds.

And now, when we have degraded the planet

and poisoned its atmosphere,

when we may very well have engineered

our own extinction,

could we be the new dinosaurs?

Except with plastic instead of bones,

and not even a bird

to carry on our legacy.

In the middle ages

dinosaur fossils

gave rise to dragons,

winged raptors

that breathed fire

rained death from the sky.

So what mythology

might in turn be spun

from our landfills and ocean gyres,

the vanishingly thin stratum of earth

that contains the remnants

of our brief interregnum here?

And who or what will survive

to do the imagining?

Who knew

those kids were seeing the future, not the past.

And that when they grew up

and were told they were in charge

of raising a family

and changing the world,

would feel just as helpless

as when they were young.

This was going to be a fun little trifle. But my subconscious — that invisible amanuensis — was apparently having none of it.

The Road Taken - Oct 9 2022

 

The Road Taken

Oct 9 2022

Hinge.

Inflection point.

Fork in the road.

A moment in time, an event

when life radically changes.

As Yogi Berra said

when you come to the fork, take it.

OK, it doesn't make sense,

but at least suggests

you have a choice.

Except most often you don't.

Most often

its luck, misjudgment, a tough break.

Yet hard as it is

you somehow adjust

to the new status quo.

Because luck is neither good nor bad

but what you make of it.

Or persist, deny, complain.

Plant yourself in the road

and refuse to budge,

as if traffic will stop

fate take note.

Yogi also famously said

it ain't over 'til it's over.

Because with or without you

life goes on.

There's always something;

get used to it.

An homage, of course, to Robert Frost's famous title. Although unlike me, the celebrated man of letters did not lean on the wisdom of a hall of fame catcher who is frequently misquoted. And even more frequently misattributed: given credit (or discredit!) for some amusingly muddled thing he never actually said.

Although the poem is written in terms of our personal lives, it actually began when I was reading an article about Russia's war in Ukraine in which there was talk of inflection points: in the battle on the ground: in Russian public opinion; in Putin's power. I've seen too many of these come and go; of both false hope and catastrophizing. So I remain skeptical, because prediction is fraught, and inflection points are really only evident after the fact.

If I was comfortable with vulgarity, I suppose the poem could be distilled down to “shit happens”; that is, the illusion of agency. When really, we can only control our own internal attitude and emotions, and are more often reacting and adjusting to events than initiating and controlling them. The Stoics recognized this well over 2000 years ago.

I hope this poem doesn't strike the reader as aphoristic, preachy, simplistic. The last thing I want is my poetry to sound like is a Hallmark card!

Long Weekend - Oct 8 2022

 

Long Weekend

Oct 8 2022

A long weekend

and the city has emptied out.

It feels almost livable, this way;

like a village

where you wave at passing neighbours,

cross the street

without looking both ways,

never wait in line.

Or how I imagine it.

As if size

could somehow improve on human nature.

As if small places

were immune

from rivalry, jealousy, and minor rifts,

the conflicts

and politics

of little ponds

and self-important people.

The smouldering resentments

that spiral into vendetta

and violent tit-for-tat.

At least here

you get be anonymous,

go about your business

unobserved.

Yes, no one cares,

and you might die alone

in a damp basement apartment

you can't even afford,

only to be found

when your decomposing corpse starts to smell.

But at least they leave you alone.

Or you find your people here

and feel at home.

The big smoke

that's big enough

there must be someone for everyone else.

Just you and her,

when all the rest

have left for the country

to close up for the season,

hunt and drink beer,

or gush over autumn leaves

on long desultory drives.

All by yourself

in a cozy apartment

with the phone turned off

and the curtains drawn;

in bed all afternoon

doing what lovers do.

Time Out - Oct 7 2022

 

Time Out

Oct 7 2022

One more strong gust

and all the leaves will be down

the trees stripped bare.

Here, on the edge of the boreal

it's mostly the yellows and browns

of aspen and birch.

Some tamaracks, as well;

tall straight trees

with golden needles

that seem to radiate light.

Evergreens, that aren't;

solo travellers

on their own unique path

that shed their needles each fall.

Which you can actually hear,

coming down

in intermittent showers

and tinkling to earth.

But right now

the sun is shining, the sky blue,

and this is that one golden moment

of a sepia fall

I will not forget;

a still photo

fixed in my mind's eye

that will survive a brutal winter

soggy spring

and whatever summer brings

in drought and bugs and heat.

The zenith

of my favourite season

lasts just a single day.

When I take time out

to take it all in

with mindful gratitude.

Even though I'm not sure

to whom or what I give thanks

and hardly have the words.

So, like a Zen koan

that has no answer,

I simply contemplate the view,

accepting the paradox

that recipient or not

I can still wholeheartedly give.

Tonight, frost.

While tomorrow, there are leaves that need raking

and tires to change.

The sound

of crisp leaves underfoot.

Of kids' excited voices

jumping into piles;

that is

if the children of today

don't grown-up too fast.

And the sharp smell when they burn

that stirs something deep inside.

Columns of smoke

rising straight into the sky

in the still autumn air.

A total path-of-least-resistance poem: the pathetic thematic trifecta of weather, seasons, and nostalgia I can't seem to help returning to.