Hide and Seek - July 10 2026

 

Hide and Seek

July 10 2026



When words play hide and seek,

peeking out from under the bed

or crouched behind the credenza

as I rummage through the laundry

scour the garage.

The first letter comes to me

like a glimpse of cartoon eyes

beaming out of the dark

then blinking shut.

Too bad the-tip-of-the-tongue

isn’t enough to win.

I am “it”

and cannot hide

from my forgetfulness. 

Even olly olly oxen free

doesn’t end the game.

There’s only patience

and stumbling on the word

in the fullness of time.

Or waking up from a dream,

triumphant 

to find it there.

I’m too old for games

to play at this one.

Or have I regressed

to my second childhood?

A preverbal state

messing with pots and pans

on the kitchen linoleum,

conjuring imagined worlds

without using words?

Perhaps tomorrow, it will be my turn to hide.

I can only hope I don’t lose myself,

wandering off

in a confused state of mind

where no one can find me

and every word’s been lost.

Retrieval has become slower lately. I suppose this is advancing age, but am at least consoled that they almost always eventually come. The game of hide and seek may be a metaphor for dementia, but I’m not there yet! 

Distraction helps my seeking, because trying too hard seems to push my quarry further away. Trying too hard (and getting anxious!) is like dropping me into a blind canyon pushing against the rock-face.

Sometimes, as the poem says, sleep delivers the word — the unconscious mind, working overtime. 

It would be nice to think that my vocabulary has become so large, it’s just made a bigger thicket of words to plough through. Nice to think, but I doubt that’s how the mind works.

I probably started this poem because I’m now on the second day patiently waiting for this particular word  . . . and it never takes that long. So just now, I took the last resort:  using AI to find it. (If you’re curious, the lost word was “impunity”.) I feel embarrassed. Because this should have been as easy as finding a 3 year old hiding behind a coat rack, unable to suppress her giggles or stop from peeking out!

Save the Good - July 7 2026

 

Save the Good

July 7 2026

There is good news and bad.

Please, save the good for last;

as it is, I’m unhappy enough.

It seems there’s always good and bad.

So much, I start to wonder

if the world is zero-sum

 — 1 step forward, 1 step back,

a tricky equation

where, in the end, both sides cancel out.

Or is this the pessimist in me?

Could progress be possible,

disguised in a sawtooth graph

that, in the fullness of time

zigzags up and to the right?

As Martin Luther King, a man of faith,  proclaimed

the arc of the moral universe is long

but it bends toward justice.

And the faithless,

what are we to believe?

In wasted lives reclaimed,

love found again,

the human race

coming to its senses?

In a universe that expands

until it peters out,

or one that will boomerang

  — falling back

into a singularity

and another big bang?

Another chance

to get it right.

Diving In - July 6 2026

 

Diving In

July 6 2026

The lake is still

after baking all day

under a hot summer sun.

Small branches float.

There’s the flotsam of severed leaves

bits of cones and seeds

dandelion fluff.

Pine needles

broken twigs

and dead insects

moulder like pond scum

on its warm flat surface. 

The messiness of nature,

but also her exuberance

and excess.

Mostly, though, I notice the yellowish pall,

the blush of pollen on top

and painting a thin even band 

on half-submerged rocks.

But in my memory, the lake is cold, clear, fresh,

while this brings to mind

decay and neglect

 — a tub

where the tepid water was left,

and no one bothered to scrub

the stubborn ring

of dead skin and dried soap.

Tomorrow, a good wind will cut the heat

skim the surface clean

and refresh the sun-warmed lake

with cold water from the depths.

Leaving nature

the glossy postcard

you’d put up on the fridge

  — a manicured, benevolent, sanitized aesthetic

instead of nature

in tooth and claw;

all the messiness

and complexity

of life on earth.

Nevertheless, I swim.

Through the pollen, where insects will feed,

past the branches

that will water-log, then sink,

and brushing aside the leaves, twigs, and fronds

that in time will rot.

Yes, bears shit in the woods,

fish slough their slime,

bacteria  grow.

As we all live and die

and decompose,

diving in

regardless.

Wonders of the World - July 4 2026

 

Wonders of the World

July 4 2026

I do not travel well.

Like stone fruit

or cranky toddlers.

Which feels like a confession,

as if I’d openly admitted

to cheating on my taxes

or my unwitting wife.

Was I born a homebody 

or did I become one?

Not easy to say,

except that change is hard

and routine keeps me centred.

Do I lack imagination? 

Have I no spontaneity?

Am I too timid for adventure

too attached to my comforts

too mired in a rut?

Perhaps, somewhat,

but mostly I resent

insinuations like these.

Because, while I may not rush to catch an early flight

or eat raw fish

I travel in my head,

take risks

even if they are less apparent,

and create original work;

which is more than be said

for the tourists taking selfies

and checking off their lists

of wonders of the world.

Of course, not all travellers are tourists,

all first world visitors 

entitled Americans

who talk too loud

and complain about the portions.

And their carbon footprint

isn’t always too much

or even unjustified.

Mine, especially,

nicely settled

in my familiar abode

without the jet-lagged days

or sleepless nights,

the lost luggage

bad stomach

or tropical sun

draining me dry.

At home,

writing my way through time and space

without leaving my easy chair

or missing my dogs.

My parents were enthusiastic travellers. But on their return, they invariably declared that the best part of travelling was getting home again! (My dad was hardly an “ugly American”, but visiting London wa6 back in the 1960s (I suspect things have changed since then) he did complain about the portions:  the English version of a sirloin steak was like an appetizer compared to what a Canadian thought of as a man-sized cut of beef. I think he ordered a second!)

Of course, one must make a distinction between the tourist and the traveller. There is a telling difference in mindset between the two:  the former, more all-inclusive resort stretched out by the pool sipping pink fizzy drinks; while the latter brings to his travels an openness to adventure and accident, a respect for other cultures, and a lively curiosity. 

No doubt travel can enlighten and enlarge. But not me. Away from home, I’m too stressed, constipated, and sleep-deprived for either! Probably on the spectrum (autism spectrum, that is), which may explain more.

Blood Meal - July 3 2026

 

Blood Meal

July 3 2026

They’re just living their lives, she said

so let them be.

 As if the black flies

swarming my head

should be left to feed.

As if a reverence for life

meant accepting persecution,

and that biting insects

should not be exempt

from human compassion.

Even mosquitoes,

who have killed more men

than all our wars

vendettas

and acts of neglect.

A blood meal

is how they make their living, she said

so let them be.

We are part of nature

and must do our part, she said

so let them be. 

But to serve nature

must my body merely be

a travelling smorgasbord,

irresistibly warm, engorged, and savoury?

Won’t they bleed me dry

if I acquiesce?

So while I admire her Buddhist forbearance

I’m but a weak and mortal man,

a bad humanitarian 

who can’t bear the itch

and would rather not risk

dengue

malaria

chikungunya. 

So I scratch, swat, slap

despite her glare,

run inside

flailing wildly

to fend them off.

Meanwhile, is that a glow of righteousness

I see enveloping her?

Or flushed red skin,

giving off heat

as she itches and swells?

Falling From the Sky - July 3 2026

 

Falling From the Sky

July 3 2026

The hot humid air

was stifling to breathe

and impossible to sleep in.

Yet it was also exhausting

and we walked, zombie-like

  — focusing

on each small step,

slouching 

like old men

with porous bones and backs that bark.

Our brains were drained as well;

we were the living dead

unable to think

or plan. 

A heat dome, they called it;

“weather from hell”, we said.

The climate has changed

conditions are unpredictable. 

Pious Christians call it a judgement from God,

as if, by our sinfulness

we’d brought this on ourselves.

While the atheists

who believe in science agree

that man is to blame,

but for our greed, not immorality 

  — consuming

beyond our means.

But who in this sultry heat

has the strength to finger-point?

To either repent or pray,

practice politics

or attempt persuasion?

When all we can do is sweat,

sip cold drinks,

sit in one place.

I watch dogs, tongues lolling

as they pant in the shade.

Notice squirrels 

who would scamper through the trees

like addicts on speed

stand 

unnaturally still,

hold 

their querulous chatter. 

And look up, surprised to see birds

falling from the sky;

the air so thin

even featherweight creatures

are unable to fly.

In a recent post to a friend, I wrote the words “what’s next” (accompanying an article about the lonestar tick and alpha-gal syndrome), thinking of the endless cascade of current and imminent disasters pressing in on our accustomed way of life, some perhaps even threatening human civilization. First to mind, of course, was climate change, especially with today’s newspaper reports of oppressive heat waves in Europe and — closer to home — eastern and southern Canada, the US south and midwest.

It’s fine here. Relatively, anyway. But I hate heat, and am bad in it. So it was easy for me to imagine how it must feel. 

I remember a heat wave when my car almost hit some low-flying birds I’d normally not even notice:  the heated air had expanded so much it affected their lift, and they really struggled to gain altitude and get out of the way as they usually easily would.

A Mind of Its Own - July 2 2026

 

A Mind of Its Own

July 2 2026

Those times you lose track,

but the car

somehow finds its way home.

As if there’s some part of your brain

that has no need of you 

has a mind of its own,

impervious

to your sense of self.

As if you began as twins

and one absorbed the other 

before either was born.

Cannibalized,

like sand tiger sharks, swimming in their mother’s womb,

preying on the weakest

and honing their skills.

Your hands, autonomous,

your eyes

seeing for themselves. 

And that sly homunculus

sequestered deep in your cortex

in some inscrutable lobe

quietly living its sheltered life;

and who, unasked

takes the wheel 

and shepherds you home.

A philosopher might wonder

about the complexity of consciousness 

and the question of free will.

But you're a simple man

and just appreciate the break

from being yourself;

that lost interval

when your mind, disembodied

was free to wander,

like an astral traveller

untethered from time.

It’s only turning into the driveway

that your mysterious twin

relinquishes the wheel

and you snap back to the world

  — as if a hypnotist

had clapped his hands

and there you were;

mind a blank, eyes glazed,

hands, firmly placed

at 10 and 2.

Which just confirms

how slippery memory is.

And leaves you wondering, how often

are you absent like this?

Are you living a secret life

even more of the time?

Which twin

is really in control?

Which twin are you?

I imagine we’ve all experienced this: driving on autopilot, and no memory of how we got from A to B. 

I’m not the simple man in the poem, and do wonder about both the complexity and inscrutability of consciousness. Wonder how much we know ourselves. Wonder about all the other autonomous things the brain might be up to. Is our conscious awareness just a sliver of what goes on? 

One sure thing we’re left out of is the mind/body loop. Which is good. Because if we had to consciously run everything — from the immune system to the heartbeat — there’d be no time left to clean up after dog  . . . or write poetry!

Frightening the Dogs - July 1 2026

 

Frightening the Dogs

July 1 2026

I hear them going off

somewhere outside

on a sultry summer night.

But fireworks

are meant to be seen, not heard,

standing in a crowd

necks craned skyward

gasping ooo’s and aaah’s.

Because entranced by these displays

we revert to childhood.

We are toddlers, excited by balloons,

infants, awed by dangling keys,

eyes wide

and mouths frozen

in small circles of surprise. 

So does finding myself bored

and repelled by the waste

suggest I’m just an old curmudgeon,

too earnest and jaded

for good clean fun?

That I’m unable to shed my reserve,

appreciate the artistry,

or revert to the child

who lurks in all of us?

Dogs are frightened

birds confused

former soldiers traumatized.

While I’m simply annoyed

by the gratuitous noise,

and fireworks 

I’ve seen a million times before.

By a display 

that seems more desperate

than genuine thrill,

more generic

than a celebration

of this singular day. 

Peace, Order, and Good Government - June 30 2026

 

Peace, Order, and Good Government

June 30 2026

I finally replaced that forlorn looking flag.

It had aged badly,

faded and frayed

from time and sun,

its fly edge ragged

from repeatedly snagging

on the pointed branch

of an encroaching tree.

More than undecorative

a ragged banner like that

didn’t just droop on its pole like a pointed finger

accusing me of neglect,

it seemed disrespectful

to the country of my birth.

But now, seeing it snap briskly in a warm summer wind

  — the bold red and white

against a deep blue sky —

I can’t help but wonder about the patriotism

I feel welling up,

a pride of country

I find unbecoming

as a citizen of the world.

Is this feeling small-minded

provincial

xenophobic?

Or unavoidable?

Because we while we are far from perfect

we’ve tried to do good

and are, by fits and starts, getting better.

Whether by deliberate choice

or an accident of birth

we are blessed to inhabit

a welcoming, tolerant, and progressive place

not riven

by ethnicity, religion, or the artificial division

of less enlightened states;

so I have reason to be grateful

as well as proud.

And because it’s just human nature

to need community

identity

the feeling we belong;

flag or not

people will seek out acceptance

set boundaries

fashion a tribe.

Anyway, it’s a pretty flag, as well as simple;

the kind of minimalism

I find attractive 

and like to practice as well

  — two vertical bars

with a maple leaf at its heart.

Who could object to that?

An inoffensive leaf,

glorifying nature

instead of aggrandizing man

or force of arms

or some narrow ideology.

A life-giving leaf

that gives us the air we breathe

and the beauty we crave.

What could be more symbolic 

of an earnest nation-state

that soberly proclaims peace, order, and good government

as its foundational creed?

That sees itself

as a force for good

and example to the world?

I really just wanted to write about my new flag. My impulse was decorative, not patriotic. But then, as the poem says, these feelings come. Especially since tomorrow is, by total coincidence, Canada Day.

I’m suspicious of nationalism. It seems small-minded. But then, while there's xenophobia and strident jingoism, there’s also a healthy patriotism that includes gratitude, an appreciation of history (the good and the bad, as well as the struggle), a sense of duty, and modest pride. But one that also doesn’t bridle at constructive criticism. We hear that defensiveness a lot these days from south of the border, where people who legitimately criticize their country are labelled as “hating America” and being “traitors” by some on the belligerent right.

I’m pleased with some of the descriptors I salted in. I think they reflect our national character: words like earnest, soberly, inoffensive. 

“Peace, order, and good government” — often shortened to the less high-minded sounding “POG” — is lifted from our founding document. Quite a contrast, as has often been pointed out, to its closest American equivalent: “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

Time Out - June 29 2026

 

Time Out

June 29 2026

If timing is everything

then what about place? 

In this temporal geometry

there is no triangulation

no solid ground.

A now, but no here,

a past

that’s badly remembered 

or written by the victors

then revisioned to fit, 

and a future

that’s merely hypothetical

and whatever you wish.

Especially since time depends on speed,

is relative,

and who knows when the the clock

in the first place

was set to begin.

In time

out of time

pushed for time.

Mostly, not enough of it.

A time out

is all I’m asking for,

doesn’t matter where.

Filmstrips of an Absent World - June 27 2026

 

Filmstrips of an Absent World

June 27 2026

When I recall my childhood

enough time has passed

that all the colour

has bled from it.

I’m watching filmstrips, in black and white

of an absent world

I can’t imagine I was part of.

The cars, clothes, and houses,

the clunky technology,

and the all-white faces

of a provincial town

that was complacently insular.

It’s startling how much has changed.

But also how much hasn’t.

Because while it’s easy to patronize the past

as well as romanticize

  —  laughing at the fashion

while presuming an innocence

we only wish we had  —

the human experience 

doesn’t change.

We have the same loves and hates

fears and desires

wants and needs

as people have through history;

even our nostalgia 

for a golden age

we were sadly born too late for,

and what’s more

never really existed. 

Yes, I was alive

way back then.

But don’t ask me to remember

the great events of the day,

the geopolitics

nuclear fallout

and gee-whiz technology,

the prejudice

and toxic air.

I was a child, and my world was small;

a suburban street

of single family homes

with one car in the driveway and a weedy backyard

that seemed enormous to us,

and where fun

was something we made ourselves. 

They say childhood has changed.

For the better, one would expect,

because progress

is in our DNA.

But a septuagenarian 

who remembers in black and white

has his doubts.

Because more

hasn’t made us happier.

And while we also wished to grow up fast

  —  as all kids do  —

we had to take it slow;

some of us, even slower.

Which isn’t a bad way to live;

not “go fast and break things”,

but take your time

and treasure what you have.

YouTube has short video vignettes of every era since moving pictures. When I watch mid 20th century Toronto, I can imagine young people today seeing that time the way I see the jumpy scratchy film of the early 1900s. But living in it didn’t feel as primitive as it looks; things felt normal, modern, even futuristic! The age in which we live is the water in which we swim, and like fish, it’s just how things are  . . . as well as how they’ve always been.

One effect of watching these things is that they subconsciously bleed into my memory. I actually do start to visualize in black and white; do start to feel we were deprived compared to the way we live today. The “colour bleeding out” not just a poetic device. 

Watching also makes my childhood seem even longer ago. This is a two-edged sword. On the one hand, we shake our heads at how primitive things were. And on the other, imagine it as some golden age. Not just my contemporaries because that was our youth, but today’s young people as well. Because from this distance, that seems to have been so much simpler and innocent a time. (Doesn’t it always, looking back?)

“Go fast and break things” was Mark Zuckerberg’s notorious catchphrase for Facebook (Meta, if you prefer.). I think very apt here, since the worst thing about modern childhood are social media and the smartphone. Technology has created an anxious, dependent, and socially isolated generation of young people. …Not to mention, of course, all the good reasons there are to feel anxious:  Donald Trump, climate change, bad economies, and a profusion of horrible pointless wars.