15.6.10
20.5.10
Poem 81
Only a few years ago,
When writing was done on paper
Saved with carbon copies &
Placed into folders or shoe boxes,
The carefully cut
Shreds of our lame ideas became
Brittle with neglect
While now
Our endless blogs
Are catapulted into the cyber realm
Like a message in a bottle
Or a cry for help
In the middle of the ocean
On a very windy day.
19.5.10
Poem 80
There is something about you
I think several weeks later
Okay it was not that impressive
But while out today I saw a woman
Who carried her bag on her arm
Like a plant holder
Or a coat hook
Her index finger pointed away
From where she was headed
As she weaved in & out of flower stalls
And bins of plastic shoes
Then settled on a stand of plant seeds
Well anyway she reminded me of you
Especially when she slid a couple packs of
McKenzie seeds into her pocket
Before leaving.
18.5.10
Poem 79
The only thing is this
I’m busy
Not interested
Out of town
Tired
With dirty hair
Working that night
Building furniture from Ikea
Which will take me out for the entire week.
How to say not interested
Not even piqued
Like an unresponsive knee
To your rubber hammer
Just let me sleep a little more
leave the key under the mat
Turn the lights out
Forget you ever met me.
17.5.10
Poem 78
This day I think of an old friend who could not bear
the drudgery of his life despite the appearance of a
well-labelled suitcase & stories no one could rival
despite the blooms & deep roots his blight could not
be managed or defaulted
he tried to leave once before only to
be revived like a plant with some miracle grow
tied up to a stake & placed under a fluorescent
but the brighter the light
the darker the shadows
he tipped his pot
he spilled the dirt
he left a mess
he left us all
he left the air around us
heavy & a cracked pot no one
could re-assemble.
16.5.10
Poem 77
The story is as follows:
A woman lives in a fortress
built on shifting ground.
Every year bricks fall away
and the cold circles around her.
She knits a sweater
larger than the last so it will fit.
Layer upon layer of lies.
Her children cannot get their arms around her anymore
neither can her husband.
She blames herself,
They were so small—
Believed what they were told.
15.5.10
Poem 76
Breakfast with a friend becomes noon
Becomes lightening bolt to a prairie eye
Counting seconds to measure storm’s proximity.
In this restaurant built on native ground the
River forks just behind us and I know the
Soil is holy—
The same forked flash of life shared in a story
The telling trickled at first like rain then
Both of us soaked to the skin
Chilled to our frail centres
Rattling thousand year old bones beneath the
Holy linoleum how unlikely their resurrection
But if they could join us now they
Would not be able to comfort us.
History is one drama and
This is another
more coffee is poured & she tells me
Her story.
14.5.10
Poem 75
Is it because my mother stood at 5 years old
barefoot in the snow with night shirted
siblings half-awake while their home and all
its contents perished that I glance to the window
of my home every time I leave or arrive
half-expecting flames to be licking window frames
disintegrating curtains swallowing sofas
stealing every comfort.
The idea that we are a moment away from disaster
Is with me even in the shower as I race before the water
Supply ends or guns burst in some political shakedown—
A friend from Chile told me of bundles of clothes
Enough for escape at the foot of her bed at night her
Grandfather taken in the middle of the day
I picture him stirring milk into coffee
Writing a letter with no thoughts of preparedness
Like a flash or a flame
He was gone.
13.5.10
Poem 74
The friendly hand upon dog’s head laments
its own losses
We have that in common each of us
at least once pushed by the Heavy
passing in the hall or on its hasty way
to the door of loved ones.
Our shape is changed forever
leaving us limping or slouched
meeting strangers in the afternoon.
Let the grass grow
Walk the dog
Only reminds her of all her losses
Thirty-five years
Seventeen years
Fifty-three yeas
The stories are all around us
A child
A dog
A husband
She says: and look how the suns shines today
A bee buzzes past us & she leaves
Me weeding as if it mattered
But today I see how much is does.
12.5.10
Poem 73
Step light take small breaths—
Beneath your tread
Another one dead
Murderous soul upon their head
Small breaths veiled
Lest thousands inhaled
Into soft mucoid walls be they impaled.
11.5.10
Poem 72
When mornings of gray
Follow blue day
Clouds break & wander
While those below ponder
Colour relations
& not those of race
But internal sensations
Brought on by space
Be not so swayed
By music that’s played
Keep your heart steady
For you are its meter
& Surely not ready
To be its defeater.
These couplets are contagious
Making me more courageous
To challenge my timing
For sharp metric rhyming.
10.5.10
Poem 71
For Barb Goodwin, B.N.
A life was contained
In that purse
Your patient done living
Under your watchful eyes
You opened that bag looking for clues
Who to call, anything at all
You laid out receipts, kleenex
Notes that held such plans
A menu—good deli you say
Holding back the tears
A mint still wrapped
Business card reminders of a
Lifetime left behind
Lipstick & lotion
Her son’s name not found.
9.5.10
Poem 70
“Desire perishes because it tries to be love.” Jack Gilbert
If this is true then we are wrenching
Ourselves free of tight English gardens of
Polite gestures that speak pardons & do tells—
Before we even touch.
Too quick the heart responds
Too slow the hand to follow
Tidal pull washes smooth the
creases logic makes
Leaves behind vast expanses
of sand….
Start over: I have met a woman
whose heart fits in my hand
her hand smooths my soul it
soothes its hungry hole
My heart tells this story
from a point beyond the start line.
I should be disqualified for writing like this
My blood screened
A panel should discuss my sanity or just Jack
Telling me that words will fail if they try to
be poetry.
8.5.10
Poem 69
You want to reach me
Voice on tape says
Where are you?
Right
Here
Listening
Uncertain
Too slow
Tired
Wrong
Time to call
I’m better
Available at two A
M I want you
To reach me was
Waiting for your
Touch
Your fingers
Dial Press Grip
Let go
Try later
Don’t forget
Right now you
Are where I want to be
Can you hear me?
Try again please
Push through
The line
The machine
My life.
7.5.10
Poem 68
My lover has
No libido
My mother has
No children
My mechanic has
No sight
My doctor has
No patience
Should I take up golf?
My lawyer has
A conscience
My neurosurgeon has
A tremble
My dog is feral my car is wood
My house is made of glass
My window has
No view
My church has
No pew
My baby doesn’t
Like me but
All my co-workers
Do
And that’s not all…
My feet have
No bottoms
My fingers
No tips
My heart has
No muscle left
My brain is dehydrated
Should I worry about these things
When I don’t have the time
A conscience or
Any recall of what I just said
6.5.10
Poem 67
You can try to write a love poem but
All you will end up with are words.
Sometimes I don’t like my brain, don’t like
Her at all but cannot put this into words
As she will find out and later
When I am driving my car
I will be sorry or
When I am speaking people
Will think I’ve lost that mind and oh if only.
When I lay down to sleep & almost forget to breathe
or to say I love you,
She will snicker & I will lay there
not knowing what to do
Until the alarm goes off
and brain says Attack so I stupidly
Charge forward like the armies of
Napoleon like a nest of disturbed hornets.
5.5.10
Poem 66
Don’t give him any money
Acting like he’s your responsibility
Your neglected brother, ex
Like you’re the one who
Cleaned him out—shook
His brain of ideas
So all he can do now is
Turn a frayed collar up agains the wind
And lay out a stained palm he
Doesn’t even have a cup
Now that’s a pessimistic view
In not asking
Who will give?
Looking at that dirty palm
It’s impossible to see his lines
I cannot read him
Hear him or in fact
Right now
Even see him.
4.5.10
Poem 65
I want the man
And I want the woman
To be happy
A table awaits
Their tired bones
With two chairs
In a café they
Walk past
In a city
Of half lives
Stretched across
Seven days
Fifty-two weeks
Three weeks vacation
Fully time alive
I want to be happy
But cannot without
The man
And the woman
Relaxed
And tender
Letting go
Taking in
And holding
3.5.10
Poem 64
Laying on the curved surface of earth
on a blanket on grass
under a sky so blue
You cannot wonder about gravity
As you spin through space
This great blue planet
Our bodies curved around it
Lumbar spine crescent belly
A lover asleep or very nearly
Afternoon stretched view
Your profile on my horizon
Then a smile spreading lips thinner
pulling open valves filling hungry ventricles
warm skin & scented smooth fingers ten
tiny suns warming my flesh
with purpose specific on a day without
watches phones plans that defy gravity
Two bodies that fit & any space left empty
is filled by the shared heat of the soul its hot lick
named desire its cool release called love.
2.5.10
Poem 63
This is from some notes I took in Montreal while visiting St. Joseph's Oratory many years ago.
Is this place closer to god
By virtue of geography
I climb granite stairs
That sparkle beneath the sun
At one point all I see is sky
As though I am on my way to heaven
But all I find
Is a view of the city
Spread across Canada’s
Laurentian valley I can see
The St. Lawrence from the doors of St. Joseph,
Worker, healer, patron saint against doubt & hesitation.
Wind swirls my hair my plans
I almost lose my balance
You could drown just by being this open
Just this blue and open
I am that and waiting too
Emptied vessel
Cracked yet holding
On.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
