Poem 61

The woman sits at a café

Sun shadows her past 

even in this chair.

For a week of escape

she prefers clouds

crying skies

names of streets with

no connections

another language .

In her hands are lines &

in her notebook

blank pages.

The woman sits in a café

Aware of planet’s rotation

Cycles of change

Lunar   linear   lost

In the constant spin

She twirls her ring   

Past centre of gravity

She has escaped

Tumbling head over…

Heal with time

Mind over matter

Poem 60

Where is the light & what is its source?

Should we move into darker times & pray

For illumination or do we light a candle

For today—dim but warm

Circles of light  shadows dancing 

I want to cover the city with images

Spirits and words

When our hollow structures are visited 

Long after we are gone

We shall be a people who believed in something

I want to cover my eyes sometimes too

It’s what we do with our hands 

When they are empty

That is the matter before us

What is the matter with us?

Fists clenched in our pockets.

Poem 59

I read somewhere that the Grand Canyon would be

a splendid site for waste disposal   Could keep us 

going for at least 15 years.

Then I began to think about outer space & how

there is light years of space.

Problem is gravity & the fear that it would return

to us when least expected, like at a garden wedding

Maybe just a tattered bag or two, but the mess.

This physical waste - all of our things are headed

For the trash eventually.  Even the trash cans have

Limited shelf life.  I am burning envelopes in the back

Yard creating smoke but am warmed by it.

The crackling of a few pine twigs 

then the nothingness in the pit, the ash

the rocks all evidence of what was 

no longer. 

Poem 58

I read that the leaking seeping oil from

The latest spill shall be set aflame sometime today

So the poor ocean dwellers will be roasted alive

Like there is no tomorrow & you should wonder

About that day coming if this is what we have to

Do to make it happen

Our never-ending hunger for fossil fuel

& the blinders we wear to get it.

Taking the ancient is misleading us

all without complaint we ride this black wave

like surfers from Hell

It cannot be ignored that this most recent mayhem

was triggered by a tanker of coal slamming into

The feeding oil well as it sucked & sucked & sucked. 

Poem 57

Wish I could sleep like a dog

Or left alone to do so

As they like to say

For a good nights sleep you need to lick

Your chops good and loud

Then exhale as if you were seeing a respirologist

Then toes need stretching

Followed by legs extended to their fullest

Finally sleep.

It seems so simple watching my dog

His ears twitch if I flip my page too loud

Or click my notebook shut too suddenly

But he is out.

It is midnight or beyond & illogical to him

We should have been asleep hours ago 

Both knowing how slow I am to start another.

Poem 56

For my friend who weeps symphonic

For the beauty that she hears

She will make tea in her best cup &

Chipped saucer then seated upon sofa

will still herself until the first few notes

Run down her windows like rain

Schutz or Mendelssohn trigger deep surges while 

A largo from Dvorak opens a sea of supraliminal

Insights.  This is a state sought by holy men

Trenchant & lost at the same time

Gripped so you cannot question the why of it but

Where inside & then to whom?

Then to whom do you return

Like a lost note from the New World Orchestra?

Poem 55

One thing is certain

I was standing on the edge of something

A mountain climbing decision

Fire or water   earth or sky

I had a rope but what I needed

Was not at hand  I Ching

Dice  Dial-a-prayer

Ting went the bottom of the cup

The sound of my coin as he howled out

Baby I was born to run… 

He’s on that corner every day Irony

Taste in my mouth 

I’ve bitten my lip 

As I often do  now I’m bound to repeat

This self-mutilation (or the slow beginning of it)

Throughout the day

What was the insight pressing my teeth so tight

Upon my tongue?   I was certain the moment of clarity

Would be less painful  but as the tug between

Knowledge & Language 

Contracts & advances

I continue along the street with a bad song knitting & hooking

Itself inside my well insulated head.

Poem 54

We stand at the corner of College & Bathurst

Facing West into the clear blue into the prevailing

Move with a small group of women in tights & leather   

Boots, one of them still smokes & I look for the cafe

With the best caffeine around tasting it now

It’s the detail of a day, the smallest thing you carry home

Like those sunflowers in the blue pots

or the creama shaped like a heart in the cup

You sweetened & sipped your lips so beautiful

Broke into a smile when our friend walked in & wished 

You the best for this day, your day & I opened a newspaper

Out of habit & then folded it shut, so many words

In just one day, but they can wait for later 

We stroll together like a new map has unfolded & we

Say this is the best way to live,

Not knowing where & not knowing when.

Poem 53

Living like a rat gives you much hope

Feeding off garbage because of your needs

your hole is filled & thst pile is never-ending 

You hope the next meal will be of

Considerably better quality & fresher too.

Seeking out a dry nest for a long rest

No easy task in this rain

Down this drain, buy hey

Use your brain you found your way 

Here in the first place & when it’s time

To push off there’s no exit door telling

You where to.

Poem 52

Electric toasters 

Like to follow me around

Leaving trails of crumbs.

They drag their cords like lacklustre tails.

They will “ding” to get my attention & begin to 

Blow smoke if I brush them off.

I read The Brave Little Toaster while sitting

Before an electric heater but learned no new insights

The heater hissed & sparked

Some advice, then ran us a bath

But pulled out at the last minute

Just as one of the toasters hopped in.

Poem 51

When they talk their voices

Sound like those attending

To flights about to embark

Rise with all its bulk

Its faulty hull high above the 

Chaos below.

We find comfort in the newscaster’s voice

Steady as she breaks it to all of us

that planes are trying to stay afloat &

Out of plumes of volcanic ash a

cumulus thunderhead from angry Vikings

That will freeze jet engines 

From fire to ice in a split second

Iceland has frozen Europe’s arteries &

Will continue to push forth around the Earth’s

Circumference with its Dragon’s mouth wide open.

Poem 50

Found in a ditch are last year’s remains  

dried leaves   an old prescription bottle 

cracked & empty, a paper cup  & on a

crumpled sheet of faded blue lines

a note from one heart 

to another   the ink has run & 

before I can decipher the faded emotions

April snatches it from my hands & flies 

across a field.

That lost message almost imprinted 

An image in a cave before the last match flickers out

I spend the rest of the walk wondering

If the note read hello my love is a flower or

Farewell as Fall is calling me away.

Poem 49

I can cover the neighbourhood in a day

Doing the crawl including parkades

where I often find half finished drinks &

whole piles of cigarette butts   I lunch at

restaurant bins & consume pages at a time in

the library where its park lets me sun while

digesting the latest trends in architecture or 

consider theories of the origins of the universe with

no buildings      I know where to defecate and how

to avoid traps  I know time by the rhythm of its people

There are twenty short days and two long ones

On the long ones  centre neighbourhood is mine

Spare change is heavier then & the

Slow hands can’t reach that deep.

Poem 48

To chew is to think about deeply to

Muse as any poet would ponder

Whole heartedly the heavy inside

Ruminate the unfinished   keep

In order the cards that hold the recipes

A lifeline  a life time  of words

spoken around tables meals 

made from words  measured

and blended  then left alone

to rise  pounded back down

placed carefully into rectangles 

and baked until the whole neighbourhood

Knows this story in one form or another.

Poem 47

I am eating this cake the way I did as a child

Layer by layer    the crushed prunes between crumbly 

cake  a recipe my mother had from hers

The black & the white of it

Longing & regret  seven layers thick

An Easter tradition  the same for generations.

I have long ago put aside the images of thatched roofs

Swept wood floors and purple flowers in mason jars

But these crumbs I sweep from the table push them back

Into my quiet mind  like an old photo ragged from handling.

If I turn now I would meet my great grandfather 

for the first time

Moustached and tired but ready for a good long story

His wife laughing tearful by our plentitude

her hair falling from tight braid    I stare too long

at her square fingers upon smooth table & they both disappear.

In my mother’s pantry was a jar of jam made 

by her late mother

that she refused to eat   It was the colour of garnets 

& Sweet I am sure, but too late for tasting & 

Too hard to open. 

Poem 46

Every day in every large urban centre

on the globe  hundreds of thousands of birds

crash into glass   attracted by the light

Surprised by the height   draped by fog or smog

A man in Toronto collects these fallen angels

Smooths bloodied feathers then disposes the hollow boned

victims of urban achievement   Bags  of them every morning

before gulls or commuters stare aghast for a split second

Before they enter the towers to perch themselves at desks

or cubicles with vistas they never notice.

Poem 45

It has gotten so that every time I pick up

A book, cup or pair of shoes

I expect the scattering swarm of small insects.

Too much time in the garden I know

Overturning rocks then jumping back at first

In horror, then stepping closer in a morbid curiosity

Not to spray these futuristic looking ancient creatures

But to check my gloves my shoes my hair

It is enough to frighten the weaker bipeds

But not me at least not now 

While I dig and push & pull

Like the relentless invader I have become.

Poem 44

Because we've arrived at poem forty-four

Allow me to take you through death's dark door

From belief Cantonese, well it’s pure superstition

an unfortunate link & a plea nay admission

That onomatopoeia has dictated decision

from Address to Birthdate

it’s time to obliterate

This crazy conception

a way of deception

That 2 times 2 which is 4 to most

but over on that Far East Coast

They cringe and deny

That what to you & I

Is a digit, a symbol, plainly just a number

Not the last thing you’ll see b4 your final slumber.

Because the Cantonese word for the number 4 sounds like the word

for death it is avoided whenever possible, addresses that end in 4 might

be changed to 4A birthdates may be changed & check the 4th, 14th etc floors

of buildings for Cantonese.   There will no doubt be revisions to this piece.

Poem 43

There was an edge to this dinner

The dinner in my dream

The timing was crucial & we were late

Someone was with me in the car 

Careening into  Car Park Sub Level 9

There were no cars but a woman was down there 

Mopping up water that oozed from the walls

I worried the car might rust over dinner

Down there in that damp enclave

Undoubtedly Freudian at this point.

Like some meta-fiction that dreams are

The missed engagement 

The chase of time in the form of

a subterranean journey one might be hard-pressed

not to reference Orpheus 

But I will not fall for that.

Poem 42

It is not with Dickinsons’ sense of dread I greet you

But with the luck bestowed upon my dreary head

(So say those from Quebec anyway)

When I spotted the first Robin on our lawn last week

Now almost daily this

Turdus migratorius, large Thrush, wanderer

Unaware of Latin leanings

Perches on our sill to look at us.

Cautious & curious outside & in

Even dog has noticed your red breast 

Pressed against  window you stand taller than I knew

You were.  At least 12 inches high, they say

Your average life is two years but one was known to have lived 14.

What was his secret I wonder?

Curiosity? Not likely.

Socialized & outgoing after all 

It’s years were tallied 

Every morning now I wait inside

For this plumed voyeur  

Warmed beneath the same bright star

Carried by the same swift breeze.

Poem 41

He says hell
is other people
She says life
is other people
It does not follow
that life is hell   rather
that judgement can be impaired by perspective.
She should not build her outlook upon such
shipwrecked emotions.
She should have left him years ago but for the
Conversation on otherwise quiet Sundays
Spent reading Le Nationel sipping at a cafe
Cigarettes shrinking while the Spanish Civil War
Tears them apart from time to time
Jean Paul sits in contemplative silence while
Simone smokes unfiltered American cigarettes &
contemplates a character stronger than herself
who could say to Jean - you simply must make up your mind or
Jean  go to Hell
but this time
without indifference.

Poem 40

From a country with a flag yellow & blue
like its fields of grain and large prairie sky
I should not wonder why there was so little spoken at home
especially in my grandparents' who fled
who denied any stories too afraid to speak the words
when I was a child & hungry to know.

Hungry like I would never know.
The people of Ukraine
under Stalin were crushed
hushed starved to death
In 1932 no one would resist
there was no strength when the grain seeds
for next years crops became something to fight over.

Fear of our story made me ashamed
creating the worst imaginings
But not the horrors of the unimaginable.
Planned & purposeful
a quarter of the population starved
The rest later told this never happened the way they saw it
told it was a famine
not a genocide.
it is estimated that between 8-11 million people died between 1932-1933

Poem 39

I am catching the dispersing molecules
of the dead tonight
All poets are opportunists at heart
you'd do the same if not for sleep
The sparks that flicker like dust from the moon
swirl then land upon this pillowed head
force me to salvage what I can in
ragged notebook & tentative pen
But nothing lands in order
as fragmented as a dream
No logic  no message
no rhythmic beat

Poem 38

Once it was suggested to me that I think of libraries
as stores where I need never buy anything -- I began
to frequent them religiously, spending whole Sundays
just browsing  grabbing armfuls at a time charging
them to my limitless card   Today so carried away with
this new outlook the keeper of books asked if I needed any help
I asked if she had Woolf in any other colour and will
I be able to exchange my Dickens for somthing lighter?

Anything is possible here
note the quiet reserve of others
under the same spell
a magnetic pull from shelves
a hum from leather-bound volumes
a crackle from obscure texts
Like the scene from Wings of Desire where
behind the shoulders of each quiet reader stands an Angel
The librarian was surely earning her wings
with each suggestion and every time she gently smoothed
dog-eared corners before putting the book to rest.

Poem 37

rodentia asks me for change & I tell him
every cell in your body is breaking down
not to mention that skin is sloughing
especially with that wool scarf &
hair follicles are closing  as bankrupt
as your favorite deli
did he want me to mention the latest terror plot?
the ozone or big medicine?
he tells me to eff someone  maybe even myself but
I'm not going for idle threats from an idle soul  so I say
Look  if money is what you are after    then why not
ask for it -- maybe that's been your whole problem
maybe that's how you ended up this way
I'm not in a good mood today & how was he to know
I mean it's random selection on his part
so I smile half hearted & cold too
notice his red cracked skin
his brown hooked nails  & say
here take this and go in there and buy yourself some soup
but he's not going for plastic offers from plastic people
turning on his lack of heels he
spits & walks away  says
you ain't my advisor.

Poem 36

To exist in a state of grace  while
inside contemptuous coals are stoked with every
thought--more gratifying than you'd think.

Not to say that feeding the poor &
housing the lame won't leave your cupboards
empty & rooms overflowing
but that is the essence of such notions.

It's the widest smile bearing most teeth
that make me look away.

Poem 35

There's nothing at my fingertips right now
I blame my brain, no my heart
when really it is neither
It's the day I've had carving into the ground
until these empty fingers ached
from stone & thick clay
clearing a path
shocking each worm
displacing or disecting
a violent act in the name or order.

Poem 34

I come from a city where two rivers flow
they meet in the centre
one going one direction
the other, another
and like two rivers with their
own agendas
their meeting is brief   and
they're gone   like any two
rivers in a hurry to get where
they are needed.

In that city
people sleepwalk
they freeze in the winter
then complain about summer's heat.
Not that they are not content
but very involved in the weather.
I know about those who sleepwalk because it's haunted
son Guy Maddin has
captured this fuzzy phenomenon.
When the sleeper arrives at your door
you must let them in.
They may have lived in that house before
or they may know you.
They may have the keys with them
but in sleep they will fumble and
it is the civic duty of those who answer
their doors not to behave like a cold
rushing river.

Poem 33

Loquacious is the mosquito in your bedroom
the buzz in your head when you don't know the answer
it's the effect of too much day & not enough night
It's the word you want if you are at the bottom of a well
It's the word you know you can count on
Maybe no one uses it anymore but it's like the best colloquial
oh, I meant collegial
it's the best collegial accompaniment you can find.

Poem 32

Lugubrious is a slug who is happy in the slimy water forgotten since last spring
it is sure to make itself known, to catch your eye to show that it's there
alone and unfed.  It will surface then sink to the bottom as if that were it.
But it returns to see your concern to listen to your plans of rescue
Take my advice, leave that word alone and all that it holds dear
It has a way of moving in and never leaving   of wrapping itself
around your good intentions and squeezing and squeezing.

Poem 31

The inconvenience of language
an oil slick
a bed of wet clay
That's not what I wanted to say.
Today the sky was blue
except that may not be true
I did not look up
was busy digging a hole
but the heat on my back &
the blackness of the hole
all add up to clear skies above.
I could smell the damp
with each cut
slicing  roots
listening to songbirds almost
understanding them.