Poem 26

To satisfy & nourish
that is what we all seek
Your caress a visit
like a bird balanced
in plummage & song
To notice & enjoy
takes you half way there.

We suspend time in this city
it's an island after all
Nothing to do but be
Nowhere to go but here
After dinner on St. Denis
we walk south & the moon
awaits suspended over
Massioneuve above a Cathedral.

To satisfy & nourish
to not tip the balance
What luck to have found you
what luck to have known
You fill me
yet leave space
Fire Horse
your white light shines always
you gallop in the right direction home.

Poem 25

I make my way down St.Denis with sights on Place des Arts
it is a test of conviction passing through the temptation of colour
scent and culinary favors
I avoid the yellow & green of Renaud Bray
The ground beans  and sidewalk tables of le Brulerie
cannot pull me in to tiny spoons & saucers
Nor can the yeasty warmth of patisseries with condensation
on the windows containing golden loaves and rolls
I remain focussed on this journey south
pass by bicycle after bicyle chained to posts
beside patient dogs tethered to trees
I hand out no change
look for no friends.
There is one hour left on this Saturday
to see the lines of Leonard Cohen
the wordless ones--
sketches of his own face & all that he has
gained & lost.

Poem 24

They say the only way to get to know a city
is to walk it     Likewise   bonding with a dog
to create pack hierarchy   only achieved by walking
Meditation -- best done along winding paths
or sidewalks  through alleys
Walking alone -- get to know yourself
Walking companions -- reveals the redundancy of words
There are walking clubs, magazines, shoes, outfits, instructors
There were our parents  or some adult
cheering us initially as we tumbled forward in life
Toward    Away from   Along side
then back again
In hospitals there are those learning it all over &
those who never will again--
Passing a lady with the walker
She still does   just slower
Then the man with a cane
looks like he always has.

Poem 23

Sipping green tea because it is delicious
and good for me, while at the same time
Shiraz Merlot blend  equally delicious
and good for me, if not better.
The tea from Japan
The wine from Argentina
Me in Montreal
from several places
that always seem to lead me  to here.

Poem 22

We walk past a building with a huge button above its doorway
it is gold & looks like it was sewn on.
Inside there are cases & drawers full
Antique or modern
brass, plastic, wood and gold.
I am sure there's more but its 2 in the morning
and we're only passing in the dark
past the drunken happy this week night
angling past us toward crooked sidewalks.
I watch the immigrants seeding the bagels at Fairmont,
then on Gilford the Bar avec Billiards Gratuit where a couple of laggards are sitting there still
while the bartender blonde like the beer they sell there is in the doorway turning the bolt
she pulls the chain on the neon Open sign & notices us not.

Poem 21

I've got these rats living inside my mind   see
(I added that 'see' because one of them
likes to think he's james cagney & no good
at anything but knowing it all.)
Although I may look normal while at the bank
or in your home  part of me is checking out the vault
or sizing up your locks.
Part of me opens your fridge when you leave the room
then listens in on your phone call
Part of me is always checking over her shoulder
watching where she steps
sniffing the air
saving some food for later.

I cannot say when this began
because that part of my mind is now considered
off-access.
So while you are talking to me I am undressing you
and later pushing you into the sofa for a real going over
smiling & nodding & filling in a few blanks
You like it rough don't you?
Speaking this aloud I have to apologize
but you grant me this mistep saying  NO
you are right, I let people walk all over me
Those rats I think    Maybe they do know more than us.

Poem 20

Equinox
Spring

But you are so thick in the fall &
the shake.
You are clad in the heavy
heat of sadness
You are stuck in a place
with no view but one.

Let these words enter
to open that shade
that drape
that tightly closed blind.

If poetry was ever
Anything
Then feel it rising
Feel it breathing
feel its hope at least
At least its small hand
its unfocused eyes.

Poem 19

I set forth on this journey
to write every day
But wish I had instead thought  to
Right every day.

Where to begin that?
There is no page to scroll
down deep enough
No journal with pages to hold
all that wet ink.

Poem 18

I have been in & out for the last four days
carrying the same can of paint.
It first came home with visions of spanish fields of sunflowers
but went back the next day
like a bowl of cold soup.

Renewed by some saffron & a small pinch of curry
 -- and like
most of these trips in thick cloak of dark
 -- crack lab liason no doubt
but I'm not going to sweat appearance
With this new concoction so sour
it was back to the car the next hour.

My third trip home with a fresh can of lemons
mouth waters with every step --
I've achieved it at last
a balance of hues
a pigment so brilliantly cast.

Poem 17

We want to be the solar light
along the path from road to door.
Dutiful diurnal then
the only thing you see at night.

Oh to be the first bird each morning
to sing for all to hear. Or
the last to stir the branches
to sleep in fragrant limbs.

But here upon the mud we stand
some stuck, some bootless
forgetting our song
ignoring the vast.
Humming monotonous
without even knowing.

Let wind be the bow over strings of trees
Let stars be the hooks for lost souls
When you fly let yourself
When you lie lose the rest
We are not here
We are not there
but everywhere
and now.

Poem 16

There is a squirrel who visits our yard
Each day, performing his rounds
Collecting what he can
He has taken to a pole with a view of it all
He climbs it perching on the top
Tail balances him as he turns west
then holds him steady as he points south
Every day in early afternoon
He'll be there
Like a painter surveying the scene
or the poet in meditation


We sit too lofty & we all know it
feeding on manufactured flesh
treading on fields of of silk
with boots of steel.
We chain, we beat into submission
& squeeze out the last cells of dignity
for our entertainment.
You cannot tell me the eyes are not windows
The heart is but flesh &  dreams are ours only.

Poem 15

I spent the afternoon scratching
away at the earth  gentle as brushing my dog
Combing out the crusty remnants
uncovering moist new homes to insects
as shocked to see me as I them.
The chatter of birds & the infrequent roll of a car
pushed the sun off  dusty deck
then over the fence and away.

I filled two bags with this well used winter blanket
as trees sighed or so it seemed
and let the light come in.

Poem 14

Normally the sight of hundreds of flies
on the front door would harken thoughts
of The Exorcist or other demonic maladies.
Is the house cursed, posessed or rotting?
Is someone from beyond reaching back in anger?
Did the delivery boy spill?
Has my dog been up to something?
But as I stood there assessing this invasion nay
this occupation the door and frame nearly speckled by plague
I wanted to stay

My back felt the heated fingers of spring take me in
then its entire hand gripped me in this moment
the same speck of time the fly was in
Each one of them I noticed
luxurious with no schedule
only here
only now.

Poem 13

This is a true story:

There has been a stone in my foot
okay it was a grain of sand
but it was there for over 3 years
it was like a small lump only painful
should I step on a garden hose or threshold
as it was situated in the middle of my foot.
Each summer or on a winter beach
while walking barefoot the hole would open
more sand might enter.
For weeks in long baths I would work on this mine
wondering all the while
why no pearl would form
after all this time.

I blame myself for this ailment
for once having written:
I am coming home but
there is a stone in my shoe.
Although heavily poetic
I swear this is true.

Poem 12

Wind is tearing the trees apart
I would hide if I liked to panic
Next it will be the roof
but I am not going to go there yet
I will wait until the neighbor's house
goes past my window
before I close my eyes.

Poem 11

My brain is a lazy sectional
good for parties
or long evenings.
It takes up half the room
forces you to lay down
it comes apart at the ends &
comes in many dimensions.
You can choose its look
texture, colour etc.
If you have a small room
I don't recommend
But for larger spaces
You cannot go wrong.

Poem 10

Dear novelist

Let me express my awe

Your ability to dive into

Fleshy soft unknown

A body to come home to at nite

Wake with each morning

I envy your base of continuity.

Tenacity is not for poets &

I do speak for myself

When tenaciousness is lack

I slip in melancholy muck

So each word squeezed is painful and

Every image eyeful

No lively description here I fear

Just recollection

Dear Novelist you stay with something

‘til it’s right and then

to understand

you fit your body whole

Protected second skin

Glove around

The poet walks into walls

Never comes home at nite

Sleeps with whom she wants

For a good line a soft bed

A place to hide

Then sacrifices all things good

For a word she would

For a life she would not

Never at home in her skin

Nervous & itching & hot

C’mon give her a scratch

With long nails

Slow strokes

Lively tales

You know you can

And that you want to

Or leave a bowl of milk

On the steps beside her things.

You with the long stories

Enough wood for this hearth

Poem 9

The ad read:
    Experience required, salary commensurate.
It sounded perfect
I gathered my papers
Showered & dressed
Got there on time
Sat in a line

They gave us paper
Said to write
something happy.
I could see the man next to me
had no pen so I gave him one.
Soon the room was bartering for pens or pencils
and before we could begin our time was up.
Someone was collecting the (mostly) blank sheets of paper
People were shuffling toward the door
Some of us remained seated

Then I went home.
I watched the news
read a book
listened to the radio
& fell asleep with the lights on.

Poem 8

To read the quiet lines of the poet or to
follow the blur of the painter
you will be the grasping hand on cliff's edge
a second before the fall
You will be the pinnacle of light
on a shooting star before the event horizon
No one shall witness
or record.

Go on spend your life
scribbling & scratching
a free range chicken
home on the range top eventually.
Keep moving  spiralling  tumbling
back into the beginning
the ending
the nothing
the All.

Poem 7

Dirty snow slips between
brown lawn like sand
the last of it glistens goodbye
You could hear its crumble
if not for birds feeding
the wind's push.

Later on asphalt
we cut through air
on elliptic orbs
Riding through the neighbourhood
as restless as stallions
set free.