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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

Poem 62

Time heals all…time will tell

this story   with words as scabs

over gaping lapses from

memory’s torn synapses

that failed to react in time.

She has some nerve   is told  

Return

Account

Explain

Use my language

Speak my love

Why don’t you bleed

A little more

Use my language

Speak my love

The woman exits the café

Leaves her umbrella behind

Clouds burst others run for cover

But she strolls with the rhythm

of a heartbeat 

Steady despite itself.

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.