Monthly Archives: November 2018

A Dali in Delhi

As I was walking through the gloom
(a Delhi night without a moon)
I heard a cry, as from a loon,
but could not spy the creature.

“ ‘Tis Whom?” I said, all quivery,
my voice of scant delivery,
my constitution shivery,
(but still could see no feature)

There came a creaking and a squeaking,
as from a chest of wooden drawers.
Then ’round the corner, something peeking
and blood was oozing from its pores.

It had a black sardonic grin.
Its head towards me swiveled.
Its rotting bones were caving in.
Its eyes so dark and shriveled.

Upon its chest and down its legs
were doors and cabinets,
and things of brass and wooden pegs
and ornaments elaborate.

Its breath so foul, but it conveyed
a misery of sorrow.
Its drawers and cabinets open stayed
in want of Souls to borrow.

I stood transfixed, within this alley
and hardly dared to move.
It seemed a creature, made by Dali,
escape-ed from the Louvre.

It creaked and clacked, and came so near
we almost did embrace.
And I, so rooted in my fear,
did stare into its face.

And now I knew just what it wanted.
My essence, it would steal
to fill its drawers and cabinets haunted,
my sorry soul its meal.

 

Roots and re-enactment

One of them beats it

As soon as I cut that grapefruit.

It permeates the atmosphere.

Even I know that.

The second one sits expectantly.

Is this treats?

I wickedly wet my fingers

With the juice,

Bending down with with the false handful.

An inch from his nosey nose.

He springs back, as if kicked.

Can an animal express betrayal and mistrust?

More poignantly than you might imagine.

I feel instant regret at my cheap amusement.

What was once my compadre

Has become a turncoat.

Thank God for their short memories.

Tomorrow, he will like me once again,

But it will require a double handful.

This dastardly deed I have done

To such a trusting soul.

I trace its roots back, maybe,

To an eleven year old me

Whose best buddy gave him

A bottle of 7UP.

The old green glass ones.

I smiled when he said

Here, I’ll open it for you.

I took a big swig.

It was filled with piss.

Such are the false friends,

And I have been one to something trusting and defenceless.

Finally, the third one sniffs the citrus fingers.

Licks and hangs around for more.

There’s no accounting for taste.

Therapy session over.

Promises, promises

Without a compass, I wander. This new town. A trial of a new life. Stress and depression have pinned me for some time now. Everything of value is forced. Lethargy and self loathing come easily. Things once held with confidence as absolute and true are now reduced in worth and certainty. We had a tall oaken cabinet that stood on legs and had doors of glass. It cleared the ceiling by two inches, and had been moved laboriously from house to house over the years. Our movers had put it in place for us, and it stood so for a couple of nights. Just before we were going to anchor it to the wall, something made it fall. Shouldn’t have set it on carpet. Tearful destruction, unredeemable. It’s the second night now that I’ve been home alone. My wife still finishing out her job commitment in the old town. Got to keep busy, yes keep busy. I drive, checking off a list of errands. Go to the dump, pick up a new snow shovel, buy some cheap shelf to replace the shameful loss of the other. I sit at a light in jammed traffic, a foreshadow of wasted time. On the green GO, a farting pickup truck, blasting rap, turns left in front of all of us, flipping the figurative bird. It’s a beard, chuffing a fat cigar, nose ring dangling. They say don’t judge. I do, and I’m not sorry. Not. The foreignness of everything wants to eat me. In an alternate life, another age, I might be excited, feeling the promise of a new explore. But please, just please. Just give me time. Then, something visits me. I have felt this before. A balloon of hope, unreasoning. A sudden perception that a revelation is to come. A golden gift that I will save, unopened. After all, Christmas is coming.

Gentle hearts

Bring me no dark.
I am of good supply.
No painted smiles
or bogus bonhomie.

In visits past
I have seen,
in your well meaning fakery,
knitted brows in unguarded moments.

No need to work that hard,
my dearest.
If you are in shadow,
or even if not,
just sit by me.
Warm me.
Say little.

I do know you.
We have history.

Just touch.
Only touch.

It may be that we two
could shine a light
of sorts,
in here.

The tree hugger

Old Man Maple
Is pushing a hundred, we think.
Each spring and fall, he gives his all.
Makes emerald hall,
Speckled sun.
Sighs with the whim of the wind.
To one who lays beneath his tower,
Awaiting his star’s communion,
Such things are shown!
Layers of focus, light on dark.
Rustles of sound.
An overture to the divine.

Such whimsy is despised by some,
Pointing to broken branches,
Dented roofs, clogged eaves,
Upset neighbors.

Me?  I do the repairs
And wait
For next summer’s hammock time.

Halloo from a new view

Well, we have left our town of 30 years for another.  Sold one house, bought another, and moved, all in the same day, combined with a last minute screw up at the bank.  Stressed are us.  Add to that two petrified pets who I thought were going to take a long walk off a short pier.  One spent last night and all day today underneath blankets on Mommy’s bed.  Didn’t come out to eat, drink, or pee (as far as we know).s4239040-17

We are officially in Ontario’s “snow belt”, and it lived up to its name yesterday.  But, the view is nice, the house is cozy, and we have a built in caregiver in the person of our daughter, who went together with us on the house.  They say familiarity breeds contempt, but I hope it will not be true in our case.  We hired movers for the first time in our lives.  I’m a little embarrassed to say that we had minimal furniture, but somewhere short of 300 boxes and totes.  When the crew was finished, their boss jokingly said to me “you should call Hoarders Anonymous”.s8952-14s8952-2

It will be beautiful here in the spring, what with the pretty trees and gardens, and the ravine of Bear’s Creek just below our backyard.  Right now, the work of unpacking and of clearing snow has just begun.  The morning coffee will taste so good.

The love of a brother

On a long gone New Years Eve, we had a table in a crowded Legion barroom. The women were up dancing, and he had just returned with two bottles of beer. He set one down for me, but I said “No, man, I can’t. We’ve got an hour’s drive home in the snow.” Aw, c’mon, it’s New Years. I sat there in the awkwardness, as he drank his beer. “We’d better be going. I’m glad you’ll be at the motel.” As I went to get up, he touched my arm and said I love you. That was it. Two years later, almost to the day, I was at home on a wintry afternoon, when the phone rang in my kitchen. Yeah, well……it’s me. Yeah. I’ve got cancer. This is it .  And suddenly, my stomach hurt. My knees buckled, and I sank into a chair. I cried silently, my head on the table. “But I love you”, I said. But I love you.