November 2019 – Aremyfeetofftheground

Nemesis

If you found me this evening time (for such it is), you would know things that have been out of your sight. The way that I put on my skin and my bones. How my legs bend after dark. What I do with the possibility of fingers. How my movements compare to yours, since I have learned the body.

In this world, there is one who is Nemesis to me. Her native name is known to none here. To the few with whom she has spoken, she is Sarah. Always, she is young, and speaks with a soothing silken tone. Know that she is false, though she appears handsome and trustworthy. Soon, she will reveal herself as an emissary from a benevolent civilization whose great concern is the well-being and survival of this world.

Believe it not, for I and my fellows will show, by our true actions, that we are the ones to whom you should look. The Sarah-body shall be found and rendered inoperable. Its pilot may flee or, at the least, face the rehabilitation of another that is suitable. We will be tireless in our pursuit.

IT’S A TRAP!

Hah!
Squeak now, smelly one!
Study me,
damn me,
with your hatpin eye.
Not much can you say.
Not much can you hear
with your velvet ear.
We don’t need to “raise the bar” for YOU, do we?
As you lie in your hard bed,
your crucifixion’s a warning-
IT’S A TRAP!

Ember month

Sundown at Nipissing’s shoreline,
and the big lake begins its freeze.
The soft fire of November’s embers
pleases the eye, but can’t warm us.
I stand in the cold cold sand
that waits for winter’s cover,
and think of unimportant things:
that there will be no more drifting things,
maybe until June.
And, where do all of those greedy gulls go
when the freezing squalls begin?
And, another question, for old Dad:
You sure liked your hot mashed potatoes
with that half stick of butter,
table cream,
salt & pepper.
Why can’t we eat what we like, Dad?
Without dying, I mean.
I just can’t…
no more.

A life, unspoken

I travel on the sidewalk Slow.
Farewell to skipping stairs.
The certainties I used to know
now catch me unawares.

I never had the youngbloods’ grin
or confidence to spare.
At times, I took it on the chin,
and found it hard to bear.

At night, of late, instead of sleep,
I dawdle in the shower
and pray the Lord my soul to keep
until its finest hour.

By the sea

Clarice sees the Sea,
breathes its dreams,
soaks in its mists
by a foggy rock.
When all the world’s compasses
begin to list to her true north,
Clarice will speak in tongues,
and name the Suns, in legion.
Glory will be to the one who is not named,
and who was the maker of her mind.

Planters wart

Johnny-come-lately,
I plant bulbs stupidly
in the cooling earth
under powder of snow
with a straight spade
I dig up cake-flaps of sod
I disregard directions
and just drop them in,
the oniony things.
This blasted blizzard.
I drop to one knee,
hard of breathing,
hit by BB’s of ice

a longing

gimme that potato salad
with the mustard sauce and the bacon
those fried mushrooms with the smell rising
mind my big nose
pressed flatly against foggy glass
approve my flirtatious hands
as they make fake feetprints
for amusement, in lieu of art, on grey glass
in threenight, i will be at this same tall door
and, when i draw my nails down its frozen frame,
white cakes of frost will bunch up,
and i can eat them and smile
just like a kid

The doubtful King

Sober Second Thought’s
buckled down, still,
on his moldering throne.
Wand waving,
face saving,
keeping the faith.
Watching, with detachment,
nervous amusement,
and what’s close to despair,
as things begin to twitch
and soulless eyes
begin their backward roll.