Author Archives: Lee Dunn

Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.

Two roads diverged

On the roadway, I met an old man. As he walked toward me, and I to him, I thought to have us pass without a word, for his eyes were downcast and his shoulders slumped.

At the last moment, he looked up in acknowledgement, saying “It is spring!”, then gave a little chuckle, raising a fist in the air.

I smiled, and made as if to speak, but he shrank back, seemingly in fear of a conversation or in regret of his exclamation.

He had been walking more slowly than I, and with a limp, and so I admired him all the more for his perseverance.

Smiling once again, I let him pass. An afterthought made me look back quickly to check his progress, but he was no longer there.

As there were no houses in sight, only open fields, I stopped in wonder.

When I reached home, I saw that my hour’s walk had turned to two.

A question

It seems that crows are not communal. I don’t know. They are given credit for an industrious sort of cleverness but, today, over the rippled lake, this group was raucous and jumbled, debating their jabberwock in staccato caws, the answers too rapid to have studied the question. Belligerent oneupmanship was my thought.

I met a woman who was walking a chihuahua. She called out a hearty “good afternoon!”, and made comment on my umbrella. I smiled, and fumbled for a pleasantry.

A man backed out of his driveway in a bathtub Porsche, making sure to rev the engine, a pleasing sound to some, I think, although I don’t know what is meant by this…that is, I don’t know what I mean.

It has been declared that it is Fall, now. The seasons have become old hat. Flutter of leaves, then snow, early birds, then butterflies.

I spent the night in the hospital, and was diagnosed.

How does one borrow time, and from where? I don’t know.

Stars

What I imagine is that it would take trillions of lifetimes to walk to a star, if such a path could be laid.

As it is, in this few minutes of a waning life, small pips of existence are noticed along the way: that the summer weeds are as verdant as a jungle. That the creepers, flyers, and hoppers are more jittery than they have been in other summers.

That the lawns of the estate homes are all brown, despite the money. Care seems to have gone inside, behind drawn curtains. There might be wisdom there.

A single squirrel eats all of the peanuts from our feeder, fighting off his challengers.

In the lowly ditches, a single sock (rolled up). Common beer bottles and plastic cups. Tree limbs, lopped into equal sections, seeping pine sap (a smell that’s a hint of heaven).

Walk me to the stars, my love. Walk me to the stars.