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.

The wanting

In an evening of pine perfume
and soft needle carpets,
we sat in the scout group, fire-entranced.
And laughed,
as neglected marshmallows blackened
and fell into flame.
Outhouse-bound,
I didn’t hear your soft steps behind me.
You ran ahead. Leaned against a tree,
not beckoning, but doing something odd with your fingers.
I stopped by you.  How could I not?
With one of the warm mallows,
you made stretchy designs,
like knitting with thumbs and index fingers.
Now an amoeba, now a neuron, a spider web, a ghost with eyeholes.
You said nothing at all,
and turned your freckle face away, enthralling.
And I was silent too,
smiling and trying to catch your eye.
Just as the light failed,
you removed a ring from your finger, pocketing it.
Looked away, tapped your foot.
What a fool I was.

Waste not, want not

For his end time,
we flocked together from our compass points,
and gathered by his bedside.
Like the fresh faces on Auntie Em’s farm
after Dorothy’s dream.

In his life, he must have dreamt us
into something that held him happy
until this day.

His plugs and wires and tubes
seemed connected to an underground cloud,
and what it fed to him was bitter.
Today was his day for the punching of tickets,
like Tom Hanks on the Polar Express.
But, inspirational? Not so much.

Each one showed our other face
just as we were looking at his,
and we wanted to plug our ears
as he spewed secrets
that we dismissed as drug-induced,
but knew to be true.

And what do you do with the Never Dids,
the filthy kids and the hiding hids?
The thrown cans of salmon
and the smashing plates.
Oh God, we were sorry,
and a group hug just wasn’t in the cards.

Once, in a blue moon

What happens up there
on that day-faded see-through moon?
(A long long sail,
by any nautical standard.)
No one is certain.
My scholarly theory says
there are silent factories
dug down deeply.
There, they make cups and saucers.
(But not the kind you think)
The Engineers think and design.
The Builders build.
And, many thousands wield fantastic brooms
to vex the flow of hourglass moondust.
There are roads that ramp up and break the surface.
They are correctly camouflaged,
and, all along the watchtowers, tall sentries can be seen.
They have white dreadlocks,
round spectacles, and binocular eyes.
When The Day comes,
the fleet will be ready.
My Auntie Gravity lives there.

Winded

Third or fourth wind,
I think.
Pissed at the life sedimentary.
A change is as good as a rest.
Round and round the mulberry bush.
Hah. And I see that my old cat
knows he’s bony now.
He challenges the thin air,
and slingshots himself
into the five yard dash.
Then, saunters to his hairy bed.
All humdrum and glum.
I’m thinking we are partners
in the big sad,
and he knows he can’t take care of me
no more.

Oh, what I wouldn’t do

My druthers would find me
in an unhurried floating
a neuronic plasm-
might it take a year?
no matter
it’s the thought that counts
‘crost an undefended border
dissolved in the melding of foreign airs
and with me-
injectable pharmaceuticals
with sad needles
saved for a job to be done
no drone
no watchful eye
no barbed wire
or canine snout
would detect this temporary ghost
that hovered over a house of white
Oh, what I wouldn’t do
what I wouldn’t do.

RMT

Often, in our sessions,
we trade stories, jokes.
You smile and say
it was the fastest hour you’ve had
in a while.
One day, I was awkwardly silent.
At the hour’s end,
I said sorry for not talking today.
And you said “don’t apologize”.
Then, as you left the room,
“Ever”.

Today your phone rang, mid-session.
I said answer it, but you refused,
saying you don’t do that while working.
You put on a brave face,
but I knew you were upset so I insisted.

You left the room and returned within two minutes,
your face red and eyes averted.
I said you need to go home. We are done here today.
You nodded in silence, and went to leave,
but turned around in tears,
telling me some very personal things about your life.

I was embarrassed for you, and, in my awkwardness,
I told you I would never say a thing to anyone.
When you left the room, I got ready to leave.
But you were gone.

This, after seven years of acquaintance.
Our next meeting may be a little uncomfortable.
But, then again, I think not.

Houses of the holy

‪Tired from rolling tires‬
‪uphill, but still…‬
‪Stunned by heart thump,‬
‪I’m sat flat, in the open garage,‬
‪on a summer chair,‬
‪watching chimney breaths‬
‪bellow and subside.‬
I’m thinking of all the real houses
fanned out in a matrix
on the slopes above me.
Their snowy rooves
with small ponds of molten black,
made by fickle bubbles of attic heat.
The houses, the rooves of snow,
and what floats above them.
And ah! What daydream!
One house is a piano house.
Children come and go there,
in clandestine cars,
to partake of the tuneful drug.
Their mother-teacher has piano teeth,
taut ham strings, and clockface glasses.
We met by accident.
She hit my car.
I keyed her piano.
We get along.

In sin

mmm…
In this late night I find,
as I lightly finger-fluff
her Brillo fur,
a reflexive drawing back,
then a recant.
I go more more slowly and lightly,
and find that my wrist is gripped and guided.
I feign resistance by hooking a thumb in the lint trap,
but she is not amused.