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.

A bad day

I’m a blue man he says to me,
speaking to the ceiling.
I pull my chair closer to his bed,
cupping his cold hand.
His swollen face lolls in my direction,
eyes like a slot machine.
I’m locked in the freezer. Get the keys!
I hang my head, squeezing his hand harder.
Why don’t you answer?
God damn (I think). God damn. Please.
Here. Are you cold? Let me get another blanket.
(I hear a noise from the hall. A cart clatters by. A door slams.)
Bang, bang, bang. Three distinct bangs.
Are you warmer now?
(The slots have stopped on Two Spades)
Ah haaaa. Ah haaaa.
Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. Let him go soon.
When it’s my time, let it be a heart attack.

Sensitivity

Light, bright white,

Radiates into the mirror of the eye.

Sound, in myriad, pummels the drum of the ear.

(Tautly, as a balloon skin stretched)

Whorls in the fingerskin

Brush blue velvet, blade of grass, jagged glass, ember’s ash.

The airs molecular, drawn in so vitally,

Invade memory, codifying the now and the forever.

Messengers of essence.

The tongue, tasting first of milk,

Ravens ever after for all in the Earth.

Alive.

Alive, Oh!

The getaway

as a freshening teenage boy
just shy of sixteen years
foisted from a battle-scarred home
into this supposed school of highness

he is already in retreat
from vitriolic violence
from love that has gone
from hormonal eruptions
from the Bullies Three

the ostracization of the ostrich

he builds his defences
hands upon hands upon hands
he pushes away, and keeps all

at arm’s length.

Walkabout

Minus twenty two last morning.
No wind, praise be.
In my puffed up coat,
with Red Baron hat and goggles,
looking, perhaps, like the Michelin Man,
I get smiles and double takes.
Walking rapidly to get it over,
it is still thirty minutes in the sub zero.
But, there are things to see and hear
if you let them have their effect.
Two little ones trying to build a snowman.
They are frustrated, one berating the other-
we need a bigger ball than that!
I smilingly tell them it’s too cold, the snow is powder,
Go inside and warm up!
Then I pass a house from which comes loud voices-
a man and woman yelling and cursing each other-
I don’t give a…….
You’re an ass……
Further along, the Police have someone stopped,
and they are searching his car.
Around the bend, the joyful boisterous voices
of kids sliding down a big hill of pure snow, dumped by the town.
I look back.  I look back.
God, it’s cold.
Even my guaranteed Arctic mitts aren’t helping much,
and I imagine X-Rays of finger bones, glowing pale blue.
The sliding kids catch sight of me.
Hey Jimmy, look!  It’s the Scarecrow!
Hah. You funny.  I smile anyway.
I notice that the neighbor’s huge RV is finally gone.
Floating down to Florida they are.
Hah. Snowbirds.  Bah, humbug.
Now, I am looking forward to a hot hot bath.
Salts of Epsom.  Cuppa cuppa coffee.
I round the last corner, there’s my house.
A stranger is hitchhiking near my driveway.
He carries a wee dog, both looking half frozen.
Where are you going? (Fifteen minutes down the road)
I get the car out and take him.
He says nothing, just keeps sniffing his running nose.
The little dog keens a little, but also says nothing.
He shows me where, and I stop.
It must be the last leg of his trip.
I say bye and good luck.  He says nothing…..okay.
The storm has started, and I relish even more that hot hot bath.
Through the whiteouts, I am home.
But no, a stalled truck blocks the driveway.
I turn around and park in the Public Works Yard up the street.
Not far now.  Geez.  Almost snowblind.
I am taking those Arctic mitts back to the store.
Fifty bucks is fifty bucks, and yes I am a complainer.
Blessedly, I get inside, strip off the layers, sigh with relief.
Run that bath.
Something other than the cuppa coffee occurs to me.
Before taking the plunge, I bring with me
The last two Heinekens from the fridge.
Gosh, retirement is good today.

Next morning, I spy the Town about to tow my car.
I run out in my pajamas.  It doesn’t end well.

In her cull

This….by Candice Louisa Daquin at The Feathered Sleep
https://thefeatheredsleepcom.wordpress.com

TheFeatheredSleep's avatarTheFeatheredSleep

Before

Who knew how to die?

That it wouldn’t be instantaneous

As children imagine

A sudden pain, then unconsciousness

Who knew?

Death could go on years

Building and slowing like cold sea water

Burning firework left to fizzle alone in inky sky

That it would wind and unwind, a mad clock void of correct motion

Who knew?

It could take the very young, wrap them in wool, to cast down wet hill

The jarring and bumping eventual colission held at bay

Till forgotten

That it could take you

Suspend you from me and all familiar things

Where the recognition in your once clear and beautiful eyes

Became muddied and clouded with quiet violence

Your touch so soft, stolen and replaced with flinty brush off

Who knew

The courage of fighters

Seathing against their sentence and eventual

Chop chop of parts, scars and marred

Skin once free of blade

A scratch…

View original post 348 more words

Caturday

When you’re home alone, and you don’t think about closing the bathroom door, it is one of the absolute certainties in life that you will hear a little thump on the living room floor, and a click click click, as the cat jumps down from his window perch, and pads along the hallway to come and stare at you while you’re sitting on the throne.  This is more important and entertaining to him than his usual pastime of licking his behind.

Someone wrote on Twitter the other day that if you get into a staring contest with a cat, and begin to wonder how intelligent it is, you can be assured that the cat is thinking the same thing about you.

We had an old tuxedo cat that lived to be about 18, and he was my infallible companion.  Followed me everywhere, and we somehow got into a game that was mutually fun.  He would lie down on the bed and eye me expectantly, knowing what was gonna happen next.  It started off with my lightly touching each of the pads on his four paws until he got pretty pissed off and grabbed me.  At the moment of the grab, I would toss him up in the air until he did a complete somersault.  He learned to enhance the thrill by going totally limp as soon as I grabbed him, so as to make it more graceful.  This went on for many years, until I buried him last year.  Cried like a baby.

Two of the surviving three (yes, three), seem to have wanted to train as his replacement, so I now have double the pleasure of being followed and pestered incessantly, and, yes, they are eager to learn the mattress games.  The third, who is the youngest and fattest, seems incapable of thinking about anything other than food.

cartcat2

 

Weedless Wednesday?

I weed with what I think is single-mindedness.  Bunched up towel under knobby knees.  Gloves of good leather for those damn nettles.  A healthy respect for the spiders and bees.  We’re getting on close to summer’s end, and we’re pushing for our house to sell.  My wife, you see, is getting a little more sick, but continues to soldier on at work.

We could sure use the money…she needs a long long rest.  I need the peace of mind.
Funny, you know….now that I’m out here with the bag and rake and gloves and all, I am beating myself up over this silly garden.  I never had paid it a lot of attention or put much effort into its care,  and now I am making it look nice for somebody else. 

It’s a lovely day out here, tempered by the busy street noises behind me- the engineered farting of motorcycle engines, cars with stereos so loud you can feel the sound waves through your liver.  Come on, folks.  Let’s just have the birdies instead.  Never mind, this old guy is gonna move, and you can carry on making your mark in the world. 

As I dig and kneel, the earthy scents rise to me and I think that this little pastime is really not so bad.  I am doing a bit of good in some tiny corner of the world.  Surely the bona fide plants appreciate my getting rid of the riffraff.  Even the spiders seem excited (or agitated) at the prospect of new craters in their landscape. 

But, the little lift this few minutes has given me is on a seesaw with thoughts more bleak:  the mauve of regret, the orange of anxiousness.  My nose runs a little.  A fly jets into my left ear, and I slap at it  involuntarily, producing a nasty ringing.  I stumble to my feet after the last offender is pulled out by its roots.  In for a cup of tea, we shall.  Rake up and bag the drying entrails, we shall.  Tomorrow.

Shaving the dead

Sorry.  Not a story for bed time.

Have been in the bad place for a few days now with depression.  There’s the cue for you to abort this reading, if you like……the picture is not of me, but of my phantom friend.

If you’re a kindred spirit, you might identify with some of these:

Sleep (fitfully) for ten or eleven hours
Waken for a bit, realize you need one more, then drift back.
Shuffle to kitchen for coffee, which clears the fog somewhat.
Eat some little thing (for “energy”, not appetite)
It does not work as promised.
Back into bed, this time with the door open.  Two cats join you.
You think “Shit, I can’t do this”, and force yourself into the bathroom for a shower.
Brush your teeth, a must.  You never skip this.  Not yet.
God damn, I really need to shave.  I look like shit.  But not today.  Tomorrow, I’ll do it.

I think of getting dressed, when the back story about shaving hits me.

The first person that I shaved, other than myself, was my father.  In his 70th year, he was dying of pancreatic cancer.  Before I go further, I will say that all of the caregivers I have met are worthy of high praise.  Nurses especially, for what they do, their long hours, and their continual need for more help.

Dad was always a stickler for his appearance, but once he started to decline, of course he could not take care of himself.  I asked a nurse one day if I could give him a shave.  She was apologetic that they hadn’t done it in a few days, and was appreciative of the help.  Looking at his jaundiced eyes without crying was difficult.  That was the last shave he ever got.

My younger brother, about whom I have already written, died in his home, where we had set up a hospital bed at his request.  I had stayed there for several nights, when his partner asked me if I could give him a shave.  The same eyes studied me with regret and tears.  I wonder if he knew who I was.

At last, my old father-in-law.  He lived far away, and we used to visit once every month or two.  He always made sure that he was presentable when he knew we were coming, and that included a shave.  There eventually came a time when he had lost the will and the strength to do it, and I once more got out the hot cloths and warmed up the shaving cream.  This third set of hopeless eyes was almost too much.

Now, I have given myself a figurative slap, and said “God dammit, you’re not there yet.  Do the fucking shave!”

Nobody’s going to catch me looking like hell, and staring out of those 8-ball eyes.
Selfish, maybe.  Running scared, maybe….but I would not want to inflict those moments on anyone who still loves me.