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.

Just a singer in a rock and roll band

We gathered that night, impromptu.
Music was rumoured,
by the bush, secluded.
There was a small fire, falling to embers.
Things brought were guitars, harps, a fiddle, a beatbox,
and a voice or three.
Over the hum of the generator,
we plugged in and played.
In my given spot, I stayed.
Faces filtered in.
Some i knew-
there was shy Sandy, who asked if she could play-
twelve bar blues on her harp,
and she was transfigured.
We were joyful, and egged her on.
A man who was eighty came into the glow with his fiddle,
etched into the night’s tableau.
A fellowship, more than fleeting.
We who played and sang
smiled brightly at one another, with a knowing.
What can one love, more than this?

The Self

Often thinks about the ending.
Impoverished soul. Why so?
Brain sees itself as a walnut.
Exactly that size and that texture.
Ripe now, and dried.
if opened, you’d find
compartments still true to the model.
One or two infected with mould,
causing cross-wired circuits
and blameless mistakes (it thinks).
But the black box is still intact,
the pilot still in charge.
Holding tightly, with left arm,
the Artist.
All else matters not,
but a true imitation’s a must.

Image credit to:  http://www.drsyrasderksen.com/blog/seeing-narcissism-in-the-brain#sthash.DPwSw5vl.dpbs

 

Tenuous

I’ve started seeing faces
in the most unlikely things.
At random times and places
these thoughts, upon their wings
demand my close inspection,
their weirding eyes aglow;
their dark’ning introspection
like pee holes in the snow.

Upon my popcorn ceiling
at first, I count the stars.
Their constellations reeling-
There’s Jupiter and Mars!
But soon, they’re coalescing
The stew is boiling down
The planets effervescing
It brings to me a frown

The overture delightful
Is closed, and then a curtain
Opens on a scene that’s frightful
Disturbingly uncertain

The faces form but once again
Their gazes schizophrenic
My Google search shows one refrain-
I must be Apophenic.

Just lucky, I guess

When I think about the sometimes humdrum nature of our small town, I must also remember its blessings.

In the 30 years that I have lived here, we have never had a flood, a forest fire, an earthquake,  or a tornado (some have come close).  Serious crime is almost non-existent, and I have never heard of a gun-related incident.  The most dangerous animals we come across are raccoons, skunks, and the occasional coyote.  If we want to visit a cosmopolitan centre, we are an hour and a half drive from Canada’s largest city.

Our weather extremes range from about -36.5º to 35.5º (Celsius).  I can personally attest to the fact that we have had snowfall for eight months out of the year.  In our worst winters, roads have been nearly impassable.  During these times, our local arena has been used as a shelter for stranded travelers.  Many people also offer out spare rooms in their homes in the worst of the storms.

Traffic is getting difficult at times as our population grows, and we are in some respects a bedroom community for some of the larger centres.  Some complain about inadequate facilities, and the need to go out of town for better health care, shopping, etc., but these things are only 20 minutes away.  As we grow, the town will attract what it needs.

I have sometimes thought of us as hobbits of the Shire, blissfully unaware of what goes on outside of our boundaries.  Perhaps at times thinking that life is a little humdrum, and some “adventure” would be a pleasant change.  But then I put my feet up, enjoy my morning coffee, smell the clean air, and think “just lucky, I guess”.

 

A Cuckoo clock Christmas

I brought you a present
‘Twas an old cuckoo clock
From a second-hand store in the city

On its top was a pheasant
And it said “Tick-a-Tock”
So I thought you would think it looked pretty

It had pendants and chimes,
An old man and his wife
That hourly came to do chores

They would go through their mimes
As if that was their life
And I smilingly thought “Mine and Yours”

She would churn up the butter,
He’d be chopping the wood
‘Twas a wonder they both had the breath

And the pheasant would stutter
“Tick-a-Tock”, as it would
While they worked themselves half to their death

You and I, in our lives,
Have been like those two peasants
Reliably being on time

Now the day, it arrives,
That is meant to give presents,
And so I have spent my last dime.

Homeward I travel
Just thinking of you
But there’s only a handwritten note

I try to unravel
To find but a clue
In the words that you hastily wrote

There was no premonition
‘Nor change in condition
To explain why you’d broken your vow

A clockwork cuckoo
And a dusty brown shoe
Are all I have left of you now

Are my feet off the ground?

With an inkling of joy & brightness, I’ve experienced what seem to me to be the figurative visitations of angels.  Chance encounters, while out in the marketplace or pumping gas, where a person with an almost visible soul would happen to look my way and smile brightly.  That small gesture has brought forth from within me the best I have to offer, and, out of my tired and sad eyes, I try to return the same.

This has happened many times within my last ten years, and always with a different person.

Once, on one of the very worst days of my life, something passed through me and made lighter the burdens of my mind.  Again, a visitation of sorts.  It did not involve a person, but still I had the distinct feeling that someone was telling me to be of good cheer, for this will pass.

There was an afterglow from this that lasted, and the foretelling was, of course, true.

It’s said that the soul wanders during the dream state.  Some dreams, for me, have involved feelings of being lost or directionless.  Others have encompassed a bottomless loneliness.  One was a bright and lucid dream, in which a cherished Other looked with warmth into my own soul and physically held me.  I woke up crying.

Then there are the ones centered  around the magical ability to fly or levitate.  There was a memorable episode where I was attending an important cocktail party in a palatial mansion.  We were all dressed formally.  I felt ridiculously out of place, like a Mr. Bean in a tux.  I then did my dream-thing and began to levitate, swimming horizontally through the rooms with a grin on my face.  Seemingly, no one noticed, and this irked me.  So, I slowed down, waved, and tried to make eye contact, all the while shouting “ARE MY FEET OFF THE GROUND?”  Figure that one out.  I should tell my psychologist about these things.

 

The bad trip

Today, we are shopping.
I have been well for a long while now.
It was planned.
I am with you both, my dear ones.
But, since awakening, two cups of coffee ago,
I am thrown back to blocked feelings of desperation.
We are in a milieu of throngs.
I seek equilibrium.
There are smiles of kindness.
I meekly try for the same.
Some hold doors for us.
But some give snotty stares if we stop too long.
You sense disquiet in me.
As I grapple, and strive for the least embarrassment,
your own self assurance is melting down.
You require of me simple things.
Which color should I buy?
Where do you want to go for lunch?
My robotic answers and failure to smile
reflect poorly upon me.
I am selfish.
I cannot rise above it.
Please, just lead.
I will follow.