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 singular invasion

In the tumble-dry furnace of Nevada afternoon, a snoop escapes notice.
This impostor, a perfect artifice of thought and design, drifts (seemingly) in congress with its confrères, deployed seeds of the dandelion delicate.  Fluffy copters of the air currents.  Through chain link warnings, as good as a ghost.  This tiny spiny cousin to the drone. Cheating the clever camouflage, its flight is sure.  Into penny sized vents it is guided and, when needed, waits for a chance entrance.  Soon now, soon, thinks a white- haired man in Ecuador.  The Great and Secret Show will be known.

I wore a Woodpecker

as I was sipping Sleepy Tea
A little birdie came to me
And settled down upon my very head

It was a sight, all blue and white
It seemed to grin, the little sprite
Its crowning crest was fire engine red

I tried to catch it with my eye
But it was slippery and sly
And made its home the wrong side of my neck

Its Velcro feet were pretty neat
And when I looked, our eyes would meet
It stuttered “Nighty Night”, and gave a peck

Now, I was wanting for my bed
A chance to lay my weary head
To hum a lullaby, perchance to dream

But it just gave a crazy trill
And started in to peck and drill
And me, I tried to grab it, with a scream

It fluttered with its stuttered cry
And floated like a butterfly
And all at once it pecked me on my nose

Then finally it flew away
And, at the fading of the day
I slipped into a deeply deeply doze

I woke too soon, not feeling good
With achy breaky head of wood
And sawdust shavings all about my pillow

I cursed his name, and little game
The mighty mite I couldn’t tame
And blubbered like a weepy weepy willow.

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