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.

Oracle


Being of the foolish persuasion, I consulted
the Great Oracle Of God’s Lexicon and Encyclopaedia.
And, with tickling anticipation, I typed in my name.
Seven short letters, three space four.
I’m Feeling Lucky.  Bingo.
There’s my smilin’ face.
Hey, wait just a minute.
There’s no webcam on this dusty old desktop.
Where’d you get that picture, Goo Goo Google?
Wait just another cotton pickin’ minute.
There’s my bag of chips and my Tuesday shirt.
I’m lookin’ perplexed.
What the?

The picture winks.
Woah.  Shouldn’t have had those brownies at that party last night.

There’s a link to click on.
It’s a .PDF file
Lee.Org.Net.Com.CLICK HERE, you boob.

It loads in a flash, ’cause I just got the handy dandy
ultimate high speed money funneling Internet.

In stylistic bold, the heading says
THESE ARE THE DAYS OF YOUR LIFE
In the upper right,
page one of 24,520

Imagine my surprise.
Haha (nervous laugh).
Must be a mistake, eh?
CHAPTER ONE- BABY DAZE

I peruse in a flurry,
then scroll in a greater flurry.
Random stops, then Holy Cow.
These are not just events.
They are told
in the penmanship of my mind.

Like a lazy reader
who wants to skip to the climax,
I go to page 24,520.
The last paragraph shows me typing this,
and now I look even more perplexed.
What’s the significance of this number?

In the bottom right corner of the screen
guess what?  There’s another little link.
FOR FURTHER CHAPTERS, CLICK HERE.
Of course, I do.  Who wouldn’t?
It wants my credit card, bank info, every password I have ever thought up.
By this time, I am sucked in but good and I don’t care.
There you go, googly googly.

But the joke was on me.
THESE ARE NOT YET AVAILABLE.
THERE ARE APPROXIMATELY 4,675 PAGES IN THIS FILE.
ONE FOR EACH DAY OF YOUR REMAINING TIME.

Good.  Now I can make plans.

Long Ride Home

I love this very feeling poem by MK Vecchitto.

mkvecchitto's avatarWriting and Reflections

20180603_131225.jpg

Some people long for blooming darkness
velvet blackness where the lonely seek
cover with the eyes of a discarded doll
even as spirits commune
to hear each teardrop
as it falls

Some people long for endless accolades
syrupy sweetness encased in lyrics that lie
to invent personas which claim there is more
than meets the eye
even as spirits commune
to compose writings that
speak the truth

Some people long for a day that is enough
a long ride home just to enjoy the view
a walk in the sunshine to celebrate sacred earth
refusing to move from pillar to post without intention
recusing the dictates of societal norms
to linger on moments that matter
even as spirits commune
to sing songs
of joy

photo: mine
prompts: Go Dog Go Cafe, The Sunday Whirl, Lyric Ideas, #DarkLines

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Itself

Kid Little thought toys would do it.
At fifteen, a Bad Influence showed him Playboy.
He thought that would do it.
He turned 21 on the day the drinking age changed to 19.
He thought booze would do it.
It only made him sick.
He saw guys with pickup trucks full of empties,
belligerent in line, smelling of swill.
An ill-placed road sign, just before the beer store,
said Dead End.
Then his friends, even his brother,
became the Jokers, the Smokers, the midnight Tokers.
He went along. He thought that might do it.
Until the day he found himself under a spreading chestnut tree,
out of his wits.
To the Church he looked, and thought
This Must Do It. But.
Too many false prophets and hypocrites there were.
On this sunset day, this time of now,
the old man sways, crestfallen, in his chestnut rocker.
Marking time.
This will do it.

on the outside, looking in

Somehow
the wrongness is taking hold once more,
thumbing its snotty nose at bright inclusion.
It hugs,
with a constrictor’s singleness of purpose.
I see the willows in the warm June breeze.
I know this is beautiful.
You have told me.
I have seen,
on the other side.
But now I look, through a glass, darkly.
I press upon the clear walls.
The seed diabolic grows again,
its stinkflower my silent sidekick.
Come to me. Come to me now.

The eyes have it

I met her some years ago in Group.  She was young, quite silent and withdrawn.  Most of the time, you couldn’t see her face.  She had a heavy head of hair, and its arrangement served to conceal one eye, with the other usually looking down at the table.  She was uncomfortable when speaking, and her answers were always short and direct.  Questions like “tell us about yourself” bothered her the most.  More than once she cried some in the sessions, and was absent for a couple of them.  After a time, I found that I was focusing on her feelings and was perhaps not paying enough attention to the dynamics around the table.  I felt that this was not the right environment for her, but I was ignorant of her circumstances, and of what other treatment she had had, if any.  I approached our psychologist and tried to ask her about the girl, but she cited confidentiality, and I had to respect that.

I have written about this before, and mentioned that I did see the girl (Nancy) some two years later.  It was at her workplace.  She had changed very much, and seemed to have overcome her withdrawn nature.  Indeed, she was a shift manager in the restaurant that I frequented.  I sat down with my coffee, and watched as she guided the crew confidently while serving many of the customers herself.  She happened to glance my way, and there was some recognition between us, just for a second.  Strangely, she bowed her head slightly, reminding me of her former self, then quickly went about her business.

On a subsequent visit, I spoke to her and asked if she remembered me.  She said yes, and gave a little smile.  I noticed that she had bad teeth in the front, then immediately regretted it.  On other occasions, she spoke a little more,  but had the peculiar habit of pulling her upper lip down, almost as if she was about to whistle.  I felt her shame, and was all the more embarrassed for it.

So, Nancy has been successful, and I think courageous, in being able to function in the world.  I do not know her story, and would never ask.  She seldom looks directly at anyone, or so I think.  She has peculiar eyes though, that are no longer hidden by her hair.  In my imagination, it is as if she is wearing opaque contact lenses, cleverly painted to resemble the real thing.  Behind these blinds, the old Nancy watches as the new one gets on in the world.

Tea granny

She lost him last year.
Seventy one he was.
In their decades,
he brought her tea to her chair,
two, three, four times a night.
“Are you bottomless?” he would say.
She would smile,
because she knew he would bring it anyway.

Yard sales were their favourite haunt,
and he would always pick up some foolish trinket
to add to her dusty collection.
She would feign annoyance,
but would have him build another shelf when needed.

They were good together, and their money was enough.
But no more-
behind in the rent,
she was turned out of their neat little apartment.
Welfare led her to this forlorn hallway
with a door that would not lock,
a peephole without a peeper,
a one-person kitchen,
a hotplate, and a rollaway bed.
Cracked walls and peeling paper.

Her collection? Thrown away in tears,
except the one thing he had bought her
that she never had put on display:
a dainty painted teapot you could plug in
as a night light.

Tonight, she does that,
just above her old kettle and once-white cup.
It dispels the greyness.
She remembers him, and she cries.

No plans

I say “why are you buying five shaving cream?”
She says because it’s on sale.
It somehow bothers me.
The shampoo bottle with the clear plastic
in the shower
is like an hour                  glass.
A friend sends an email
come to my cottage for a week in July
For two days, I don’t respond.
What do you say to such a kind and generous invitation,
except yes, thank you, I will.
We are moving.
Trying to pack up the house, deal with contractors,
fix it up, clean it up.
Each day grows a little more listless.
She, who once was adamant to stay and hang on,
now is imbued with energy to get this behind us.
Looking to the unknown future.

But, falling.
Yes I am falling.
And she keeps calling
me back again.

All in a night’s work

In late March, a few springs ago, at the hour of 11 p.m., I was three quarters of the way to work (a 45 minute drive).  It had been freezing rain for a bit when I left home, and, as I got further north, it intensified to the point that driving was becoming pretty hazardous. I was sliding and fishtailing on the paved road, and my remarkable powers of reason told me it might be a good idea to get onto one of the dirt sideroads instead, thinking that there would be more traction.  Bad choice.

After a couple of minutes, I was going down a steep grade just as slippery as the pavement.  My first impulse to put on the brakes was about the worst thing I could have done.  My van began to drift sidewise, and, after a period of panic steering, I hit the ditch and rolled over.  They say that time slows down when you are in extremis.  I can testify to that, in a way, as I clearly remember individual weeds and small bushes imprinting their images in my mind as I gave up control and spun at the mercy of chance.

Mercy indeed was given to me.  I had rolled onto my roof, breaking the windshield and side windows, but, thankfully, the vehicle settled back down on its side.  The first thought, of course, is to get the hell out as quickly as possible.  I hadn’t suffered any injury, and I remember climbing towards the passenger window, rolling it down, and finally extricating myself.  At that point, I felt pain in my leg, but I think it was only a pulled muscle from the unconscious effort of bracing myself, then having to do the climbing out.

In a state of shock I must have been, because I do remember doing an odd thing:  walking through the knee deep snow, trying to gather up some of my personal possessions that had been ejected from the van:  a jug of windshield washer, some cassette tapes and CDs, my hat.

That is how a married couple found me some time later.  Wandering along the roadside with an armful of stuff.  They had seen the vertically stacked headlights and the steam coming from the engine.  They drove me to the nearest phone booth (no cellphones then) so I could call the Police, who then arrived and took control of matters.  One of the two officers  was of a mind to charge me with careless driving and leaving the scene of an accident.  The other simmered him down and called a tow truck for me.  They offered to take me to hospital to get checked out, but I assured them I was okay.  They returned to the scene of the wreck, but would not venture down the hill.  We waited an hour for the tow truck, and they bid me adieu, after doing their report.

My van was slowly winched onto their flatbed truck, and I was heading back home.  We stopped at a phone booth and I called my wife and my work.  By this time it was about 1:30 in the morning.  We made it home by about 2:30, and they took my van away to their yard.  I opened my front door to a hug from my wife, and a crying ten year old daughter.  My son had slept through the whole ordeal.