She had a mouth like Groot.
(carry on, I said to myself)
Red catfish lips and smeared makeup.
(was she 60? 70?)
Rouged cheekbones,
bright bohemian garb,
and ballerina slippers.
A standout on the Walmart mile.
And her drunkard’s walk?
An impromptu dance to make me smile.
Category Archives: poetry
Inside
Someone I knew was afraid of apes,
orangutans, monkeys, gorillas,
even on the TV.
Someone else ran from snakes, bees, cats
and I thought myself brave for not flinching.
But my worst fear squirms like a toad,
breathing a giggle that none can hear.
IT’S A TRAP!
Hah!
Squeak now, smelly one!
Study me,
damn me,
with your hatpin eye.
Not much can you say.
Not much can you hear
with your velvet ear.
We don’t need to “raise the bar” for YOU, do we?
As you lie in your hard bed,
your crucifixion’s a warning-
IT’S A TRAP!
Ember month
Sundown at Nipissing’s shoreline,
and the big lake begins its freeze.
The soft fire of November’s embers
pleases the eye, but can’t warm us.
I stand in the cold cold sand
that waits for winter’s cover,
and think of unimportant things:
that there will be no more drifting things,
maybe until June.
And, where do all of those greedy gulls go
when the freezing squalls begin?
And, another question, for old Dad:
You sure liked your hot mashed potatoes
with that half stick of butter,
table cream,
salt & pepper.
Why can’t we eat what we like, Dad?
Without dying, I mean.
I just can’t…
no more.
A life, unspoken
I travel on the sidewalk Slow.
Farewell to skipping stairs.
The certainties I used to know
now catch me unawares.
I never had the youngbloods’ grin
or confidence to spare.
At times, I took it on the chin,
and found it hard to bear.
At night, of late, instead of sleep,
I dawdle in the shower
and pray the Lord my soul to keep
until its finest hour.
By the sea
Clarice sees the Sea,
breathes its dreams,
soaks in its mists
by a foggy rock.
When all the world’s compasses
begin to list to her true north,
Clarice will speak in tongues,
and name the Suns, in legion.
Glory will be to the one who is not named,
and who was the maker of her mind.
Planters wart
Johnny-come-lately,
I plant bulbs stupidly
in the cooling earth
under powder of snow
with a straight spade
I dig up cake-flaps of sod
I disregard directions
and just drop them in,
the oniony things.
This blasted blizzard.
I drop to one knee,
hard of breathing,
hit by BB’s of ice
a longing
gimme that potato salad
with the mustard sauce and the bacon
those fried mushrooms with the smell rising
mind my big nose
pressed flatly against foggy glass
approve my flirtatious hands
as they make fake feetprints
for amusement, in lieu of art, on grey glass
in threenight, i will be at this same tall door
and, when i draw my nails down its frozen frame,
white cakes of frost will bunch up,
and i can eat them and smile
just like a kid
The doubtful King
Sober Second Thought’s
buckled down, still,
on his moldering throne.
Wand waving,
face saving,
keeping the faith.
Watching, with detachment,
nervous amusement,
and what’s close to despair,
as things begin to twitch
and soulless eyes
begin their backward roll.
Moth
Wingbeats drum my thin window
The moth is frantic for the feeble light
Powder prints on the glass
shown out as mica glitter
And i am reminded of bird hits
and premature burials
These things, innocent and pure,
do not have duplicity.
Only nature.
My desklamp, a false guide.
My window, invisible.
These i must remedy.
Aremyfeetofftheground 