When old imaginings
rise to their seasons
A slam of thirteen spades
Warm milk and molasses
Stop the rush
Drop the day
Believe this religion
Thank the artist, and
feel the velvet of self.
Category Archives: spiritual
How to be insensitive
The held back tears
of a smarting sting.
The shame overheard
in a chance eavesdrop
(that slow knife, rusting in place
and broken off at the handle).
The social dread,
the uttered stutter.
Where do we put such medals?
Because
they’re not becoming of a man.
It brings on many changes…
Hell’s voodoo.
It’s pricked our doppelgängers.
And, with a squirm,
we’ll taste the fruits
of our continents of secrets.
We’ll stare, in prurience:
The men from the boys,
the women from the girls,
the free sinners from
the chained saints.
The Vice,
The Versa.
Tremble
Does it rush at you,
too quickly and sinister,
as if lying in wait for a wakening?
You had a fondness for a thing
ambered now,
in its beauteous fade.
What’s left for us,
after such withdrawal,
stewed, now, in the certainty of worry?
Chastened in the land of hurry.
The slow burn
i am one with hands
hang they like meats today
grab one that’s numb
work it up and down
hold it by the thumb
gelatinous with bones
the slow burning of hope
has reached there at last
but its heat doesn’t warm
at all
In the gloaming
And Lord,
if my spirit returns,
let it be in feather, fur, or fin-
your creations in the wilding,
whose years seem short to us
but are unburdened with evil thoughts,
and care not for the praise of others
They look to live a life
always in the now,
having scant worry for the future
and none of the past’s regrets.
And when the weathers are fair,
they are so free,
and knowing naught of care
they look to Thee.
***
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.
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.
Aremyfeetofftheground 