Category Archives: thoughts

My Man

hunch up those shoulders
carry that hollow barrel chest
on spindly trembling legs
practice your ghostly motions
stare obscenely out of eyes like yellowed olives
your gates are closed for good
and i stand
holding you up
listening to disconnected mutter
while you piss black tar
dribbling onto the floor
and you say “I’m sorry”
my man
oh my man
there’s a hole in my heart.

Silver bells

And the man said
“Well, it’s time to clear the driveway now.”

And Heart said
“I will go along.”

And the man said
“Let’s grab that big plastic scoop.
It runs like a sleigh, and carries a lot.”

And Hands said
“Don’t knuckle under”

And Knees said
“Don’t buckle under”

And the man said, breathing hard,
“It is good to be out here.
Even with the cold. Even with the work.
It makes me feel, you know, somehow worthy.
It will be good for someone.”

And Coyote said
“Yes.”

And Heart said
“Take a break.”

And Lungs said
“Yes.”

Now Bob (the cat) had been playing
under the Christmas tree,
and was covered in ribbons and bells and needles,
and, before you knew it, had run clean out the back door.

And man, finally having finished, leaned upon his shovel
to survey the smoothness of his work.
And Coyote woo wooed his approval,
and the bells on Bob’s tail rang.

And Brain, well SHE said
“The tea is ready, sweetheart. Bedtime soon. Bob will be back.”

***

Image from Pinterest

if I had a field

If I had a field,
I would not ask for much.
Just so by so by so…

Fences, side on each,
but not contrived.
Along the ell of the dusty path,
evergreens tall and dense.
Shelter for scared drivers in winter’s wrath.
At right angles to the pines,
a long long hedge of beech,
kept in tender trim.

At true north, a vine clad wood,
ivy underfoot and climbing high.
Predators and prey.
Sharp eyed owls,
ravens plotting.
Rising scent of pan sized mushrooms for my plate.
Barbed wire long buried.
Good neighbors that way.

The east wall would not be a wall,
but a salamanders’ creek.
Hinted at, (to one approaching, eyes shaded with a long hand)
by a stand of bulrush and devil’s paintbrush.
Summer’s breed of bugs, food for the lizard-like,
messengers to the flowers of fire.

Walk would I, only,
in this sleepy time of life.
Nothing would I take,
save the proffered mushrooms,
filling my canvas bag.
Or, on a day, perhaps a wild turkey
from the bold and black flock.

And, when I die,
please,
do not burn me up.
Put me, rather, in a canvas sling.
Even an old tent, fallen into disuse.
Prepare my place by the bulrush bank.
Put me in, close, so close, to my Earth.

Bring with you a seedling of mountain ash,
for my field has none.
At the close of day, plant it well, if you can.
This, my marker, will show out where I lie,
and what I loved.

(Image: Pixabay)

Gifts of today

 

 

 

In yard-high drifts,
the small chittering tracks of a resident rabbit,
filling in  quickly with the blowing snow.
I follow, stupidly bootless,
right around the house
until I see where it shelters.
Our spreading birch, in this blizzard,
shows out as a sketchy charcoal drawing,
and our miserable cat stares out
from the orangey warmth of the living room.
I plod up to the glass door, open it,
and ask my wife for carrots and lettuce.
Are you hungry?…she says.

a failure of foresight

Don’t kill yourself, (they said),
when he went out to do the walkway
in the dark.
One upstairs, with Netflix on the headphones.
The other snoring in her pillow chair.
Most of the neighbourhood in for the night.
The odd car, trucking bags of groceries
or kids to piano lessons.
So no one found him, behind the boxwood hedge,
until the movie credits rolled
and the sleeper woke with an itchy premonition.

Child of grace

Just this morning, Clarice went to coma. In hallways of cottony grey she swims, but not aimlessly. She has shed the displeasures of the flesh, and does not feel, as they slide the needles and tubes into it and make the lungs rise and fall. Only hears, in a fast fade, the pops and clicks and hisses. She knows there will be no visitors for a time.

So small now, with lightness, this sprite of being.
The singularity awaits, the neutron star that holds the knowing. She can touch it, she senses, but waits for divine invitation. In her life of walking, she has been shown but parts of its great story and, in those moments, her friends and kin have turned away and left her in quietness.

And soon, we know now, Clarice will return, and fill the languishing body with a spirit of soft fire. The quietness will stay in her person, and grace will shine. If you are the one to whom she turns her eyes, beware, for she may ask you to walk for a while.

Apartment for rent

Erica has her own key
to her own apartment,
on the strength of a job letter.
No more nightly pay,
unwanted bottles,
fancy but fouled dresses.
She sits in the arbourite kitchen
with a half jar of instant
and ten cigarettes.
As a spotted pigeon taps the window,
Erica takes stock.
Of unfinished school,
desperate and frustrated parents,
bad associations.
This donkey’s education.
Soured to life, in the age of exuberance.
Phantom Facebook friends.
It’s so silent in here, she thinks,
and walks, perplexed, to the window
with a finger full of peanut butter.
Bird must be hungry,
’cause it pecks like a jackhammer
and hurts her finger.
She draws back in fright.  It flies away in fright.
What now?  She thinks.  Not a soul, not a soul do I have.
An apartment she has.
And an apartness.  A leper’s loneliness, tonight.

 

Shaman dishonour

remember,
as you swell.
you’re only a man.
your fool’s cunning tells you
that we are littler.
you’ve been down the dark alleys
and have seen the envious,
the intolerant,
the self-righteous,
the quick to anger.
you know the words,
the inflections,
the dismissive gestures
that will bring that flock to heel.
to rally under the banner
of a standard bearer without the torch.

You’ve set the bar so low.

The world sees.

For sad old earth must borrow its mirth

got good at hiding it,
you think.
but, someone will see you,
and they’ll know.
the things you do
that are just a bit, um,
abby normal.
the way you let your lips get dry
then bite on that thin strip of skin.
pull it off.
taste the bitter blood.
encourage that wonky hangnail.
wait for the right moment to yank.
do the red watercolours
somewhere inconspicuous.
let your pain matriculate,
bone deep.
tell no one of this atonement.
connoisseur of cultivated anguish.