Poetry - 30 Words for Dust

30 words for dust is all he left me

Ashes, cinders, earth, powder

After he had sprayed his territory

Pulled out, dusted off and went

Sand on his boots and tracked across

Fragments of our life like grit

Beneath his feet and in-between his toes

Flakes fell all about me

Sooty grimy wisps

A marriage certificate expired

Before its lawful time

Take a walk, yeah you can

But once opened the door

The sand storm does not stop

Put your sleeve to your eyes

Bend you head real low

Taste the dust you leave

Poetry - I have little neuroses

I have little neuroses

That sit upon my knee

They act as if they hear

They act as if they see

They tap upon my leg bones

And whisper “Hee, hee, hee”

Pinching at my psyche

And giggling with glee

Their names are all forgotten

The labels all fell off

But one thing is for certain

I hear one if it coughs

I wish that they would go away

I wish that they would go now

Or settle down right quiet

To live a life of Tao

I wonder why they like me

I wonder why they stick

I wonder when they'll die
Wondering makes me sick

Some people keep them ever

Some people make them pets

I’d rather wear thick stockings

And wish them to forget

Poetry - Busted

I was sitting on the back porch, mid-July

Having a beer when a beetle bit me

Which caused me to depart, so to say

Into a trance where even the dead couldn’t wake me

So I played while I watched my body float

And the beetle whispered a whistle as it shrunk

And disappeared into my beer bottle bottom

Well I was stumped

Then I felt a slap on my butt stronger than death

(I had fallen off the porch at this point)

I rolled my 15 year old body over

And caught a wide glimpse of my mother

Poetry - I'm Afraid

I’m afraid

I don’t understand

It’s different

They’re different

My ideas whir

In concentric

Imperfect ellipses

Of logic

Maybe I’m afraid

Because I’m not stupid

Maybe I’m afraid

Because my God is too small

Self-importance

I bloating me

I don’t understand

I’m afraid

I’ve eaten the poison of society

I’ve cradled the babe of ancestry

Now is brave

Now is new

I’m afraid

Poetry - This is the end my Friend

This is the end my friend

This is as far as I can go

I have walked arm in arm

Down this lonely road

Now I must go back

Before the light fades

I need to find

My own way home

It’s been fun my friend

Our humour is the same

Wit for wit we match

Weariness makes me turn back

You helped me, yes

In turn I helped you

The scales have tipped

Leaving level them again

Walk ahead of me my friend

You will feel me travel behind you

And motion without me

Further, please, further ahead

You can’t see me now

But I am turning back

If you look back

You will become a pillar of salt

I take my leave

It has been a good journey

Half way – not bad

When I turn the sun will be at my back

Poetry - The window of the soul

The window of the soul

Is not an ancient stained glass window

With saints and angels and God

Eyes bug out of their sockets

As large as cow eyes

As black as dark brown

Everything fear causing leaps out

Rays of hate are as welcomed

As a village under siege

This window is dirty and gritty with grime

Someone smeared it using tattered rags

But since she was yet born she was unloved

Poetry - A carousel of children

Brilliant Buddha sits high above

Clutching his shiny coins

He snatched from his begging bowl

Surrounded by flowers yellow and red

A carousel of children

Sit on, stand next to

A dizzying ride of horses

White and yellow draped with jewelled saddles

One boy, one girl, one boy alone

Watch wistfully apart from the rest

Gaping mouths of intent dragons

Water red and pink splashes

Over their green u-shaped bodies

Rocking back and forth guarding knowledge

A huge portal stands calling out

“Come, come” there are dead flowers

And cigarette butts on the other side

And a taste of freedom

Gargoyle George perched on a chest

Surveys the room and is at the ready

The red horse head is gone

The one from the movie “The Godfather”

It lays in a bed next to a man

Who will wake up at 10 a.m.

Witches’ balls blue and red, round and not round

Hang in the air helping George

They suspend like errant soldiers

With one eye open for evil

China birds and butterflies

Light up when anyone comes near

To playfully tug on their tails

Blue and yellow and red around

256 songs float through the air

From morning ‘til eve - one day

Poetry - Hope

Hope hides sometimes and cannot be found

In childish game's chants

Hope is like a god or a goddess

To a weary neglected people

Hope stands tall and cannot be moved

It is impervious to praise

But it must be obeyed

Poetry - Cursed

Before she was born

A long boney finger

On a long boney arm

Pointed at her mother's stomach

Pronouncing a curse

She flipped inside her mother

Three times

She took her thumb from her mouth

And gave a piercing cry

That shook her conscience

Until it dissolved

As she grew she was clever

In the way a malefactor is clever

When she opened her mouth

Their was no sign from her voice

Or her body that each and every

Word was a lie

That invisible toggle switch

In her brain no longer existed

She learned quickly how to pit

People against other people

And how to play them in her desired positions

In her twisted chess game

When she met me

She no longer knew what the truth was

Or even could be

There was nothing to compare

What she thought, said, and did against

Except the conscience that wasn't there

If push came to shove

She had learned her craft well enough

That she could say and do good

But it took its toll

When she left me

She had burned all her bridges

And killed all the gatekeepers

Poetry - What Could I Trade for my Sight

What can I trade for my sight?

The man in the white coat stood standing

Crumpled notes from my pocket

Different numbers - fives, twenties, tens, then…

He wants a lot

I count in my head

I speak a total

He says “one lens”

I count again

My math is sound

He says “one lens”

And turns his back

This is meant to intimidate me

And enable me to produce more money

It doesn’t work, I look at my hands

My hands!

I take a step

And hold out my hand

My middle finger up

He can have that

He misunderstands

Looks indignant

Grabs my shoulder

Escorts me out

Poetry - Bump in my Ear

I have a bump in my ear

A little bump in my right ear
That’s left to you

My bump is special

I have had it for 23 days

And it hasn’t changed


I saw a doctor in Toronto

And she said

“You have a bump in your ear”
I said “I know”


I saw an acupuncturist in Mississauga

And she said
“You have a bump in your ear”
I said “I know”


Then I saw an old old man on a bus
“You have a bump in your ear

Any hair growing out of it?”

“No” I said

“Then you’re fine"

Poetry - Autumn

An old crippled leaf twisted bent and brown

See-saws through the crisp air

And reminds me that yellow apples wait to be picked

Soon pumpkins will be growing fat and orange in tangled fields

White pulled cotton wisps sink towards the ground

The pavement comes up and turns them into large wet spots

I see through the rain streaked front bay window

A damp grey squirrel is scampering into the crook of a dead tree

The fire needs stoking but still crackles and snaps glassy red

Two cats stretch out like mink pelts with their head near the hearth

Beef stew simmers in a cast iron pot on the stove while bread bakes inside

I smell the smoke. It is like a tonic and the food, the food of the gods

Poetry - Tannenbaum

Oh tannebaum standing straight

Guided by airway ropes of light

To the bouncy bobbles and the bright balls

Blue and red and glassy gold

Razor thin green paper strips

Wind around wire branches

Beckoning, begging to be more adorned

With whimsical plush mermaids

Perched on fish bowls of kissing fish

Blink. Blink blink. To jar the epileptic

In wild coloured strobes here and there

Seven feet tall if not an inch

Sterile, manufactured, evergreen

Evergreen until one day

It sits out in the summer sun

And then turns ever grey

Pressies. Pressies. Toppled or stacked

Sticky bows and tags undone

Pushed up under tannenbaum

Sharp corners and tearing santas

Reindeer prancing ‘round box bends

Soon, very soon I crawl all of four years

On padded knees and reach and reach

Looking for a treasure – a silver bow

Some golden ribbon – is it mine?

Too bad I can’t read yet

Poetry - My History is Lost

My history is lost

A word went out and syllables fell apart

The intonation went flat

The meaning crumbled

And the light dust settled upon dung

My voice has fallen silent

There is no need to speak

My daughter and her daughter do not understand

Simple words and gestures

Draw blank and baffled stares

My eyes can no longer see my people

They wave, they cry, they laugh

I cannot make them out clearly

Gauze is over my eyes

And I cannot sketch them that quickly

My heart only beats and has ceased to hear

I strain and there is love but no words

The ancestors love me and I cannot remember their names

I perform all of our rituals and sacrifices

Yet my mothers and fathers are stone

Poetry - Irises Falling

Splintered eyes, shards of blue and green

Irises falling

Black pupil pieces pulsated on the linoleum floor

Faded pink patterns of flowers

Bordered by dirty gold squares

Flecks scattered into cracks and wispy dust strands

White balls crashed like works of blown glass

Powder cascading through stale air

Dusting the Formica table, the turquoise chrome chairs

Floating on the forgotten coffee scum

In the small corelle mug

Landing in the cat’s dish half full of kibble

Low light came from the left

Through musty dusty kitchen sheers

It played devilishly everywhere

Lighting on air borne debris

On the ceiling, on the wall

It bounced off the appliances

But there was no seeing

Poetry - Slither and Slither

Slither and slither

Why such a dither?

You’ve worked up a lather

Rather lie on you side and sleep

Twirling and twirling

Dizzy from whirling

You’ve worked up a sweat

Bet you’d rather sit down

Waddle and waddle

All day you dawdle

You’ve worked up a fright

Might you fall down

Poetry - Sliding Door

Sliding door, television screen

Mall windows, car windshields

Magnifying glass, picture glass

Camera lens

Point

Aim

Shot

Panic, fear, loathing

Palpitations

Sweat, shallow breathing

Fight or flight

Stay or sway

Avoidance

Walking sideways

Things overturned

Gazing downward

Watching spaces

Going around

Closing doors

All places are poison

Poetry - Janus the Pixie Elf

Perched on a knoll

Janus the pixie elf

Being male and all that

Mused outwardly

And sorrowed inwardly

His face bright to the sun

Smiled with mischief

As the corners of his mouth

Turned up in child-like delight

His face dark to the ground

Wearied under heavy secrets

As his brow crinkled with tears

Inconsolable and indelible

His face turned to the crowd

Beamed with resilience and hope

As his eyes twinkled blue

And his cheeks with wisdom glowed

Tumbling off the knoll

Janus the pixie elf

Being male and all that

Needed the love and care

Of a good woman…me

Poetry - Love is Like a Squeaky Lock

Love like a squeaky lock

Creaks rusty memories

Opens secret passions

Long past, long laid to rest

A stone skipped

On a long lake

Of stability and desire

Maturity and constancy

As proud as steeples

Hundreds of years old

Standing and kissing

The kind sky

Passion like an almond pit

Solid at the core

Grown from the beautiful

Blossom of youth

A pillow well worn

With sweet tears

Of comfort and satisfaction

Pleasure and ease

As sound as echoes

That always return

Stronger and slower

The mountain anchored

Poetry - My Words

Every word that tumbles out of my mouth, I own

Some words snap like arrows narrowly escaping a heart

Some are big fat seeds that take root and beauty is reflected in pools of gratitude

On the tip of my tongue is a praise

At the back of my throat is a growl

How a word falls into another’s ear into the labyrinth of understanding I cannot tell

Is it received as inappropriate or crude?

Is it received as weak or sweetly?

I make no apologies - for every word that tumbles out of my mouth, I own

I use my world to make my words

I use the words my mother taught me and the ones I have taught myself

It is me in my words

And if one dares to take the time to know me

He or she will know the secret of their intent

Are you new to my way of speaking

Or through the haze do I see an accepting old friend

Take away my words and I might become you

Or a prisoner trapped by walls of mores and norms

A puppet in your play looking through your eyes

Would you be happy with a puppet?

Puppets don’t think, puppets don’t use their own words

My words, my voice, my wild gesturing – I have a right to

You see, every word that tumbles out of my mouth, I own

Poetry - The decision

I ponder, I weigh, I write two columns

One – pro, the other – con

I muse, I project, I study

I weigh again until weighing from one hand to the other

Becomes heavy

And gesturing give way to voice



I speak to the air, I talk to the cat

I mumble under my breath

I discuss with my partner

He has many valuable things to say

　

Now I think, I mumble, I gesture and I pace

　

I’m doing something

Gliding from one end of the room to the other

Talking to the air



I decide

I don’t know how

And I don’t know what it means



Now I must act, I suppose

That’s what decisions are for

Should I do this?

Should I do that?



I’m weighing again

There are significant pros and cons

Only verbal ones get on the short list

There is wild gesturing and audible mumbling



I pace myself

And with deliberate measured steps

I walk towards the phone

Now I am walking and talking



I act

I pick up the receiver

One hand cradles it while the other touches the numbers

　

　

I listen

Ten short uniform tones

Silence for ½ a second

Ringing, ringing, ringing



I hold my breath and close my eyes

My heart lightly palpitates

My knees weaken

I am fully in action



A click and “Hello?”

I freeze just a little

“Hello Mom. This is Mary.”

“Who are you?” She questions with anger in her voice.

“I’m your daughter…”

Poetry - Alone for the Holidays

All alone with minor keys of country music

Washing the back draft of my sins

Pulling liquid from my heart they call blood

It’s the holidays again and I am alone

In this crowded room of intimate strangers

Not a mother, brother, cousin, or dog of mine

I sit with the music pounding now

Squished between bad smelling men

A toast. And wine bumps down my sleeve

Some long gone god is involved in this

Standing shoulder to other shoulder

The music belts out the best of the blues

I eat at the buffet from the finest chinette

Alone staring down at my food

None of it looks sanitary or savoury

But Elton reassures “This is you song”

Almost time to go

I open my pressies with disappointment

I squeeze my way past bodies to the host

I say something I memorized from a greeting card

Shuffling outside

I look for my car

Alone again for the holidays

Poetry - A consolation of buttertarts

A consolation of buttertarts

I think they group in trays of thirteen

Bakers like thirteen, no one else does

Is it Jesus and his disciples?

But why would that spook anyone?

Do people living on the fourteenth floor know it’s the thirteenth?

Why not the thirteen days of Christmas?

Thirteen maids a-milking?

If there is a gaggle of geese

A murder of crows

I think there should be a consolation of buttertarts

Poetry - Our Story Through History

I wanted to tell a story about me - male and female

Where I came from

Me and my people

The more I read

The more I wrote

I came to understand that I come from all people

The people we call “us”

I alone am the survivor of generations

Centuries, evolution, devolution, and heartbreak

I am the child who lived when my siblings died
I wasn’t drowned at birth or sacrificed

I am the woman who got a husband

Had just enough to eat and had children

I am the one who got away when they raided my village

And was I raped and sold into slavery

No matter, I survived

I was the one with no rights for millennia hiding under a man’s tunic

I was the one that warred against my brothers and together we lost our innocence

I was a Celt with no memory, the druids held our memory and they’re gone now

I was conquered by the Romans and their smooth wine and shiny coins

I held out as long as I could but my beliefs were absorbed by theirs with the birth of my son

Still my church is more Celtic than anyone dare imagine, we just call our gods saints now

I fled France were I lived for centuries; for England because of religious persecution

There I was strong and found favour with the King and the church until

I fled again to the north east, the local people didn’t want us there and burned down 82 of our houses

From there I married a gypsy girl from Northern India and left her for Australia

I hid in the forest in Finland and ate tree bark when the Russians attacked

They were just as brutal as the Mongolians hundreds of years before

I was starving in Ireland, the potatoes had blight, I took the boat half full of

Dead people to Canada over many burials and waves. I lived.

I was the Ojibwa who was told I was heathen by the men in black on my own soil

I was the one they sent up north to work a farm so that I didn’t have to go to WWI

I was the Canadian deeply troubled. I tried to kill myself no fewer than three times

Once my three daughter were sleeping as I opened the gas oven, my husband came home

My youngest daughter married after I had died of breast cancer and it is her daughter that writes this for us. It is her story. She has survived. It is me. And it is you.

Poetry - Melon-man

Halted and shaking she shuffled

Her arms constraining her insides

So they wouldn't fly apart
Into a room with no windows

Orange and vinyl and love seats and chairs

The smell of disinfectant had faded

And faded was the room

She sat and shook inside and outside

While saying the mantra “Stay present”

Minute after minute after minute

Until a crack of hospital light appeared

And came lumbering in was a doctor

With the head the size of a melon, large marble eyes, and huge menacing hands

There was a lot of “Blah blah blah”

Then the woman said “I want a bed”

“We have no beds” said melon-man

“If I leap across the room and grab you by the throat will you give me a bed?”

“Yes” he said succinctly

She channelled her mantra into thought, normal thought, and decided against it

Melon-man stared at her blankly

Then subtly he showed one huge menacing hand

And in a dream like voice produced a needle saying

"You'll feel better. I’ll check on you in one hour”

And glided like the Angel of Death through the solid door

An hour had passed when a psychiatrist turned the door knob

And gently came in the room

Where was melon-man?

Where were the large marble eyes?

Where were the huge menacing hands?

Why...was he wearing melon-man’s name tag?

Poetry - Baby's away and I can't help her

I saw a little girl sitting playing today today

Her hair was all a-mess with curl today today

I asked her "how old"

Six" she said straight bold

And where is your mother today today

Gone with another today today

Is that why you look so sad?

I am playing alone in Trinidad

How can I help you, I am so far?

Put me up on that traveling star

Where will it take you my little one?

Across the ocean back to my home

Today, today, today, I pray"

Poetry - Can't Sleep

I left one hour

I mean I slept one hour

On the couch

The blankets pushed down

Blue and beige

Days and days

Three sleeping pills

Like candy

And candy

Like three little pills

87 commercials

42 cheesy commercials

19 infomercials

12 fake college degrees

10 sex text hooks

Sips of coke

Rolling back

Rolling forth

Bathroom breaks many

Face covered t-shirt

Buzzing in my head

Nothing, nothing, nothing

Buzzing on the T.V.

Blahhhh, blahhhh, blahhhh

Open eyed symbiosis

Watch out for the ides

In every month

And this month

Turning to tides

Of ebb and flow

Poetry - I Watched the World go by

I was sitting on a stool in the middle of an empty classroom

Someone or something turned out the light

I sat and I sat in the darkness and thought rightly or wrongly

Darkness is the absence of light

I was sitting in an aluminium boat in the middle of a river

Fish swam in the brown water and the wind rustled the tall grasses

There was no one to the left of me and no one to the right and I thought

Peace is the absence of war, of quarrels, of anxiety

My quiet friend from the east heard me through the absence and sighed

Is there nothing you understand? Is there nothing you have learned?

Dark is the soul and you can taste it

Peace is the soul too but can light the darkness

You hold the secrets to inner contentment

Inside you there are stillness and silence

Harmony will knit together tranquility and calm

You are freedom and freedom brings peace

I was sitting in a busy coffee shop drinking my coffee and looking out the window

The busboy was mad at his boss and slammed cutlery and china into a bin

Two customers were warring and shouting and one shoved the other

A woman demanded that she hadn't
asked for sugar in her coffee and wanted her money back

I quickly surveyed the darkness then looked into my soul

I found a little spot that I could cultivate

There was harmony and stillness and contentment

With my heart I looked there as I finished my coffee and watched the world go by

Poetry - Justice?

On a sliding scale of 1 to 10

He was a 3 when it came to justice

Social custom flew over his head

Like geese honking as they migrate

Did he act in agreement with

What is morally fair?

Did he cling to what is socially right?

Was he in accordance with the rules?

No.

He related to society

Like a troubled 16 year old

Relates to his parents

Prejudice and discord courted him

Clothed in the disguise of cultural media

He argued, it was unfair, he was biased

Organizations were like butter to him

Melting in the sun

He had sucked up principles and morals

Into his sinuses to rot

He looked out of one eye

And closed the other

As he judged what was right to him

Did he grasp that his ideals

Rained down like acid on all he knew

Eventually pock marked people in a trance

Carried his disease from here to there

Little children sitting on the pavement

Caught little drops of acid in their hands

Was he mad?

Was he a poison?

Was he just an ambivalent Canadian?

Poetry - It was the late '60s

It was the late ‘60s and all purpose was gone

We had defeated the enemy in the 40’s

Come home and rebuilt lives and families

Now it was our children’s turn to define life

I was put together by a team of experts

And sustained by a conference of therapists

It was the 80’s and then it was the 90’s

Neurosis was freely accessible and alluring

It occurred to me that now at the age of 51

I could no longer use the excuse that we all used

I had to be weaned from “I’m a product of my age”

And take responsibility for myself and my actions

Yet when I think of the late 60’s I swell with nostalgia

I was the only 12 year old who went into mourning

When the calendar year officially changed to 1970

I only had one foot in the 60’s and understood nothing

Poetry - I Have no Friends

I have no friends

They are illusions

I hold one end of an elastic band

And they walk further and further away

The band becomes tauter and tauter

My fingers and a thumb hurt on my left hand

If they come back – I relax a bit

If they come back saying reassuring words

I believe more and some panic leaves

Soon, we are both close without tension – much

In and out like breathing but much more important

Everyone is supposed to have friends

The goal is to have oodles, what is an oodle?

Once in a while they walk too far

Theirs voices fade and the band snaps back

I cannot describe that kind of pain other than

It travels quickly up my arm to where life is in my heart

My hand hurts so badly I cannot grasp anything

I understand nothing but confusion and misery

I cannot comprehend anything

The distance, the void, the reason why

Poetry - I Believe

I believe that God created man and woman equally as both are in God’s image.

I believe that if someone wilfully hurts or manipulates me I can turn it to good. I say to myself “That was mean” or “I didn’t like that” and then I try to live in a way so that I do not inflict that same harm on others.

I believe that every creature has the right to live. And equally, that if it seeks to harm or kill me that I have the right to defend myself even if that means striking out or killing it.

I believe that animals have souls.

I believe that I have a duty to protect and be a voice for the maligned and disadvantaged.

I believe that it is my purpose in life to ask questions and to make people think.

I believe that many things people hold with great importance are of no consequence at all.

I believe that rules that intend to protect can become oppressive and need to be reviewed or discarded.

I believe that people and not God cause suffering in the world and that suffering caused by nature is neither good nor bad.

I believe that evil exists in an extremely minute number of people, but it does exist.

I believe that at times too many choices is a hindrance not an advantage.

I believe that miracles do happen and that the number of genuine miracles is quite slight.

I believe that people should take responsibility for themselves and not use God as a scapegoat.

I believe that our justice system is neither just nor a system and needs serious reconsideration.

Also,

I believe that the standard that I hold myself to is unrealistic.

I believe in aspiring towards honesty.

I believe that “dead” is too old.

Further,

I believe that silliness and laughter are indeed good for the soul.

I believe that if you can’t pronounce the ingredients on a label – you shouldn’t eat the food.

I believe that we have children only to have grandchildren.

I believe that all major stores should be open 24 hours a day for my convenience.

I believe that it is almost a God given right to have sport with telemarketers.

Poetry - Harry

He was out of the circle, eccentric like

Everybody in the circle was protected

And could run for cover

But Harry was an odd sock

From a dryer full of argyle

He was like a comic actor’s shoe

A light low-heeled slipper - but one

He tended to hang out alone - all one

But don’t get me wrong

He was bright and funny, just different

Maybe he was a tad naïve

Since he was a native from another place

That was probably it

We here in Thornhill probably didn’t know

That in Harry’s hometown of Regent Park

He was the reigning king

Poetry - Clem

I picked up a stray west of Detroit he called himself Clem

He had slit eyes and a lady’s stocking cap on his head

“Mother" was tattooed in red on the right side of his face

And "J-E-S-U-S" was tattooed on the knuckles of his left hand



Clem had a hair lip and a slight twitch that distracted me

His small Gideon Bible was held close to his chest

And he swore using words that I had never heard

But I knew they were bad by the way that he said them



His age was hard to pin down, perhaps 20's perhaps 30's

And he talked a blue streak about conversion peppered with smut

Finally I broke in and asked him where exactly he was going

Milwaukee" he said "to the unofficial Jeffrey Dahmer museum"



He smacked his lips and smiled, rolled a joint and leaned back

“Want a toke?" "No thanks" I said "Blow the smoke out the window"

My Chevy Cobalt was cruising smoothly on the long dark highway

I looked intently in the glare for the exit that Clem told me he wanted



He leaned over and asked me "Do you love your Mother?"

Not wanting to give a wrong answer I stated "She's dead"

Oh" he breathed in and on the exhale came "You love Jesus?"

I couldn't say Jesus was dead so I said "Doesn't everyone?"



Clem laughed a stoned laugh and hit my arm "You're alright.

Keep looking for exit 95. I'm looking out for exit 95"

Soon enough we were at exit 93 and Clem was looking happy

Two miles later we pulled over and he lingered at the open door



I gotta a good feeling about you Roy. You're goin' to heaven"

What could I say? "Thank you" I half muttered out loud

No Roy, I mean you're goin' up to the pearly gates tonight

And with that he reached into his coat pocket and...BANG

Poetry - Amber

Amber was electric

She had yellow fossilized hair

Can you dig it?

You wouldn’t want to ditch this chick

If you told Amber a secret

Her lips were watertight

And they were large and wet

But her eyes were pools of aqua, man

One look would ‘rouse you to ecstasy

She was really out there

Except her hands betrayed her age

They were old and dry as dirt

With tiny cracks in them

I’d still fall for her any day

You would too

Poetry - Cassivellaunus

Cassivellaunus (Cassi-vell-au-nus) raised his head

A rare wind was blowing across his land

He surveyed all he owned

He saw a lone young servant

Limping across the field

At a fair gait

He was shouting something

It sounded like danger – no

Stranger, maybe both

His long hair blew into his face

As he fell before his chieftain

Catuvellauni (Catu-vell-au-ni) was being threatened

More pagans were coming across the big sea

And moving inland

They were called Row-main

Doubtless after one of their puny gods

Pagans with funny names

Cassivellaunus (Cassi-vell-au-nus) pulled the servant’s head up by his hair

“How far away are they?

How many? These Row-main?”

And when the servant had answered the chieftain threw his head to the ground

And ordered his death

Poetry - Chaucer got a Splinter in his eye

Chaucer had a splinter in his eye

And it hurt thusly:

A lot, searing, pointedly

It didn’t affect his hand

He could still copy everybody else’s stuff

But it was a bit fuzzy

He kept rubbing his good eye

As he wrote with yous and thous – personal thous

And the tears ran down his other ruddy check

How terrible it must have been

How weighty Geoffrey

To be the representative of a whole generation

With a splinter in your eye

And an itch on his bum, the left side

He got ink on his trousers every time he scratched

Ink on his fingers – he put in his mouth

Surely poisonous

As his eye throbbed

And tears splashed on his manuscript

How utterly utterly burdensome Geoffrey

To carry on such an iconic yet useless work

Poetry - Stepmother

She smiled that smile that licked her malice

Throwing me against the wall she screamed

"Where is your God now?"

And the big dog jumped up

And tried to bite my stomach

But the rabid bitch got there first

I cried out



She cried crocodile tears

And tore up the bedroom stairs

And angel of light descended

And threw meat on the barbie

"You get none.

Don't eat with us.

Don't eat what we eat."

She morphed again into a

mentally unstable pull string doll



As I had no breath

And no future hope of breath

I grabbed the pole lamp

next to the black vinyl couch

And slowly tumbled to the floor

Eyes as wide as car lanes

"Stop it. Get up.

You're faking it."

The bitch poked me



I've got to get out of this insanity

But the door's locked from the outside

If I can get up, I'll push the screen out

Of my bedroom window

I heard a shriek

As she staggered back

From plunging a steak knife

Into the dog -

That bitch



Blood turned to tear drops

Which filled my eyes

"You obviously don't care about school.

You're materialistic."

I threw the sapphire ring at her

that she had given me when I turned 16



Out of the corner of my eye

I saw a mouse-chewed hole

near the sliding doors

In the dining room

I closed my eyes and wished hard

I felt myself shrink quickly

And scampered toward

A patch of light

Poetry - Three Eyes

My brother’s had three eye transplants

And none of them took

Now he just has a dry socket

Empty and deep staring right at you

That’s his good eye

The other eye’s sewed up

He don’t hear so good neither

On account of the hunting accident

That blowed his right ear off

It was a miracle he lived through that

And the Korean war

Where he lost his nose and sense of taste

In a freak accident

That’s all I gotta say

Poetry - Waiting

Waiting for inspiration to come

Come, come, come

Sitting on creativity’s egg

Clucking at myself

For errant behaviour

I morph into a useless capon

Back at the blank page

White glare blinds me

With a Richter 7.4 migraine

In hushed hushes

I become a clot in my own brain

Procrastinating with pen in hand

Tsk, tsk, tsk

Deferring to my own self-importance

A scribe changing history

Clanging symbols

And crashing drum

I exit in twisted triumph

Poetry - The Janitor

The smile was wider than a Cheshire cat

The arms swung with ease

The gait was as one of a familiar friend’s

The eyes betrayed every move

With saucers of a predator

The body moved smoothly by

The soul had no appetite for me

I was not supple or young enough

The man stiff with pride walked on

This was his domain

He had marked his territory

A small spray at regular intervals

Leading to his office

Some saw the smile, the arms, the gait

The body, the soul, even the stiffness

I saw the saucers and smelled the spray

I ran to save my children

But I could not

Poetry - The Volunteers

Ten people were seated

The chairman looked out

“If we all do one thing

It will be smooth sailing”


"I'll do the fundraising”

"I'll do the potluck”

"I'll set up the room”

"I'll do the phoning”


“We're off to a good start
And as president-secretary-treasurer

I’ll compile a list of volunteer jobs

And contact you all”


“Er, I remember, friends are flying in this month”

"Ah, I'm not available weekdays or weekends”

“Oh, I have a dentist appointment for a toothy thing”

“Uhm, I get migraines –
they’re unpredictable”

Poetry - What I Found out About you

What I found out about you

You dipped your toe into the forbidden

Like into an icy lake you wanted to swim

And quickly withdrew it

Leaving a pebble disturbed

The pebble was enough

I found it displaced

You had already put your sock and shoe on

And walked into town head held high

Guilt trickling down the back of your neck

Like sweat

Your ears red from shame glowed

As the sun struck them sitting on the bench with you

I picked up the pebble and looked at it

The water was cold

The pebble was warm with guilt

I put it in my pocket and walked to town

The tall grasses brushed against me

As I ambled along the dusty gravel road

I kicked at the gravel and dust to amuse myself

The town came in sight and I saw you

The red sweaty man

You were talking about morality and decency

With a squat male audience of one

On that same bench

As I came closer I heard you saying words like

“Jesus” and “God bless you”

They sounded tinny

I was so close now that I saw the sweat

And you had to look up

Because I made a shadow

How is this going to end?

You looked terribly uncomfortable

As if you knew why I was there

Although we had never met

I simply held out the pebble

You licked your dry lips and shaded your eyes

I saw deceit and like all skilled deceivers

You took the hot pebble casually

As your ears burned

And turned as if I was never there

To continue your sermon

Poetry - Village Idiot

Wouldn’t it be wonderful

To be the id-i-ot vill-age

To stand in the square

Staring at anyone you like

And no one expects anymore of you

You could drool

Scratch your bum

Ask for money

Make bodily noises

Or put your finger up you nose

Once in a while an ignorant child

Might shout something unkind

Or throw rotten food at you

But, since you’re an idiot

You could do anything back

What are they going to do?

Put you in the square

And make you the village idiot?

They already have

Poetry - David

For all the Davids I have known

Who have entered dancing into my head

I reach in fancy there

To touch a phantom invocation

That saturates my soul

With queried enjoined dreams

My breath is short against my face

Urged by loveliness too far to reach

Quenched by mores

Blush rises to my cheeks and lips

A brush would satisfy

Seconds, only seconds would it

Never is a word that is to loathe

Looking back throughout regrets

Only minutes old

I am drawn into his eyes

Where unrest lessness lies

Connecting with my heart

Which is as ageless as the spirit

Timeless as the gentle ocean

As young as a man untouched

Lined and weary peering out

The spark that leaps is not content

To quench, to burn all its fuel

But ever smoulders without regard

For sensibilities told thrice

Or many more times then that

Never is a word that is to loathe

Looking back throughout regrets

Only minutes old

Poetry - Eve

The second before Eve was born

Adam was equal to her in every way

He was bright, beautiful, perfect

And as playful as she was

Eve was strong in the womb of God

Resilient, trustworthy, without blame

The life giving mother

Was birthed in a strange land

With strange creatures and sounds all around

She knew God

Who was this Adam?

Man to her woman

No one else around

And what did they know of love?

Adam venerated her

Before, it was only God

Now God had given him his match

A gift that holds the mystery of life

He has just a pocket of seed

One minute and 32 seconds before Eve was born

God held his breath with these last thoughts:

Will Adam worship and love me as he always has?

Will he turn from me to favour Eve?

He has named all the animals, will he name her too?

Will he possess and subjugate her?

Will this work?

God was vexed

He shook his head, sighed and shrugged

“Perhaps I should have made Eve first

She is in my image

Wait, I did

What changed my mind…”

Poetry - Fragile he Was

I had no idea how fragile he was

Until he cried out in the night

“Beth –
where are you?”

And I answered “I am here”

I had no idea how fragile he was

Until what he had to do seized him

And he couldn’t take a step,

Open the door, and talk to the manager

I had no idea how fragile he was

Until I could see he needed morning medication

And two coffees and one hour

To shake the demons from him

I had no idea how fragile he was

Until the cracks in his psyche

Opened wider and swallowed him whole

Poetry - Doggy World

I know a magical land

Where dogs are treated

Better than people

In this magical land

Dogs have their own bedrooms

And guests sleep in the raw basement

In this magical land

Dogs eat from the table

People have their salad rationed

In this magical land

Dogs run through the forest right into the lake

People sit in the raw basement listening to Moose Radio

In this magical land

Dogs are hugged and called pet names

And people hear the word “supper” shouted

from the carpet into the raw basement

Poetry - Hopscotch

Throwing a rubber ball

Skipping double dutch

Jumping over elastic bands

Riding my bike

Kicking Stones

Leaping over cracks

Tracing chalk over a board

Paint by numbers

Dancing the Alley Cat

Listening to my transistor radio

Playing chicken on the road

Monopoly for one

Camping in the backyard

Smoking macaroni tubes

Putting grey eye shadow on at school

Swearing with my friends

Watching Lena make a baby with her brother

Poetry - I Miss my Kids and Baby

I miss my kids and my baby and it tears me up inside

What have I done?

What have I left undone?

Why is there not enough love to go all the way around?

Haven’t I done my penance?

I am still picking out the shards of glass from my knees.

I gave my daughter money.

I minded my granddaughter for three years.

I take my medicine every day.

Why don’t they love me?

Why am I relegated to second best – I’m hoping for second –

and how is it I could spend my whole life feeling this way?

If I have little worth to them, how can I have worth for myself?

Perhaps I would be off better dead.

Poetry - I lie Dead

I lie dead

In the snow

Cold white chill

To the bone

Eyes wide blue

Stare out there

Snowflakes fall

All around

I see naught

I hear wind

Through my heart

Touch my soul

I lie dead

In the snow

Arms stiff out

Quiet angel

Quiet angel       say softer and softer

Quiet angel

Poetry - I do not Like the Spring

I do not like the Spring

I do not like this wetty thing

I do not like it in the March

I do not like it, it is harsh

I do not like the puddles rainy

I do not like arthritis painy

I do not like it out of doors

I do not like it when it pours

Hear me, help me if you will

The thought of Spring, it makes me ill

Poetry - I Danced With my Daughter

I danced with my daughter

A beautiful dance

She said "I'm sorry"

I said "I'm sorry"

I said "I love you"

She said "I love you"

And we danced and danced and danced



I sang with my daughter

A beautiful song

She sang "I can forgive some"

I sang "I can forgive some"

I had the music

She had the lyrics

And we sat down to compose it together



I danced with my daughter

Poetry - Problem Child

He was a problem child

Anything you’d throw at him

He’d throw it back

He’d cast a light shadow on you concern

He’d wriggle and twist and turn

Putting everything on its ear

And you’d sift through all his nonsense

Trying to discern his logic and reason

Why was he bent on destroying your life?

Mimicking and building on your faults and weaknesses

Where you had failed or deceived he picked at

Like a monkey looking for fleas

You were a stressed stem

Narrow and oppressed

But then he’d grin at you

Beam at you

And your heart would ache with parental love

Until the next time or the time after that

Poetry - One Fly

One fly, 1200 square feet

and only one fly using me as a runway

“Clear for take off" I yell

And it merely flits

Around my hands, around my face

Looking for the most annoying place to almost land

It hears "Don't land. Hover with full annoyance.

Runway full."

“Take off" I yell louder, again

They don't pay me enough in this job to take abuse

Flies don't live that long

Die already

Somewhere else

There's a nice window sill in the spare bedroom

I have, just this moment, learned that all flies are deaf

I can't kill it, I'm almost a Jain

I shouldn't be waving or yelling so I change my tactic

In my most authoritative voice with great vibrato

I yell "Clear for landing"

And the fly flies away

Poetry - The Girl With no Name

The girl with no name

Sits on a red painted peeling bench

Surrounded by a pool of green grass

Looking out onto rocks and a lake

She is invisible

No one sees her

With her bright yellow scarf

And navy wool jacket

The autumn breeze bustling by

Large grey shapes shuffle and shuffle

She is worthless

No one validates her

The huge cradle she was rocked in

Loud cries at her birth

Memories of sandboxes and warm lunches

Promises and learning and diplomas unfulfilled

She is not a person

No one will hire her

The girl with no name

Sits on the edge of a blue double bed

Looking down at her worn Nikes
A man's underpants and crayons strewn

She has no identity

No one will call out “Sarah”

Poetry - An arc of Divinity

An arc of divinity stretched and yawned

Past lazy civilization

And I alone was hit

A divine spark shocked my skin

Bore through my tissue

Breaking into my heart

Validation showered not only

On the unspoken creation

But on me, I am here

Tumbleweeds of constellations

Rolled through the universe

With earth as their road

Everything was in tune

A perfect high C

And I who was

Stood in the midst of arching again

Stretching, yawning, fireworks flew

And sparks danced

Poetry - Summer

Towns wind around woods dotted

Throughout the country side

A cow stares at people staring at it

Roads are blasted through rock

With caution signs pasted here and there

The sun warms smiles wider and wider

Water is cold and still in black lakes

A dog shakes its heavy wet fur in every direction

Lovers laugh lying on the ground in secret giggles

Breezes wash over everything they taste

Along the journey of holidays and summer

Poetry - Good Time Danny

He has learned supposedly

To emote without volcanic uprisings

He is so tender and loving and attentive

Like the grid work of wrinkles

That cover his face towards the inside

Through cracks of affection

Glimpses of honesty

Maybe this is frightening

And auras become tainted

With ago and an unkind family

They are dusty grey

Inhaling this makes you sneeze

Your eyes smart and

You twitch where you want to least

An anthrax sifting through the air

Carried in Persian rug existence

His and mine seeking

To infect all that is good

Black tepid auras settled around him

I could read cards

I could read tea leaves

I couldn’t read him

“How are you”

“Oh okay, good, fine”

The one who wakes in darkness and fear

Until morning medication

He does not talk

He does not want to talk

I can read other people well

Some so well it scares them

Or they think I possess powers

Of the occult

Him. My partner of three years

The man with the smiley face

Good time Danny in another life

Poetry - Path

She chased her memory in black and white

Down that path again

The passageway of reminiscence and recollections

Completely dark and without hope or alleviation

Angry and resentful

Yet strangely benevolent; without malicious intent

Bleached and transparent

Like a photograph from the 1950’s

Exposed she lay her heart before scrutiny and magnification

Deciding between a glossy or a matte representation of her image

Past leading to the present

In existence at this moment in time

She sought to stitch her incongruence to her daydreams

And find a new way to navigate

Through the rest of her life

Poetry - Love is Blind

You are the anti-freeze in my veins

I have drunk you in and I am blind

Love is blind and I will never find my way again

The impulse you have imbued me with is hazardous and troubling

　

You have my blood - my life force

Spent it through a thousand schemes

It has been sprinkled on untouchables and pissed on the rich

How can I collect and claim it for my own? Who would believe me?

　

You are a cat from Cheshire mischievous and grinning

People whirl in the aftermath of your charm and narcissism

I am pooled in emotions beyond anger, injustice propels me

Feeling my way down a different path strewn with sharp bits

　

I will endure and outlive the bastard even without my sight

My weakness will be my strength like a novice nun full of belief

Miracles must happen for I have a voice and my veins are filled with green liquid

As long as the temperature does not ice me up…yes I think I’ll be fine

One Page - Murder

It was 1948 on a hot summer’s night and I had been invited to a party in the rich part of town - strictly business. Hi, my name is Dick Ballantyne and this is my incredible story. It started like any other party. The valet took my burgundy Packard 8 to park and I went in to smooze and drum up some business. All the men were in tuxes and having come from work I was in a smart suit and tie. Booze was flowing freely and as the night wore on people became sloppy and embarrassing. About 12 o’clock I had made all the connections I was going to make and I decided to call it a night. It was just then that a man I had never seen before brushed against me and quickly said “Carl Thompson, being doing your wife for four years. Sweet piece of ass. You are one dumb pal.” I was stunned. I dropped my glass, excused myself and ran out of the house.

As I was getting into my car, this Carl, almost tore the passenger door off its hinges and threw himself into the passenger seat. He stared at me and rambled on about lewd things he had done with my Betty. I don’t know why, but I shouted at him to shut the door and I sped off. One mile, two miles trying to collect myself I jerked the car into a little wood and started to shout at him. “Who are you? What do you want?“ And then he said “Sweet cheeks your daughter. Jenny? I had her too.” That’s when I lost it. My blood started to boil. When he briefly turned away from me I choked him from behind each time harder than the last. Eventually he went limp and I panicked. I pushed him with my foot out of the door and I wept for an eternity.

The next day was a nightmare. The police came and dressed me down, took my fingerprints and examined my car. They had an eye witness who had seen Carl yelling and swearing getting into the Packard. His fingerprints were everywhere. I explained that a friend of mine asked a favour of me to drive this fellow to the bus station. He was no one anyone of us knew and an obvious party crasher who was very drunk. As we drove he insisted on being let out two miles down the road. After a lengthy investigation, I was free and clear. But not guilt free. Carl’s murder was plastered on every front page of every newspaper.

After a few weeks the police felt they had a break in the case. A couple of teenagers had broken in to an abandoned house three doors down from the party and they were now flush with money. The police found a tuxedo bowtie at the bottom of the pool, Carl had taken his off, an exquisite earring was hanging from the BBQ and most puzzling of all a trail of blood leading from the back of the property where the brambles were to the back door and inside the house. It was animal blood. Some poor creature got caught in the brambles. And the earring? The girl stole it from the house and tried to start the BBQ and it caught on a rough spot.

The bowtie convinced the police they had their killers and that the poor kids from the other side of town had found Carl stumbling around and killed him in the wood as they were running away from the house. Unbelievable. They had no motive, no real evidence, but that didn’t matter. It kept us good people in the clear. Ha, yes us good people. Several months went by. I was trying to live a normal life . And then, there was a knock on the door and a strange looking man handed me an envelope. It was a summons for jury duty. Now here I don’t expect you to believe me, it is too incredible. The summons was for Carl Thompson’s murder trial.

One Page - Rapunzel's Diary

1812 Autumn in the forest, still in the tower:

The invention of the printing press has ruined all the local tales and now they are in the hands of junk journalists. A passing stranger told me that the brothers Grimm have come out with “Rapunzel” - based on my life - in their Children’s and Household Tales. I thought we had all this straightened out back in 1698 when Charlotte-Rose de la Force interviewed me for her French literary society. The caption read “Persinette - trapped in a tower”. Most of it was accurate. I liked that. Somehow I got the nickname Parsley. That ticked me off, but it’s not as bad as this Rapunzel broad I’m supposed to be.

1812:

Rats in my hair.

On a dry day:

Tanisha came by. She told me that if I ever wanted to get out of this tower, she knew a great place where you could get incredible weaves and extensions for a bargain. I said “Tanisha, I have at least 60 feet of thick blonde hair any prince would kill for. What is your problem?”

I’m going to stop pretending I know what date it is:

Everybody is always coming by and nobody is helping me out of here. This couple comes by all the time and tries to throw sweets up to me. Stupid people. Today they had a confession. You meet a lot of quacks in the forest. The man says the woman is his wife. Yeah? And she’s my mom. Who had such a craving for bellflower that they traded me, basically for a salad, at birth. Ah, no. The ogress is my mom, why else would she lock me up here to preserve my purity? Stupid, stupid people.

Entry:

Prince heard me sing. Thinks he’s in love with me. Climbed my hair. Eek! I never saw a man close up. He was ruddy and strong and I think he coerced me. He got naked and all weird. I don’t want to talk about it. He said he wanted to marry me and get me out of the tower and I came up with a plan. Needed Tanisha. Got to get out of this tower at any cost. Mom found out. Cut my hair. Oh boy, I need Tanisha.

Entry:

I’m really screwed now, crying all night. Mom banished me to a desert. I can’t cope. I’m desperate. I get sick every morning and my tummy is growing.

Entry:

Nothing is happening, it’s been years I think. The twins help me from time to time. I have no idea why I was blessed with them. I guess Mom put a spell on me.

Entry:

Prince showed up and he was stumbling around blind. I was so happy to see another person and so was he that we fell on each other and wept. Suddenly he could see. He took us far away to his kingdom.

Final Entry:

I read it on a bumper sticker, but it applies perfectly “They all lived happily ever after”. P.S. there’s a lot of buzz around the castle about an up and comer named Disney.

One Page - Stan

Stan had been searching for quite a while for a very specific type of townhouse in Mississauga. It had to be in Creditdale, 1200 to 1400 square feet, two stories, and no basement. His real estate agent, Trevlon, had been pulling out his hair plugs looking and looking for a house like this and mysteriously one came available. One not in his database, it was sketched out on a paper on his desk, but in Stan’s price range. Tuesday at 2 p.m. they went to look at this vacant oddity - key in hand.

They did the usual outside and inside check and were about to leave when Stan exclaimed “What’s this?” Trevlon turned around and said “What” “This short door under the stairs.” They both looked. “It wasn’t there yesterday” puzzled the real estate agent. “I’m going to look inside” Stan quietly said as he gently pulled at the brass latch.

Inch by inch he pulled at the door. It was dimly lit inside and the smell of peach and ginger danced out into the echoing living room. Stan grew bolder until the door stood fully open. The first thing he saw was a small closet warm and inviting. There was a hum from a bare 25 watt light bulb screwed into the ceiling and comforting air was wafting through a vent in the wall. The air tasted stale. Stan entered, bending over, and tentatively touched the flocked red paisley wall paper “Ouch” he had received a mild shock up into his arm.

Trevlon hung back as if the room contained strange voodoo. Eventually he made his way to his car in a rush as events unfolded. Stan adjusted to the light and saw that in front of him against the far wall was a little square stool with something like a shrivelled fruit nested in a depression era bowl with a tag on it. Being careful to not touch the walls again Stan took a few cautious steps towards the bowl. He turned the tag over and it boldly read “the knowledge of good and evil”. Stan sniffed the fruit. Ahh. Peach and ginger. He poked at it. He put it in his left hand and a voice from the vent whispered “Eat”. Stan looked around, which was rather silly and raised it to his lips. He bit and swallowed. It was caustic. It was bitter. It changed into every drug, hashish, opium, everything at once.

His pupils were belladonna large. He was satiated with knowledge and the weight made him crumple to the rough floor - the middle of the universe of the closet. A word made its way up through his belly until it bellowed out in that tiny room “Sophia” he shouted. “Sophia” he ranted. “Sophia” he cursed. He beat at his chest and the floor. He reached out with both arms and let waves of electricity course through his entirety. Knowledge became too much to bear in quicker increments. He pulsed and quivered.

Stan dragged himself out of the closet with great effort. First an elbow, then a knee, fingertips. It took him as long as it took to create the world to finally escape. Gasping on the carpet knowledge started to spill out of him and take on a life of it own in ghastly shades of beautiful colour. It was like a crescendo too great to sustain. He was spent. In one last act of desperation, Stan managed to reach his lighter and burn the word “no” into the door as the colours over took him. Stealing his breath. Stealing his essence. Stealing his life.