Convention

You think through it, not into it,
a squadron of images which bring you
from somewhere down the road
to here;  a stand of experiences tarnished
by time.  Yet not without a soul.

In a republican way, I wonder how a nation
survives when athletes are paid more than
scientists, the only creativity in the way
a body twists and bleeds.  The pregnant
pause of change needs nourishment.

The past in the present, the future continued desire.

iTunes: The Definition of Music

Inspiration does not arrive by ship,
late at night, disembark, run amuck
in the city — leave a claw trail of notes
across the backs of dilatants, then
break apart at sunrise, like clouds
sullen with rain and the pain
of awaking to commutes, concrete,
the constant hammering of cubicles
in offices, abandoned to islands of indifference.

Inspiration lives in avoidance,
the indiscrete trail which appears
in morning fog bramble-burdened,  impossible
to negotiate, yet can be as intoxicating as
the moment when you first track
the lines of a foreign body — pliant
and accessible — the moment when
you first understand the rhythm
which drives so much.

After The Eulogy

things adhered — on the hard drive and in
the way shadows survived — as when I browsed
the vacation to Holguin and six photos
from somewhere I’ve never been ping ponged
the software’s interface.  Or when you now
dead four years reappeared.  A ghost
of black and white photos — in the DNA.

It’s impossible to explore a foreign
road before your death without encountering
a dozen places I’ve never been.  And may never
go.  May never see, except in photos
as though I’m invited to dinner somewhere
and the photo albums are pulled out
with the cherished bottle of Cherry Brandy.

Look, see where I’ve been. 
See what I’ve done.
See what survives. 
Long after I’m gone.

The Sky

Is falling
the sky won’t fall —
that blue —

let’s vote and form
a union to demand
deeper hue from sky
that’s trembling —
leaves in wind —

the sky won’t profit
the sky won’t cry
and I am running

in a crowd
of rain and clouds
forever feeding from
the emotion trough

the sky is falling
and I won't run.

Armstrong

When a trumpet finds the curb
at sunset and a breeze blows from the bayous
then I hear you Louis —
hurricane sound and Mississippi lilt
the way I can’t imagine it so north
that ice creeps into  June —
at least along the coast —
where whales lament the way
you do — shed whale-tan
in the face of
the omnipotent harpoons.

Rocket Science Says

Travel to the moon and
                                                beyond
                but it’s not

a rational séance
                it’s an
                                emotional hangover

detritus from the storm
                the wine                 the sex

forgiveness when
the void                 abhorred everything

but our commitment          
                                               here's to possibility.

Got The Queen

 Got her.  Figurehead.  Plastered
on the forehead of some ship
and coin navigating oceans.  Truculent.
With family and infamy.  Pensive
matriarch.  In Ontario spring
shuffled away, her sons and daughters
everywhere.  Reminder.  Like
an antique, back shelf.  I listened
to the radio in 1954.  In this world
of everything is seen, YouTube, what
is worth hiding — even for prestige?

Family?

If It Were Only Words (Mother's Day)

It would be so simple — a savannah
of syllables — feral
yet safe — antonym to war and rage and transgression

and dying flowers in a plastic
vase dedicated to
a truncated emotion one spring Sunday afternoon.

But this is the weed creep
of battered emotions
and the Sahara remaining after the tanks depart

for a further western front —
a further death by political dissonance —
a further childhood raped

and all that remains is emulation —
emigration to a cold country
with a cold response to a cold response.

The Last Canadian Penny

Was minted today.  I suppose now
                the nickel will be the smallest denominator of value.

So, it’s a nickel for your thoughts.  Or
                                maybe more.  Perhaps, $1.98 + HST
and because thoughts are so fragile, there is
a service plan.

For an extra $6.97 (plus HST), there is the thought warranty.
If
                a thought falls apart within the first three days of use,
return it for a complete refund,
                                                                and 50% off the next brainstorm.

Be creative
                                in a worry-free atmosphere — be

creative.  And profit.

Injured Thoughts

 Are limping towards the
                finish line.   A kiss and

an insult dance.                    The sun is consumed by

bloated horizon.  Music

struggles to be heard
above slap-happy waves.  You

wear a white dress.  You dance
                the sunbeam dance.  Shadows

patrol crumbling
                                walls.      History awaits the right word.

Some Thoughts

Well, this is the last day of April.  Finally, the cruelest month has passed.  We can look forward to May, a gentler environment and perhaps gentler words with which to put down our thoughts. Ah Thomas, did you know that they would make April poetry month?  Perhaps the thought of breeding life out of death is the ultimate challenge to all those who write.

It is for me.

Looking back on the month, I didn't succeed in writing a poem a day, through I did try.  Life intrudes.  Work intrudes.  Is each and every thought worth the effort of recording it?  I don't think so.  In an article in 'The New Quarterly', a poet opines that she writes poems from notes, over time.  I write from the moment.  I've stopped keeping notes.  Quite often, I begin with a random thought which seems to require expansion.  I begin to expand, I lose my way, the writing wanders off and arrives somewhere, though not on any recognized rail line destination.

Writing as catharsis — journal entry.  I like to think I take things beyond that plain, though, perhaps I don't.  This is the way I understand writing — brush words against  your soul, see them spin away, realize that there is no GPS for creativity, just one's own sense of where you are and where you would rather be.

The Problem Is

Like an old spider web, the kind which weathered,
sacrifices disarranged threads to a late August wind —
rhythmic and forlorn, severed
from the touchstones of the initial vision —
the cedar, the downspout, the neglected chair.
The solution lies in an ability to recognize, in the withering chaos,
what once existed, where emotions flowed, how they rose
to bind events into sweet history — a stream
and stream-sound and laughter which was salve on wounds.
In the events, in the event that, how great is
a spider’s faith to envision an end and to begin again.

Words Are Not Real

Need the imagination to interpret / void
in which to grow / Petri dish of experience
in which to breathe  / and each breath is
a DNA string leading to unpredictable results.

Perhaps that is why the comments you made
last night while sipping wine after
the play / expanded on during the cab ride out
of downtown Toronto / perhaps that is why
the story you heard this morning
over coffee / it reminded you of your
Uncle Frank / your chalk drawings on the driveway
while babysitting your niece / just after
the first five thousand raindrops landed.