View Issue vol. 7, no. 2
ISSN 2369-6516 (Print)
ISSN 2369-6524 (Online)
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It’s shamrock time
all over the world.
When the color green
covers the earth.
It’s gnomes and elves
and mischievous leprechauns
about their well documented business.
So, it’s “top o’tha mornin,”
“wee this and that,”
“faith an’ begorra” and such.
High hats and trimmin,
belt buckles and vests,
with sharp pointy boots galore.
A tall tankard O’Suds,
“to moisten me’ whistle,”
plus “songs and times o’home.”
Yes, it’s that time of year,
dear ol’ March 17th.
So, lets give a cheer
for Saint Patrick’s Day
and that great emerald isle
with its mysterious pot o’ gold
and immeasurable good luck!
another missed step, in Montreal noon
rows of pigeons keeping track as jury
and in the storefronts off Sherbrook
ladies coax manikins into inviting poses—
they shrug and adjust
.. .. ..
catching bird songs thru traffic, watching
Quebecois cowboys siphon off cigarettes,
stoplights commanding pace
street-signs imposing direction.
and I know—
only the steps I miss
….. are of my own design
I do not know the words
which may be written
by one like me
to one like you
we play house
we feign love
The weight of the feeling
between our favourite songs.
Tooth and claw, fighting instinct.
Tooth and nail, breaking laws.
Your last decision on my behalf.
I promised to always be in your eyes
I promised to always be
I promised, in your eyes.
In your eyes I —
I will never promise again.
You know my real name now;
The last Kindly One.
the trails of snails
upon the beach
the lapping waves
just out of reach
each act an act
of rout contrition
or more perhaps
futility a daily task
or something more
you’re pressed to ask
the way of things
has been divined
and time and tide
that snails and men
and waves are just
meant to toil
as they must
our lives have meaning
as we age
the rout and rancor
light the page
it’s when we’re old
we start to see
then yield to youth
Here we are again My Love
Waiting to take Life’s Next Step
The Journey of yesterday will take us
where we want to be : Tomorrow
As we write New Chapters the pages
unfold showing that there are
more stories to tell
What lies before us are Treasures
Waiting to be found and Mysteries
that your eyes show me
Your love is like a Locket that I keep near
to My Heart Precious and Timeless
like The Love We Share
We’re Alive to see these Days of Gold
You are my Glowing Gem that lights
my Future In the Nights of Wonder
Letting me know Love’s Present is You
Let’s Dance to our Love’s Sweet Song
When You Believe in the Magic of
Two Hearts Aligning as One
spelling out Our Love Story
Look at the Stars there’s
a Trace of Us Together
Simple Magic found it’s Way to be
Simply Perfect and it will go down in
History to be Simply Wonderful
That’s You and I Forever
Does the robin sing for me?
I asked my Lord.
Does the robin sing for me?
I do all the singing
Replied my Lord.
I do all the singing.
The robin carries to you my voice
So you may hear me and rejoice.
The echo bounces back to me
And I can then rejoice with thee.
But the robin knows all this already.
There’s a bit of Love,
A fleeting glimpse before it’s taken away.
Force it away.
I want to cut these youthful feelings
……………Hope and —-
I’ve always been a rebel;
Didn’t care for naptime then
I do now.
I live. I’ve lived. Enough.
……………To sleep; perchance to dream
All’s fair in Love and War.
Fair – not Just.
I fear War will win,
……………and Love, fall behind.
……………do believe in justice
I believed in Love
I was both jaded and hopeful
……………I am still jaded,
……………No longer hopeful.
No longer awake.
A few words here, a string of verse,
and Byron had them, heart and purse.
And swoon they did, with many fair;
all from words raw, nature bare,
and sonnets sold with tender flow
as couplets, quatrains, love songs know,
will woo the poets bought from shelves,
by lovestruck coins that woo themselves.
When, are we going?
When, have we had enough?
When, do we let go?
When, is it time, to say when?
We are so young, and life seems so distant,
and I cannot imagine where your face will become
what its colour and what its subtlety
will it still be in some royalty
look out for the ghosts of some same house.
And I have a spot on my upper left cheek
the life of wine is a chalice of bright red silk
and it evolves as lightly tapping theatre
or that time we went out to the ballet
when the author was our age
between hope, and hedonists and yolo
beware my dear, and sleep in my arms
and we will get through this
thinking that we are still
somewhere between ten and twenty years of age,
all i would want
is for tenderness to bloom.
Prodigy ballerina sits alone at the bar
Adored and revered no more
Delicate angel, dancer’s besotted star
Denigrated to tragic bar whore.
Leaning against wooden lip seeking favors
Bartender’s eye heart breaking decline
Life relegated to semi scorched waivers
And pirouettes no longer sublime.
Daylight dances on drifting air dust
As the bar door swings open wide
In struts morality begging for trust
Her escort for salvations ride.
Refuge redemption slides a slippery slope
Hesitating she holds out her hand
Sealing a deal with the devil named hope
And claiming the fifth on the stand
Nothing revealed is not what it seems
Secrets surrender to rot
Black out white knights sweet tale of dreams
And salvage the soul cheaply bought
One little tear
Ran down your cheek
I now have found what I did seek
Those eyes so deep
Ran down my back
And this I know
Is not an act
The gentle hand
That touched my neck
While sitting on
The back porch deck
Did wipe the tear
When I did cry
The moment that
You nearly died
in the drizzling rain
bone-chilled from an
icy wind that gave way
to an indescribable fog
under a thin scarf
mobile in dense boots
against the brownish
gray of an idle town
toward a provisional
soaked in melancholy
as the bus pulls away
I drank full from the lie,
We danced to the point of no return,
Melting magma in my eye,
You and I look up, really took a turn.
Pretty boys got nothing in the know,
Secret language, prowess unseen,
Half shut mind, mouth in tow,
Never really gave it any mean.
Sunset, let the envy begin,
Heavenly face cue brow knit,
Bet the world I took it on the chin,
Didn’t think we could make it.
Cheat the languish, won no heat,
Smoking gun, the things you won’t share,
The attenuation on the last disco beat,
We had a record breached without care.
Now when it is November, and The Trees
As if natures’ violations are in full
Bloom, you understand
the unnatural aspects of your empty
when the wind whispers (in tiny corners of
Space) tiny thoughts tug at the
forcing clinging leaves to the
in order to partake in the Communal
Burial, the infinite ritual of
but my memories they do not fall
they become The Leaves and the mild
November lets them be.
When Awareness comes
and words unfold
the ultimate story
of life is told
not by words
in a fleeting
A hallaf is held in the hand
It does not end in a point
Freed from its synoptic nerve
Innocence bleeds freely
Its fall broken
When thunder is strangled
In the skies above
I stretch, spread, bend
I step back to fold
Swirl, swing and inhale
The world to complete itself.
When the whisper of snow skiffs
Drift across the ice
I snuggle, huddle, hush the rushing heart
And exhale to fill the world with light
Carols and spectrum of joy
On every single lingering day.