View Issue vol. 7, no. 6
ISSN 2369-6516 (Print)
ISSN 2369-6524 (Online)
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My bones, my bones are made of stones
and words unknown to birds and drones
and those lords that prattle on and moan
complaining of throngs and thongs and
And though slayers still sleep, governments
will roll the dice for keeps to keep a mole;
hidden for the quick when all must pay
for a peek at the keeper’s secret tail…
So tax ’em to the hilt, all else must fail
just don’t get stuck waiting for the mail;
forgotten in the mixup, riding flat tires
over the loftiest of dreams — canopied
…..castles, surrounded by radiant flyers.
And so I only ask you, if I may…
before you leave this storied sigh —
if you please, just don’t forget
to turn off the sky!
The days pile up higher
and who can pay?
Balcony pot flowers bloom
Cable crows and fledglings two
have left the line.
Elm leaves uncanny green and bright
in low mist-fractured light
are thinning, dry.
Her nearest friends have gone
or died for now:
Fabrizio, Fludd, Filth,
Natasha and Pierre.
She searches, leans uneasily
but does not fail
to bring her flowers water.
Queen scats high with sweet sashay,
Armstrongs growl and tubas bay,
Drums bomp-she-bomp and rat-a-tat-tat
Dapper young swells frisk, frolic and cat,
Batting their whiskers, glimming their duds,
At cool satin dolls with bright diamond studs,
Who strut, sham shimmy, keeping time,
Swinging together, in boogie woogie rhyme.
Jazz blows so hot, horns start to sigh,
Cats swing those dolls both low and high,
Satin dresses swish, swish, swinging.
Queen rasps low from too much singing.
Tired cats and dolls sizzle on the floor.
Clinging to each other, they glide out the door.
Hands linked with kisses and starry night eyes,
Night jazz melts in duets of hot sighs.
She would play me a piece by Philip Glass
Over the phone. How I wanted to be her –
Be the keys of ivory that she played with
Such subtlety and finesse, be struck by
Those young, wondrous fingertips; have
Her scar my flesh with her fingerprints
And hum, ring out with gorgeous music,
Orchestrated, brought to life by her elegant
Will; her fingers were deities unto themselves.
I am not a pious man by any stretch, but
Where she’s concerned, I’m blindly devout.
You can’t relinquish something so indivisibly
A part of you, that would be decapitation, and
I don’t possess the faculties sharp enough to
Sever her from my spirit. She’s in the blood.
Such limiting words cannot convey accurately
The extremity of the infatuation I harbor
…………leaning into a
feel good hit of the summer
tickling an eager ear from lips
a girl puts on a record
Country, is pure.
Country, is free, from touch.
Country, is free.
Country, fresh air.
Country, is Canada.
So steady and tall.
You sit up on the side
Of the drumlin
At the curved part
That then rises
Gracefully to the top.
I once sat under you
On a warm summer’s eve.
I was tired
So I leaned against you
For some strength.
In the sun or out?
I chose out.
I chose to have the dappled light
Fall on me,
To have your roots
Carry away my tears
To be recycled by the earth,
And to have the pain I felt
Gently absorbed by your bark
Until I felt less weary
And could find my way home
On my purple bike.
That’s the story of a Wednesday,
Of a tree,
Of a girl,
On a summer’s eve.
gonna be sitting here all day
and drinking mostly
the days gonna pass
is gone mostly
and my phone has rung
she wonders where you’ve been
and 2.25$ sleeves
During Great War parsimony, when blue
Water shimmered, clear in Citadel sight,
A Sheffield Unitarian came to Halifax, far
From Toronto artist friends who tromped
Thru north Ontario’s bright-hued wilds.
Here, with Esther & Marjorie (just three),
Arthur Lismer found Anna Leonowens’
Victoria School of Art & Design all but
Moribund. Twelve students grew by 60.
Stirred up, Ottawa sent art exhibits to
The Museum of Fine Arts, enthusing many.
Visits to a school encouraged youngsters
To show their own visions. Downtown,
Saturday’s children drew, coloured, shaped.
Sketching dazzle-ships was set aside to
Portray sudden horrors of the Explosion.
Bedford home life comforted and picnics
Stimulated resolves. In 3 years Lismer left,
Charging Elizabeth Nutt’s admin capabilities.
There’s a tree god outside
in his canopy of leaves
rustling luscious through
late afternoon light
This is only the reality
you believe, he says
His beauty is enough to convince me
Poseidon is sleeping
just beyond my reach
Thunder rolls, the clouds roll
Already night is falling
The tree god is sleeping
Poseidon sleeps on
Dionysus is restless
remembering his birth
Zeus promised her ‘Anything!’
He couldn’t have known
That hell hath no fury like Hera, his wife
And clever she was for her wits were her life
Mere mortals were foolishly eager to play
And if they were not, there was some other way
Dionysus the God, the motherless child
Bids us drink, celebrate and procreate
For the sorrow of death awaits you
If you need something
You must look deep, deep within
I can give you nothing you don’t already own.
If you seek something
You have yet to find everything you need
Go, grow, live, be gone.
In your time of need
Be your own best lover,
Mother, brother and friend.
When you have found all you sought
Focused, opened, conscious,
There, you will begin.
Only then, can what is given from me,
Him, her or them,
Be wholly genuine.
Here, you will have grown
Ah! You will have known
One can never be conquered, defined or owned.
Having all you’ll ever need
Requiring no-thing from them, him, her or me
You have become
Inescapably, fearlessly, lovingly,
I don’t write for money or poor.
I write now as I did before.
Tickle, tackle or just bore.
“Its germ is flapping,” flaps the core!
The before’s the same, it’s now just more.
The stuff I write and out the door.
lately my eyelids have developed
a translucency that is disconcerting.
messages from the streetlight from hell
ricocheting off the tall mirror,
end up burrowing through my lids.
behind my eyelids used to be black;
now, not so much.
incoming static and snow
light up my radar screens
in angelic glow,
praising the lord all night
on the back of my eyelids.
mind you, it’s still dark
way deep in my head
but that’s merely psychological..
catacombs of the modern Rome
mile after mile in amazement
groans of paleolithic proportion
crowds that can not end
melodic carnival sounds
soothing the rushing madness
or simply providing parentheses
bah bah tah – poo pah tah
bah bah tah – poo pah tah
again and again
unearthly and ear-piercing
shrill is the monsters screeching
here in the subterranean bowels
of the sleepless apple
rides the transit system
in circles every night.
Weekday afternoons he buys wine
far darker than his waves,
pretends to be Nobody.
Some days he hitchhikes out past
tiny tourist towns straddling rugged
coves, past weather-worn signs proclaiming
B&B 5 KM. HIDDEN TURN. OCEAN VIEW.
BEWARE THE BLACK ROCKS.
The backseats of strangers’ cars
smell like uncertainty, like
fresh leather and weed and yesterday’s wine.
He’s not sure when that scent became comfort
instead of helpless longing.
Beautiful young man
standing on a pedestal.
Your beauty astounds.
Every muscle defined, rippling
…………every tendon straining
…………every finger, every toe
Your stance –
one hand fisted on top of your head
the other raised as though holding a spear
Your face –
…………a look of serenity, dreaminess?
…………or is it sorrow I see?
There you stand entombed in bronze
I sit, bewitched, try to decipher the enigma
…………‘til the gallery closes
I leave with the words of Keats
…………repeating in my head;
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty – that is all
ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”