Greetings!
These are my old poems. By ‘old’ poems I mean ones that were written during the 80′s and 90′s. They’re all important to me in some manner and are a fair reflection of my values at the time. Times change though – but then we are who we were, and in that sense …this is me. When time or motivation permits I may get around to retyping/posting some others that lay buried in boxes and scribblers. Never say never I say. Thanks for reading :)
———-
the gray and rain brought in
tears and then my guitar carried them
downward …upon reaching my chin they
stopped and a moment was realized.
I initially thought I wanted her…
but it appears it may have been
her essence that was more
to my liking. so from it I
reached in and took these things
that were not mine to take:
her hair – her plans – her desires -
her head on my shoulder – her
openness – her scent – her
polite way of swearing – her
exaggerations – her attentions -
her willingness – her friendship -
her smile – her awkwardness – her
worries – her memories -
her stories – her bad movies -
her thai – her opinions – her laugh -
her nearsightedness – her strength – her
youth – her conversation – her
concern – her restlessness and
finally of course her toe ring.
I hadn’t considered that she
might not want to give these to me,
and as a result I found I had to
properly return them – and so I did.
and in this gray and rain I doubt
that I might find them again – at
least packaged in such a pleasant,
wonderful and enjoyable manner.
———-
the old man and I
stood and talked stories.
when a story ends I
kick the ground smudgingly
to get them moving again,
and like an old tractor
they sputter on -
constant.
the old man hides from
the cold. he might be seen
occasionally to test
his shadow in a
dim sun. Upon
satisfaction he’ll hide
once again -
content.
the old man lives in the
earth and yanks at my
pen. when I thought
I had over-come
his reach, he pulls once
more and scribes his
fate in proper
context.
———-
I feel the trees reach through my window.
stretch like green into my lungs through
the air – both stirring and not.
easing my eyes – my ears …slipping
at times by any sense in to me …needing
me like I to them.
through but a few branches the forests
and jungles reveal themselves to me and I
listen for a while …like a baby might
through a womb.
and I fear my birth will be my death.
———-
clouds of red and greening,
streaming, beaming, magazining
their way between
the true spirit of spend and getmas.
hunched over a though
of sincerity was rea$$urance
that jingled and bited
the wholesome whole – some survived
the occasion – a perhaps persuasion
of youth crying incessantly
for the only reason -
- tis the season.
———-
these are my fireworks -
explodingly yet content in
their flight, expecting
a cold floor layered
in a sense of ‘come what may’ -
I watched them dissolve
while the air sniffed death
and I the air -
and felt the heat of death
rising before my open hands
and my open face.
my father stood sweating
above his grinder, desperately
giving life -
and I desperately
living death.
———-
peanut butter left clean knives, the
WONDERment of basic grain allianced
with water, weekend weakened milk
the hue of mon, tues, wed, thur,
and friday waits homebound.
a free-world barters never ceasing,
non-aging.
———-
how long is he -
that you and I
could count the space
between a breath or labour
over why and when the moon
took second place -
and he would or wouldn’t
wait – in so much or
less time he’d hold
the course with patience
until he made
up our minds.
———-
The color of rage hung through
its limbs grounded in autumn
sensibilities (a small breeze laden
with the solace of spring left
unconvincingly, came and left
unfulfilled and perhaps cooler in
its ignorance of finality) for
no longer would hands hold moisture,
hold the fervent sun and invite the
sly warbler to dine and sing.
What was had was on the verge of
the have-not while what hasn’t
was now obviously unknown.
And rage was red even in the dying
of the light, and in the sky at night
and red between the scent and bite
of the cold man’s friend. And
rage was torrid too, through a
land suggestive of evergreen and
evermore – and what reprieve could
be offered after such violent testimony -
or after rage fell through despondent
arms to the ground.
———-
The sun hit the floor, but it also
fell outside by the walkways and
streets and fell at the way people
walked when they walked on the streets.
Taking the sun from the the floor was a
man and a cat from the man who
also took the sun and purred it
between its claws and tail and
between its eyes as it blinked
and watched the man on the floor and
the sun on the walking streets -
venturing to join them in a stretch.
The cat walked the sun out the door
(leaving enough for the man on the
floor) and took to a fly at first then
realizing she could not, to the ball
on the street walking.
The sun saw the car purring toward
the cat and would not speak, hid its
face in shame behind the small
cloud, and the man rolled in the
absent sun and felt peculiar.
———-
The due time is here
where it wasn’t
before,
and keeps cheques and
balances checked and
balanced ensuring
more.
———-
I wait between the dawn or dusk’s,
rain and rust and waves
precluding hush and still I wait
until that single brush
might edge mortality.
———-
Evenings rain pulling evening
through ears expecting no
less of more than
evenings worth.
Extracting sleep from where
sleep deserves – pulling
shadow and sense cowardly on the
street, dancing presumptuously
a grandmother’s waltz.
Silence sounds the band,
evening rests under
fermata trees, tears dance
and sleep deserves.
———-
Centuries old landscape
droops beside passing life
and nestles death
in curiosity,
professing just curiosity.
Failed elements revive despair,
living roots dismiss hibernation
- a gentle sleep?
Perhaps, but who amongst
immortals dare wait the
sleep besides immortals who
wait to sleep the same.
———-
and to
you
I give a
kiss,
with it
all
is said so
that
no more
need
be under-
stood.
———-
falling rain proclaim
the essence of
springtime’s hidden pain
as only you
further living pride
to what expense -
earthly worms subside
between your tears
hoping ancient dreams
of windward flight
come around by means
delivered true -
forcing pain and fear
of Robin’s plunge
elsewhere – leaving here
a sodden heart.
———-
by way of dawn the
eve’ning goes
and scatters starlights
repose
haphazardly about
the sky
while summer’s sun is
ushered in
respectfully to
begin
its sojourn trek about
the eye.
———-
The drying time…
between the flourish
of cloud-strewn furies
decidedly expelled
on the earth’s crust and the
moment where sun-piercing
arrows stretch like knives
exposing shadows who’ve
hidden quietly in shame.
This might be the time
that folds the book
shut and hesitates
the mind between
now and then.
———-
Between two walls
hung silence
unsolved and left
alone. Heat
would climb around
its pleated
and creviced dress,
refueling
atop its peak
then falling
toward the ground
with quiet
complacency.
And there was
necessity
that dared to
call out but stood
afraid in
the majesty
that silence
had commandeered…
and stood there
in fearfulness
until its
sure-footedness
collapsed with
the timeless weight
of boredom.
———-
I wound the clock
and laid to rest
between tic-toc
and emptiness
until the time
fell from the pace
and left a rhyme
to fill the space.
———-
a light wind sighs
and stretches upon
a shifted pier
upheld carelessly
(or drunkenly)
by unforgiving
arms. it was here
before the toad-flax
and timberline
a culprit swell was
pitched playfully
at the children’s feet.
a lineage
could no longer stand
the tick’ling grasp -
surrendered itself
wholeheartedly
to its womb-like dreams
and drifted off
asleep. mourning was
humanity
until I heard the
repining screams
collapsing as each
sea-borne step would
fall in sacrifice.
———-
This round stone…
callous making roughness
hosting sculptured toughness
gray and dry
seeming
old and dry
keeping around itself
unsound until the shelf
that holds it,
seeming
to know it,
senses sorrow between
marrow yearning to lean
just a bit
toward
some end fit
enough to break apart
the wakelessness – restart
some old rhyme
and fall
for some time.
———-
Oh death, oh death tis not yet time
for you to call on this my last
repose unto my waked state -
that walked with me in precious years
through winter’s melt that ran through spring
and settled by a bed of grass
to wait and catch the autumn’s leave
that disappeared so colorly
as all the loves that I have shared -
and into them a piece of me
as gentle as a southern breeze
stretching across a petal’s reach
that draws the fragrance from its knees
to stand abreast the spread of time.
Tis not the place nor consequence
for you to stay oh death, oh death.
———-
stroke and blend
line and stanza
note and progression
through the brush
paper and pen
working musician
come and see
someone’s reading
are you listening
on your wall
upon your heart
someone’s whistling.
———-
alone upon the tree
wintergreen
grew icicles that cried
when they seen
the agony that came
as their friend
pulled up his stakes to wait
for the end.
———-
A cold man’s friend whose grip has strangled me,
squeezing confessions that previously laid
hibernating in memory’s dull shade.
Their whisperings were born to destiny
that matched his still breath – calling the icy
frost tirelessly from corners toward
in sensibilities where truth decayed
and pale air hung suspending history.
A reaching sun struggles between a tree
who’s limbs have frozen tight – as if my heart
had fled across in some discovery
of fertile ground perhaps beyond the part
of winter’s will that waits for just the day
when summer’s seeds will signal its dismay.
———-
gone is life then
skin then dreams, dream
a lady and myself
and skin of dreams.
a lady and myself
dream, dreams then skin
and skin of dreams
then life is gone.
———-
why the analyzing why
Babbitt or Cummings
I do why
why analyzing the why
Cummings or Babbitt
why do I
———-
Fall is fall and fly, flip and then flail
and hellish runs of chaos
warmly met by a curbs edge
holding, held and heaped and harnessed heav’ly
by that swiftest arc then smashed
carelessly and lost till that
son of sun then secretly summons spring.
———-
The suffering of the foolish fog at dawn
is muse to rose and weed and evergreen
and insects flight trace steps of melody
through yawning clumps of shrub and tree. And still
amidst the gayety the stone – who’s rough
and withered face lies still while newborn winds
pick up the pace of day. In round a bout
ways the robins run round a bout the trees
who strive for height and waste no thought below
to where the stone lies cold with memories dull
and wrapped in pungent scent and eyesight dim
beneath the shadows of the valley floor.
A passer by did note the fine barrage
of color stemming forth in reds and green
and vibrant shades of yellow, brown and longed
for steady sight and placed a foot upon
the stone so bare and chiseled tight with strength
as shoulders neath’ the ground with life.
……………………………………………………………….Some clouds
reform just over-head some leaves adjust
some sounds silently skim amongst the woods
and out-stretched boughs relinquish reins upon
the sun who never leaves the forest floor. The ground
now quiet and damp (held hostage to the
daytimes friend) is home sweet home for the stone -
and his weary dreams, beguiled emotions,
laborious tasks unrecognized by the
living, thriving pulp behind his door, there
waiting for another chance to perform.
———-
Rhythmic breathing…
Rhythmic tiredness…
Rhythmic events sequenced from
Some internal, eternal, maternal clock.
Patterns – lending themselves to
Easy manipulation -
And a footpace through
Countless generations.
———-
The floor echos his dancing cane.
All for him is well – as such
The case with most troop leaders.
Although his group has fallen
Out of sight (if they were
ever there, I’m unsure) he seems
Content in the joy
He is spreading.
Perhaps his mind is not to the
Task – as he stops to check
A bus schedule.
———-
The fine line between two cities.
On one the mouth holds reins
To unleashing minds -
An opinion, one-sided, lends itself
To structure supported by historical
Labors of Grecian times.
Here the chaotic words run free
Of control – while interpretation
Is no longer an art but a
Common-day practice.
The other is devoid of speech at all.
Written lines follow written text
That follow written features as
Anything worthwhile is lost
in a puzzled maze.
Here the maze builds upon itself
Until its ultimate defeat is obtained
And that damned fellow
is bound with cement shoes
Never to be seen at all.
The fine line is a tempered way of thought
That seems amiss until the day it’s caught.
———-
Upon the oldness of night I dance
in tiny circles ’round my patterned floor
(The random circles ’round my my patterned rug,
The random circles ’round my my patterned rug,
The random circles ’round my my patterned rug,
The random circles ’round my my patterned rug)
A hope, perhaps, that I might chance
A partner beyond my sealed door.
———-
As I wait for what I thought
Might be the right time;
It seems I’ve misjudged.
The days pile upon themselves
So quickly sometimes -
And a cold nights embracing
Can hold forever.
———-
A moment was all it seemed to take
To break upon my heart
The vision you had left so dear,
And if I could I never would
Have lured you to disgrace.
Forever sorry I will be.
So from now on, from this day forth
I’ll orchestrate a change
To leave intact such memories.
And with a breath I raise your name
To final forgiveness.
I thank-you for this change in life.
———-
“Oh hi, and you must be just moving in?”
“Yes, I’ve still got a few things to unpack -”
“Oh yes, you must be very busy …Oh don’t look at me, I’m really quite sick you know – pneumonia …and I really don’t look like this.”
“Oh don’t worry.”
“Yes, you know Brucie’s sick and I’ve been taking care of him since they let him go, yes …and my name’s Peggy.”
“I’m Troy.”
“Tray?”
“No, Troy.”
“Troy? Oh Troy, yes …hummm, like that actor Troy Donanue.”
“Yes, actually I think that’s who my mother named me after.”
“Yes, she would have – he was always at the beech you know, everyone would be working and doing their own thing, but he was at the beech …oh how he loved the beech …you know, I really don’t look that good right now but I’m not feeling well.”
“That’s alright.”
“I think I just need to sit down before I fall down on you …so what do you do Troy?”
“I’m a student – I go to Grant MacEwan taking music.”
“Oh really, that’s wonderful!”
“Yes, I like it. I..”
“Yes, oh well when we were young we played the piano, and Matt still plays just lovely music …I don’t think my fingers could move the way I used to play.”
“Your parents made you take lessons?”
“Oh yes, you know it gives us something to do. You know if you can’ find something to do you can always play the piano, that’s what Matt did ..he did.”
“Yes, I play the trombone in a few jazz type bands.”
“Oh that’s nice, the trumpet sounds beautiful and is such a lovely instrument. Yes, well I must be packing my laundry …There’s so many things to do and Brucie’s still quite sick. You know, the doctors say he doesn’t need anymore radiation but he’s still quite tired …and he knows that I’m sick as well and he feels quite bad. You know I almost died from pneumonia 3 years ago, that was 89 or 88, yes …and the doctor said that maybe I’m doing too much for Brucie. You know I had to drive him every morning to the hospital …but he’s resting now – he’s very tired.”
“You hear that a lot of people don’t respond to radiation treatments, and if the doctors say he doesn’t need them then that’s a good sign.”
“Oh yes, that is good. He’s going to get much better, he is. Oh, I must get this laundry done and let you get back to your moving, you are so very busy.”
“Yes.”
“Well, we’ll see you later then, ok Troy?”
“Yes, I’ll talk to you later Peggy …See you.”
“Yes. Yes, bye.”
———-
Mackenzie,
James,
Father O’Leary.
In marble cast near
Six feet high
Drawing the gaze of those
Alive who happen
To look that way.
But yours resembles a
Rock, until closer
Inspection
Reveals a nameless plate.
I don’t mean to
Imply that you have no
Name, but like the Spynx
Itself nothing in stone can last.
And yours, engraved
Those last days with
Meticulous care
Was only done to the
Satisfaction of the next few
Generations who would
Remember.
With perhaps another century, what
Will you have left for us?
And who will remember?
———-
Running ant,
Oh you can’t
See the guy
Standing by -
Looking out
From about
Seven feet
On a seat.
Over there,
See him stare
At your pace
Through the race -
As you climb,
Over time,
Through the small
Obstacle
Course you make.
See him take
Notes on you
As you flew
To the wall
Seeming tall
And so steep.
Not a peep
Of despair;
Oh so rare
To his kind
Which you’ll find
Looking down
On your town,
Save this chance
As you dance
And you turn.
- He will learn.
———-
Simple enough as I awoke:
To rise from bed
And clear my head,
Just as the other common folk.
But I had felt there’s something strange,
And in my mind
I tried to find
Another way to rearrange
My actions – for I was compelled
To take a sheet
From o’re my feet
And pillow too, in hand I held.
I took them from my sleepless cot
And with a glance
I saw the chance
To place them on the stairs I sought.
So back I went to find the dream,
But funny still
I had no will
To question just how weird it seemed.
So hours pass in restless sleep -
With body cold
And night so old
I wonder where my blankets keep?
With startledness, this time I rose
And left my room -
The cursed tomb -
And at the stars down by my toes
I look to find my stolen sheet!
And pillow too
That I had threw!
So back in bed we then did meet.
Now I can only wonder why
If what I’d done
Was just in fun
Or reasoned through some other guy?
———-
Take heed, take heed, for thy time is come,
A mountain falls unto everyone!
The swiftest arc runs through the sky
And terror meets our freezing eye -
And no one under foot is saved,
Not newborne ice or hardened glaze.
And even towns, through time we built,
Would rather feels the summers melt
Than taste the force of human print.
And Crystals son prepared and went
Up to the surface where he tried
To post look-out: least we should hide.
Yet seems to be of no avail
As no one calculates the trail
Of man who’s stride is long of breath
And sees the snow but not the death.
———-
So we beneath times passing breath
Just as Bahartrihari’s death
Have nothing as a choice to make
With time who’s seldom ever late.
An ending will not slow the pace
And humans only make the race
Unto the quest of life so long.
Why can’t they see it’s always gone?
———-
And to the man in olden days
Who’d written bout’ his journeyed ways.
The things he saw, and then to feel,
He kept for me and made them real.
His passion for the human kind
And understanding of the mind.
Descriptiveness he did explore
Without the verb or metaphor.
He sought the heart – a human bond,
By speaking of the early dawn
And nothing of his words are lost
As such the reoccurring Frost.
———-
God, If you are finite – and I can know you,
then make yourself known to me.
And if you are not, then I can never
know you, for I am a man.
———-
Out through the window she screams,
And following hers is another -
With less to say but not without meaning.
And so she looks upon him.
Her heart is torn – but there is nothing
She can do.
Somewhere, perhaps, there is a destiny
For him to follow – and it breaks
Her heart that she cannot finish what
She has started.
And she leaves.
He is alone with primal bonds reaching
For something not there.
And perhaps some disappear.
Yet there are others he will share
With time,
And his newfound toys.
The second choice that was made
Grants unending paths and not without meaning -
Something I can return.
———-
By candle light I write this verse;
Though not the first – may be the worst.
