Sunday 27 March 2022

Watching

Nothing left to day, to say

as the starlings line the wires

and chit chat and call with whistles

and clucks. People are stalking

with manic needs that never

will be satisfied. But I cannot

do a thing anymore except watch.

They think I'm demented and 

maybe I am but I know what

to do and what not to do and

to not say anything. Even the 

cold north wind with skin biting

teeth is my welcome guest. As

is the stray dog, the raccoon and 

the crazy man who yells at night.

Saturday 12 March 2022

Growing old

 Lloyds lamp and Dad's knife,

Zena's fur coat and the money

from Janice. Dan's always talking

about Irene. And I still think of

Dusty and Sue. Uncle Greg 

at the farm and Uncle Jim 

drunk in his car. Both my 

grandfathers living in Whitby.

My own fathers tomb with

the trout on the headstone.

Trying so hard for something

so frail and tentative. I am

always wanting to do better.


Friday 9 November 2018

Zero Gravity

Why do you tie yourself up in knots?
So you can come undone again?
And why not? What is it for?
If not to make you different. 
If not to notice one more chain.
One more fetter to restrain your freedom.
One more reason to be bound to the earth.
Because otherwise you might just float away.

Thursday 8 November 2018



Days of impeccability have come,
like the storm of snow
pushing white blindness.
Days of love,
times of courage,
echoes of comets,
language of stars,
dreams of planets dissolved.

Extravagance cannot be measured
when purpose is born.
And this body, this body,
no longer necessary,
remains for you.
To leave it
I must leave you.
That, I won't do.

Wednesday 31 October 2018

Think About It

If you are an eternal being,
death is never real.
You could believe you arrived
because you chose.

If you are an eternal being,
this life is designed,
and all your friends and foes
are your helpers.

If you are an eternal being,
all you need to do
is awaken to yourself,
Arise sleeper.

Awakenings they're called,
when a soul sees
itself for the first time,
first sight, first love.

If you are an eternal being,
a hidden gemstone
resides within, waiting,
 be found,  be seen.

Tuesday 30 October 2018

Waking

Wending through paths of time,
wondering all the while,
watching decades come and 
wither, drying corn in 
weathered fields, crisp, fragile,
wasted harvests, but still,
winters drought loves this crop.
Without it, no forage
would provide a yielding,
without it death would gain.
Waking to this wondering,
wondering at this show,
we see coincidence,
waking mercy, mercy
walking, doe and fawn,
when I smile and I say,
"what do I know, nothing."

Monday 29 October 2018

The Commute

My favourite drive home starts in the bottom west end of the city.
You drive along Lakeshore until you hit Brown's Line which
is easy to miss because it snakes off like a crooked sapling of
an apple tree trunk.

And you follow that north to 427, an old highway with roads
adding and leading off, a twisting of vines and if you're not careful
you'll end up on Burnamthorpe or the 401 east but I take the 401 west
and swerve onto 427 again.

Up past Finch where I would pick up my grandson,
up past Woodbine Raceway where both of his parents
exercised Thoroughbreds in all kinds of weather
and keep to the right for the 407.

A toll road they built a decade ago that transforms
2 hours of traffic into a half hour glide.
East to the York Durham Line, then north
past the Pickering Airport that never was built,
lands now grown wild.
Just cash croppers and coyotes, bears and deer,
vultures and turkeys, so close to the city,
It helps my head clear.

Turn east on the 9th towards Claremont, my old town,
where I stop to buy beer at the variety store,
and then turn north on Brock Road,
past the horse farm that the crazy rich guy built
for his young wife, past the guy who sells eggs, 
chickens walking all over his yard.
Past the deer farm, until you hit Coppins Corners.

Then east on Durham 21, through the forests that
host the trails for hikers and bikers. 
Until your crest the hill at Durham 23, 
turning north again.

Past Chalk Lake and the spring always busy
with people getting fresh water, past the ski hill, 
past the Gospel Hall, rising with the hills to Highway 47,
to the west is Uxbridge, to the east Port Perry with
it's famous lake of mud and weeds called Scugog.

Keep rising north into the snow belt where I once
rolled by truck, hitting black ice. I still count myself
lucky to be here.
 Down the slopes and up the hills,
past the donkey farm and the gravel pits in the distance,
on the home stretch.

The flashing light signals my last turn onto River St.
and the heading east towards Sunderland,
farmers fields and silos, grain elevators and corn,
and often the smell of manure freshly spread.
I drive into the town at a slow cruise,
look for neighbors, a nod and a wave,
and to my house with the driveway full,
horse trailer and truck, I deek into my spot
with my little white car, another commute ends.