FACEBOOK

 Hey Facebook, you're utterly boring.

Hay Facebook, my worst traits imploring.

Hey Facebook, getting likes is scoring.

Hey Facebook, feels like whoring.

Hey Facebook, the worst you're adoring.

Hey Facebook, the fetid marsh boiling.

Hey Facebook, our integrity spoiling.

Hey Facebook, your hinges need oiling.

Hey Facebook, no wonder you're toiling.

Hey Facebook, your undies are soiling.

Hey Facebook, I'm crocheting a doily. 

I want the world to see it.

Thank you.

This Poem Will Self Destruct

If you want to make other people happy

unrecovered trauma is spurring you on.

I want to see others happy,

but I do not want to be the means.

When I see turmoil, I want to help

but to come out of hiding, no, 

that is just not possible.

But I could shoot light ray prayers,

thought vibes that can lift and encourage.

But I won't leave this cave;

please don\t ask me to leave this cave.

Here is meditation, here is retreat

and the quiet sounds of nature.

When I do come out I can stay present

only long enough for you to believe.

But when gaining substance

the chills fear in my soul. 

When I did this before 

things fared not well.

When I thought I was real

it was easy to pretend

But now I am unreal

and to gain reality 

will be my end.

The end.

Again.

The Bear

I would like to hibernate,

to go underground for a long time,

slow my heart to an aching throb

and my breathing to a wisp of air,

entering and leaving.

I would like to have hair like a rug

and big paws meaty with claws

to rip bark from a tree.

I would pull myself into a cave,

rocks and moss and the fresh earth.

And I would have stuffed myself for months

on carrion and slugs and a moose

I had tracked and pulled down 

with my strength.

And then I would sleep but 

not like I do now

but in a half trance maintained

so I could wander the planets

and use my unusual gaze.

Sid and Nancy

 We love our knives

and the whetting of blades

and blood;

there's always blood

amidst confusion,

blood and confusion.

No one understands 

that the next incarnation

will be perfect,

better, cause it's always better.

What we achieve in the flesh

is always stretching

to find the new climax

and if in exhaustion

we collapse in mindless violence,

somewhere within what we lose in pain

is the concept of maximum pleasure gained.

With Each Other

The time has almost come

and what are you waiting for?

The moon has turned to blood

and the dancers are standing guard.

Lights have reached the stars

and they have donned their masks.

And we sit.

And we sit

admiring the night and 

our last chance. 

Destruction is beautiful,

sounds and colours

lacking imagination

are just and only themselves

as you and I are only ourselves

and with all else gone

what shall we do

what shall we do 

with each other

Too Many Straights

 I'm playing games to keep me sane

But still I'm going crazy again

Too many straights

serving up plates

of the same old me vs you stew.

If I dive off a cliff

you'll catch my riff

but then forget very soon.

preoccupations will come

soothing you dumb

innocuous to events of that day

I'll not bother you

I'm just passing through

This world is not my home

I'm still searching

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

Adieu

And I had to agree   at the end of the day

that the world was different   between you and I;

that we would part company   each to go our own way.

With bitterness yielding,   I envisioned a path,

a door to the future,    with no encumbrance 

of you or our past,   free at last.

I denied my own truth   for so many years,

thinking of duty,   afraid you would leave,

hiding my longings,   swallowing tears.

But now the door opens   thanks to your drive

to have a new life,   to feel you're alive.

"I'm just too young    to be stuck in this rut."

So I'll call you a saviour   instead of a slut.

You're free,   now go.

Be well my friend,  may we never meet again.

  

Eyes

The eyes of the horse are dark like the lake at night.
While the eyes of the loon are rubies.
I have seen the eyes of owls twice, blue, grey and wide,
able to blink independently, the face is an orifice of time.
The eyes of my cat are different, one blue, one green,
and they run all the time, leaving her face a mucky mess.
The eyes of my wife are blue like mine.
The eyes of my grandson are brown like his skin.
They both live with me and help me to see.

Inside Out

FUCK THE SONNET

my feelings are searing

the walls of my brain

if he knew what you did

that you planned it all

without him
every year he was there
every year invited

he would be heartbroken
that you excluded him
he's been excluded
all his life

you know I love him

more than myself

and even with normal

i need patience

to keep my feet on the floor

but this has broken me

my feelings for you

which were once Gardenias blooming

are now bulrushes

in the fall

spent and blowing

away on the wind

Dreamers

Dreamers

are watching 

galaxies being born

where the stars collapse upon themselves,

by punching through an antimatter barrier.

Dreamers see all that is released into the void,

the unknown possibilities of

matter becoming fact,

factual.

You do this 

unconsciously without

interruption, you take what you know,

and on it bestow it’s own immortality.

It lives on forever gathering to itself 

similar intentions, given their impetus

from entities, cheerleaders cheering,

throwing their weight on you. You

make it through. 

You become,

a constellite dancing,

a meteoric glancing off lights,

themselves moving at speeds that

make time turn backwards.

But you heed that not, you’re gathering mass,

you forget you’ve deceased because

as your speed increased you

were reborn.

Openings

I once opened the earth with an antique plow,
three tines that were meant to be horse drawn
but I was using a gasoline powered tractor
manufactured by Massey in 1954.
It had two close spaced tires at the front
to stay out of the furrows while
you broke up the earth.

And I worshiped the dirt in those days,
with it's rich dark smells and I disc'd and I
harrowed until the mud became a soft bed
and I mulched in manure and compost,
planted geraniums, tomatoes, onions, carrots,
peppers and sunflowers with tall heads, like
watchers and keepers and at the far end
we put in the herbs, basil and parsley.

We made our own sauce, and India relish,
working late in the night when the crops
were ready, with children running around, until
they were sleeping on couches and beds,
mattresses laid down. They were not mine.
We did not have children, we never opened
a womb. But all those kids made me think
of the magic, of how things are brought into being.

That was long ago. Now I open beer cans
and sit with my friends. The other day
old Gordie said, "One thing I regret of
all of my years is not having kids."
"Aye Gordie," I answered. "Aye."

Whisperer

Overweight, balding, crooked nose from hockey,

a bump on my left temple, close spaced hips, wide back,

strong like a ape with a tight skinny voice,

books, books, books piled everywhere, Mann,

Plato, Gass, the Tao Te Ching, Kafka, Rilke,

and a gift with the horses, giving back their minds. 

To do the same for people because we have all lost our minds,

 but, it's much harder.

Impossible dream

for me to restore the lost

immortality 

Betrayal

Too easy to

Betray

Misunderstand you

Misunderstand we

Different priorities 

Needs reconciling

Countries warring

F bombs casting

Fires burning

Ramparts fallen

Smoking ashes

Nothing left

Except

Deeds requiring explanations

Explanations requiring deeds

Left nothing
Except 

Ashes smoking

Fallen ramparts

Burning fires

Casting F bombs

Warring countries

Reconciling needs

Priorities differ

We understanding

You understanding

To easy too

Betray