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.