Time makes a good pen

A lot of truths here.
They begin to tap
you upon the shoulder
with a persistence
of drumming fingers,
and while you can’t ignore
those hands
that play out so much,
you can begin to live,
with their off-beat rhythms.

They may even have
their own strain of music.

Still, I know one thing,
and that is,
when the doubts creep in,
from around the corner
and the confidence wanes
in the bottom of a coffee cup
(somehow it now
has a hairline crack in it
that you never noticed before)
that is when you should
take stock of what
you have achieved thus far
and take that moment
to quietly celebrate.

Yes, remember to do that.
No one is ever remembered
for putting nothing out there.

Keep on creating,
until the last clock has ticked
and time is no more.
Even then,
snap that minute hand off,
and dip it in ink.
Time makes a good pen.



A songbird

It’s in the falling,
this expansion that I crave.
One to be in two,
for the reassurance is complete
in its lasting to be embraced.

Fully, I give in here
with arms that form circles
around your soft back.
This is the tenure of a songbird
becoming nearer
to the windowsill
by your bed linen.

Rest your eyes
in the peace that curls
as we lay beside in close,
the morning caught
in desires fulfilled leaving night.

Words could be spoken now,
but they don’t describe
all that is taught in the embrace
we share under music.

I could seek out a spiral
for the twist of hair locks
across your untroubled face.
Pleasure sung the lasting
flicker to a love
that knows nothing else,
but the taste
of a candle snuffed
in the dawn’s length.

So be ashen
as pale as the sunlight
cultured between your legs,
colours will display
your cheeks till the hour
is over.

Love, the lean against my side
I’ll respond in smiles
that capture the lamplight
now made beamed redundant.

Light a cigarette, and watch
the smoke coil ever upwards
around the ceiling that saw
all of our hopes yesterday.
Come songbird
and join the smoothness
that lays here,
you are the fracture
that is healed before the dawn.

All of our former selves
reside in this space,
it is foretold
under the roofs that left
dishevelled beds of creases.

The red maple.

In between
two red shores
that might one day meet,
on a white, rafting river
there sails a leaf,
and it chooses neither
one side over the other;

for it itself
is the very centre
of everything held dear.

This reliable leaf,
weathering all,
is there for all to see
on the wilder rapids,
yet it keeps its course,
steering within, and along
to each of our dreams.

To be sought and found,
it will sail forever
afloat like a certainty.

This red maple,
here, on the Great Lakes,
or breathed at the top of hills,
fished from the loops
of meandering rivers,
or to be caught as it flies
in the woods and forests
walked within our hearts.


Canadian flag – I think the red flanks could be the two banks of a river,
with the leaf floating in between. So, when the flag ripples in the wind,
the river is alive. It then flows.

The grate escape


I thought I might add some of photography for a change.

The yellow one is called Hilts ‘The Cooler King’ after Steve McQueen’s character in a certain film. Hilts may or may not be able to perform motorbike stunts. That is uncertain, but that’s how he rolls.

Another flower offered

It’s difficult to re-enter
a time before that afternoon,
the first rain laden sortie
into the hush of here.

The storm, it flung pebbles
from off the kerb,
and us too,
unwitting chess pawns
pushed upstream
to land within this cathedral.

We were the first, as it were,
to cross into a newly secured space,
awaiting the next move
played by an unknown hand.

That only came in its own time,
as the weather
and our hearts lightened.

Tracing plainly adorned columns,
I felt sure a withered vine
climbed to the ceiling,
only to resurface near the vaults,
where unexpected, it lit up, bloomed

a stained-glass sunflower.

Poetry, it doesn’t speak to me

I often have to tap it
upon its shoulder,
before it turns around
and chats freely.

I recall one such time
it did reveal itself,
it became a tattered flyer
on a Parisian lamp post.

How strange.
Why Paris?

It read
(loosely translated of course)
“For one night only,
an extravaganza of words,
bring your own leg,
and meet me here.”

I assumed by leg the translation
faltered somewhat.

It also didn’t exactly state which night,
what time or what the significance
of the lamp post was.

Or for that matter, who ‘me’ was.

Some things are the same
in every country, cryptic.

When I did return,
a little dog stopped by,
sniffed my leg and
wrote something post-modern.

It can go that way sometimes.