Monthly Archives: April 2013

“They’re Good”

Canadian singer Justin Bieber performs in a concert at the Atlantico pavilion in Lisbon

“They’re Good”

“They’re good, these kids,” He paused, and then he said,
“At the very least they’re off the street, and they can laugh,
And sing, and play the violin, and act. Our staff
Is tops, and we’ve got over sixty public productions!” And then he read
From lists of student symphonies and plays, and intramural sports,
And everything a public school could want
To please both students and their parents: “And our fonts
Are full, the possibilities are endless, quite the front porch
Place you’d want your son or daughter, niece
Or nephew, girlfriend’s ugly son, or any bona fide teen to find himself; a niche
Protected from the world, an out of sight promoter of the nouveau-riche,
The avant-garde. Our rainbow’s bright, and so’s the pot! The very grease
That’s needed for the Disney wheel of fortune here,
without the ugliness of work they make the list!”
But still it begs the question:
Are they blessed set for life
or simply fodder for the grist?


“Who Doubts the Sun”


“Who Doubts the Sun”

Who doubts the sun can rely upon the thief,
Confound the child, prey alike on shades and souls;
Perish then the source of light? Pedestrian goals,
Despotic dreams, righteous schemes, beliefs,
Philosophies and auld lang syne; relief
From poverty, gala festivals, and plans unfold
That pass all mention but better told
As to be confined for the lack of laughter. These
Bouts of constitution will inhale histories,
Breed legends in the schoolroom, the din of countless lobbies,
Captive audiences at every office water cooler, the endless
quotidian tours of long forgotten closets.
Ages, too, are chiselled on the hillside; tyrants, public monuments; deposits,
All as canon law and memory permit, enshrined in ancient lobbies
In statuary and bas-relief, the stuff of Scriptures in the formulæ of hobbies.


Coney Island

“Reckon the Weight”

Reckon the weight of moonbeams through a prism’s arc, a vein
Of luck that turns the sour sod from odds to evens; the zealous sun
Retains protective all the world and while there’s time to run
The distance , youthful reservoirs are subtle in their wont to wane,
Or so it seems. Reckon passions the necessities of flight,
Thralls reduced to sprites. Loose and radiant poltergeists
Run rampant in the open day. So spin the ophanim, so please the fools;
So worship powers, principalities, their mantras’ threads on golden spools,
While noxious winds care nothing for the scattered seed
And in the end it is the loss of breath that kills and not the cross that bleeds
Us all to death. Just so tonight, all virtues’ yeasts released in spores
that float freely in the early summer’s musky air,
At least till dawn. You’ll want the world to see your footprint there
And how you moved it all , and how you spread the stuff
Of legends, words made crystal or close enough,
and further, some few diamonds in the rough.

….painting at top by Reginald Marsh…

“How Many Transfers”


“How Many Transfers”

How many transfers, how many lives
And never mind the pain;
I ascend descending steps and reign
For miniutes on the platform sans fatigue, forgetting strife.
Less the aromatic oils of obstacles, reticent, perhaps, for yet another year’s
Summer’s breath. This station welcomes that train
Long before it leaves. Weightless freight speeds gently seen through panes
Of plastic;  the métro’s brilliance holds nothing more pernicious than it’s dawn,
while evenings’ dusks merely signal calm amid collective progress in arrears.
Knowing anything (a slight surprise) does not smooth the way,
No urban superstition nor phatic prayer, no tragic flaw
Abides dissembling diatribes to thrwart decision.  Intervention
Needs not advertise a lack of means to champion fixed decision
From nothing more than daily pundits’ milk straight from the elect;
No thing in heaven or in the earth is ever quite remembered
At the baggage claim as all my January’s premonitions die as early as December.

“Surprise Her”

ww cast iron bread2

“Surprise Her”

Surprise her, then, and let her guess
What took so long; he waited patiently,
She took no notice; he was as he was wont to be,
She had no time. The rest
Was lost on both of them; they didn’t care
To tip the waiter, neither bore the blame
For carelessness in choosing tables (lame
Excuses mumbled that the tab was somehow unfair!)
And, after all, the caf thrives on its frugality,
Wastes nothing on a knife!
Bread comes whole, unsliced,
A little primitive and only slightly baked, reality
For both and somehow consciousness of something dangerous:
Read the label, then, and mark these subtle strangers!

“A Simple Glance”


“A Simple Glance”

A simple glance finds the object sought,
A cynosure of desire, glad the whippoorwill;
The petrel, the arc of every spark, a still
And never wavering reflection caught
Within a mirror of a hummingbird’s pool; a smile, a sigh,
And in the expiration, the exhilaration of the two streams.
The creeks, one lost and one found, extremes
Of either form islands of insurrection high
Above the states of vapours, well below or just
Upon the sod on which the crops stand. Thus, a natural guile
Of search is evidence in every quest; the common mile
Of pilgrims on their journey through the cusp
Between what’s asked and what’s revealed:
God willing, the glory of certitude is unsealed.


“Centuries to Waste”

Rita MacNeil1

“Centuries to Waste”

…written for and dedicated to the late Rita MacNeil, who passed from this world yesterday, 18 April 2013 from complications in surgery, a woman dedicated to the people of the mines in the Maritimes and the working peoples of Canada and the world…

Rita MacNeil [1944-2013]

Centuries to waste, generations to accrue
The necessary taste to declare the impossible,
To set a pace the great mines, the plausible
Oligarchy to manage all those ancient clues,
The infrastructure, the slews, the very glue
Of the collective where there is none, the improbable
Where there was no need, the insolvable
Where there was no quandary, no conflict for the engenue.
What lovers last? What governments pass beyond the fool
Who rules and would confound Medusa with a heart of stone.
The people mourn now in the East, candles lit in Cape Breton,
Content for now with essential services while they merely work to rule.
We abuse the blackened earth, its gases keep the cold away,
And whether up or down the people’s thumbs, it’s they that must pay.
The interims between joys grate as grains of sand; results
inflame, exacerbating, fleeting, tired, obsolete at best
When particles must come to rest at last in lungs; the test
Of what is long in coming to the miners’ families comes by default
Worthy of the great travelling but damn the destination.
Once there, of course, the afterglow.
Memories retire, Samsara, possibly what blows
Hot or cold in the heart and mind, and once again damnation
Placates, the very flower of the seraph unfolds
When the point is getting there; the object,
What it takes to leave or worse, subjects
The will to walking, possibly, soul sold
To destiny as if a napkin on the table,
The least, the promise in the glory of a fable.


“I Have No Idea”

“I Have No Idea”

I have no idea where this shift will fly;
But, I am almost there, and still, within,
I have such weathered movement that my skin
Cannot be warmed, nor can I breathe, resigned
To find what has always seemed to be just across the waters on another shore
Beyond my chosen station behind another veil. I choose to cling
To bare necessities, confidence in misgivings sing
What I have cherished, and with no more
Warning in the room than a single glance,
A soft address, a current’s breeze to where the lightning strikes.
Vernal voices reach these trees and shrubs, the lofty flights
Of mountain streams anointed, burning shafts and lances
Of the sun crown doubts with quires of smaller chits and gains,
Impediments of distance seen through everlasting rains.

“‘And What About Companionship?'”

JT Morrow

“And What About Companionship?”

“And what about companionship?” she said,
“Do you really care to die alone?” she added
To the thought that I’d misled
Her, the presiding illusion on delusions to be fed.
What had made the whole strophe sadder
Was the thought that she’d be madder
Two rungs up on the gilded ladder
With the truth than if I payed out the thread and bled
A lie with softened smiles alive with some sweet
Calcified emotion in the two of us
With no more hope and substance on the antistrophe than the reams
Of poetry I’d written to that dear lady, darkly, or the sound of baby feet
That seemed to be the clandestine plan reducing former plans to dust
Or love I’d may have wrought when both betrayed my trust.


…charcoal drawing at bottom by Amber Senna…

“And All She Did Was Laugh”


“And All She Did Was Laugh”

And all she did was laugh;
Who was He, she’d asked,
Where’s the pill that secures the past,
Where the shining light, the pilgrim’s staff
That points the way and parts the iron clasp
Of seas, brings bread with ease, the manna,
The law from which the last hosanna
Of the season’s raised, one dying gasp
Before the long draw of relief, the intimation
Sometime forgotten but always renewed
That even in the eternal night of space are suns
And galaxies, cosmic schemes, stars and planets spun
Of singularity and paradigm, the endgame, fruition,
The handwriting on the wall and on the once and future moon.