Category Archives: Poetry

Presence Past Pulse

Some days I think

I’ve learned

I don’t call it mastery

I don’t call it

Quiet, though

takes effort

Practice perseverance

Resistance restraint

Breathing at precisely the moment

my mouth opens to utter some advice

Coughing works, too

though noiseless is my preferred mode

Hold steady to the Present

I want to say to sorrowful suffering worriers

It’s no platitude

I am a true believer

Ask me

Yet here I am on this rainy Sunday

digging through a box of cassette tapes

Stories without labels

Chapters with broken plot lines

Their players lost or names misremembered

Escaped from out of necessity

Dead

And this one of a whole radio show

I sit cross legged in my present moment

listen close to my heartbeat

deciding how its rhythm jives with evidence

another me existed

in another time with another voice

Crackling through radio waves

telling stories it seems I knew well

A voice of youth and confidence

Reverence for music

I am not yet sure I want to meet her

sip any of that Was medicine

or revisit messages sent through the tunes

she played for ears she imagined might

be listening for choice cuts from the radio

Stalled here in the present past unable to say

either hello old friend or please just go away

A Fair Day

I was tapping out a rhythm with my cutlery and my glass

He was sitting on the shady side of the road

I slipped him into a plot where it seemed he belonged

He sat there looking at three hungry dogs searching

I wondered if he was working up to something good or bad

His boots did not look like they’d been walking in the field

I decided he must be waiting on a woman named Gabrielle

He had the gaze of a patient but expectant man

I craned my neck without revealing my serious curiosity

He took off his hat and with one palm smoothed down his dark hair

I started humming to a tune I was strumming in my head

His fingers started twitching like he might be running out of time

I looked up at the waiter who was looking down at me without a smile

and in that flicker of an instant that cowboy vaporized

I tried to finish the story while my fork turned a tasteless meal

He left me there on that sunlit veranda like it was a fair deal

Sky Talk

Study the language

What is the first line

When did your understanding begin

How many questions have you asked

Why not

Who are you now

Who were you before

What is the one purpose to which you aspire

The sky delivers notes on a messenger bird

Check your pockets

You may imagine you need a translator

You need only be still

Be

What is the message

What does a sky know anyway

More than I

More than you

A dimensional traveller

A seer

A curator of acts

A promulgator of fate

A harbinger

A collage of beauty and debris

A curtain of velvet and chain

A theatre of death metal and symphony

A canvas for reverence and horror

A chameleon of change and stasis

A prophet of mysterium tremendum

Whose eyes witness this same sky

What message do you send

When you believe no one sees

But the eyes of your intention

What is your métier

Today is the matter

Tomorrow you may know better

Forever soars with tireless wings

There’s a Crack in the Ice

There’s a crack where ice meets the sun

A star open to the temporary

A hole to a cool underworld

I pause in this moment to ponder

My invitation to the party below

And yes, am I tempted

But so do I remember

Qualifications lacking

I am only half blind

Unstable when disconnected from earth

And cannot swim

White Horse

What are the chances one sweet Sunday

you’re snowshoeing in sun just passing

a girl guide troupe with raised open palms

enchanting Whiskey Jacks to alight

Coastal Range holding their mystic line

Salish Sea shimmers like raindrop diamonds

And you’re hoping these picks hold steady

Save your neck from the icy risk at the rim

You stall as you feel its presence

Silent watcher eyes your stumble through

White stallion in camouflage in plain view

There Is No Paper

In the corner of the room, a desk

On the corner of the desk, a microwave

On top of the microwave, a coffee pot

There is a lamp

There is a chair

There is a drawer and I slide it open

There are specks of something, marks of age

There is no paper

There is no need now for it I suppose

People shout their words in their own minds

Tap their concerns by rapid thumb code

Release complaints into social media clouds

Fold their lists into threads of like thinkers

Yet a pencil in hand scratches a road map

A fine point pen follows a river of story

A fury may be transformed to understanding

Fire and rant invited to reason, new passage

Some hold steady the significance of tools

Language and words yearn for expression

Without keys our luggage becomes burden

Or too much a mystery to be discovered

Tunnels of discovery dark and foreboding

We invest in explosives ensuring no passage