A most wonderful tree
spoke out to me as I wandered
around the vast tranquil lake
in the sunshine of my Tuesday birthday
She said I am a dancer
will you dance awhile with me today
What was there for me to say?🪶
The Grace of Trees
Ashes
Ask the waiter for a candle
and a light
He brings a yellow stick
a blue bic
These will do
simply complex like you
I know
We watch the clock
Salut salut
Thin like your mirth whisper nature
flame in cheesecake with strawberry
The waiter smiles
thinks it’s
somebody’s birthday🪶
Nine Oh Three
Here, a room
a floor bed near a window
On, a radio
a cacophony of voices down low
A glass of red
A notebook and pen
A resting nest
An introspection
A pack of we’ll see
A lamp to illumine
A night vision
A solo tour
A hovering
A view of two tall winter trees
A crosshatch sky
An obscured moon
On the wall, a clock
An hour and minute
An absence and presence
A ritual
A candle flame
A flickering reflection
A faraway
A song sung
The CBC
Nine oh three
Nine oh three
Nine oh three
Brother
There is then and there is now
before and after
There is
the difference between
occupied and vacant
Pulse
Breath
break
Silence
these bare walls
The Riders
We are behind our masks
but recognize humanity next to us
Eyes tell stories, sagas and series in shades
darkness makes reading more difficult
She asks me which number
I’m waiting for so I awaken to focus
We are travellers here and back
drawn to stand together in this littered space
I read the graffiti yesterday
or the day before but tonight I read it again
Which number are you waiting for
the woman asks as if I know
I listen to her story as stories needs telling
maybe it’s worse or better
I listen for hints of breakdown or sorrow
but she is factual despite
Tomorrow she will ride again she says
ride every day for eternity and her grandson
We are the riders of the bus
grateful for mundane recurring schedules
We are the quiet constant vigil keepers
careful not to wish for a break in the pattern
Ready
The book I will take with me on this journey
is not the book I chose from my shelf
last night
Then, I was looking
searching too hard for the right book
But this morning I am not yet long
awake, not yet separated from dream
The book I reach for now and read from
has not been hunted
It’s not anything except here
Quiet
Inside are words ordered
in a form and language that speak
with a clarity
I can hear
I am either weak or strong or neither
Their wisdom resonates
Even through the blur of emotion
I receive their message
I am receptable
Not yet am I ready but I half understand
one thing better:
Walking toward dilemma is a slow
deliberate walk, without fear or resistance
To know how to navigate comes
not through anticipation of what I think
might unfold but through experience
Stepping into the moment as it is
unfolding around and within me
If I can stand still inside this unfolding
maybe afterward, when I step out of it
Climb up from the river on the other side
I will have new understanding
or I will not
Either way, I am on the move
forward
Shivering only slightly now,
Ready🪶
Morning
While I lay restless dreaming
Moon slipped behind the mountain
Still I trust she was there
I am a reliable witness to events past
Therefore—
In the lambent light of this new morning
Remnants of my vivid dreamscape linger
A part of me remains present there
A mime with an indecipherable message
While I sip cinnamon coffee, breathe slow, read words from my morning text
Then read the same line again to embed
Both there and here
Presence and Absence
Which scene is this then and what act
Who’s offstage to feed my forgotten lines
Is the sky out my window the opening
Or the denouement
Is there a pause feature in this plot
I have questions to answers I think you know
Beginnings and Endings
At the close of each year
I like to reflect upon all
to note what it is I might have learned
before releasing the past forever to
the freedom of prevailing winds
Then I inhale deep and smile
my gaze upon the new year’s opening sky
anticipating the fledgling wonders
unfolding like a boardwalk through
the forest light of future exploring
Endings and Beginnings
Silences between
Gratitude for every moment
Every song and every scene🪶
Is There No Perfection
Who is there to ask
for definitions not yet discovered
A lonely imagination
pausing to look out upon darkest night
What layers comprise
perfection in form or grace or sound
Spirit of winter
Instruments built from ice of frozen lakes
cut from their melancholy depths
Are there screams
echoing from the drawings to surface
Is there acquiescence
breathless upon a reluctant entrance
And why forever
is it never quite good enough to placate
Our perpetual longing
like Alcyon waiting for Ceyx
Christmas for a Dreamer
Is it?🪶
Pencil Notes 