a hectic Monday
A day like one from Bulgakov's
Master & Margarita
-the chaos of Woland, the walleyed and whiskered ones
descends its shadow into this shop
spreading stain-like in expanding irritation;
my hands reek, that
talcish powdery scent of
crisp coloured bills
mind burns with public receptions
they swarm as gnats
and nag as mothers
who eventually plot to eat their young
I shake in one of the confrontations
some irate Aussie, a video,
partly nerves, partly anger-
coffee ruled out as the cause
for I've no spare change to squander a cup:
"heave away, haul away"
away to where Pontius Pilot receives his peace,
the loyalty of hounds;
The Heart of a Dog!!
Calgary, AB., Canada
Doug
Doug was a guy I barely knew, the
Friend of a friend, bit more familiar than an acquaintance,
Used to play bass for a few bands around Halifax when I was part of the scene-
Played a gig together once.
One day he hanged himself,
His wife found him strung up in the garage
Face swollen, protruding purple tongue, disfigured features - dead.
Hard times- left a kid behind
That was two years ago
I don't know why I'm thinking so much about him lately
…I haven't the foggiest.
Calgary, AB., Canada
Walk After Rain
diamond drops droop, elongating,
falling in the fresh
evening of spring-
that that stays, stays glimmering
the disco ball trees and globes
sparkle in soft city street lamp illumination-
I walk along this silent ballroom in silence,
nature has not invited us
nor did it save us a dance
upon the mayflower
scented wind.
Calgary, AB., Canada
Last Poem of 1995
Old eyes view the New Year through
The peephole of a multi-bolted and barred door
Prisimed view through saline staring tears
To have a new beginning at the end
Of so long -
The genesis of hope in a bubbled view
"my door's always open" rings cliché
as hospitality is born old fashioned in the
murderous me-generation now at large.
I look from my window behind the bolted
Door and barred pane- the world is a prison:
Homosapien-society-homicide
Nobility is in your level of lock control
And faith, a key easily lost.
Coldbrook, Co.King's, N.S., Canada
Twain & jazz in a BIG city
I walk along like an insect on a brick
the sidewalk slabs my concrete shoes
somewhere downtown,
walking and feeling down
but like I've nothing else to loose
a sinking feeling, shitty city thoughts
tired of the same old sights and smells
with my mate Rob, with an angry gob
each of us our woes we tell
no saving face can be found for this place
though I admit it's not all that bad
but I want more than monolithic malls and stores
and passing corporate fads
feel like I'm trapped in a hole, this place
just has no soul
and all the running is getting me deeper
now I'm clawing away, trying to sort out a way
but the banks are only getting steeper
like an 1800's Negro slave, forced to
inhabit a cave
while my master simply sustains my life
I might have freedom to spend, but then,
in the end, I've only freedom of
cheques to write.
Calgary, AB., Canada
Christ was a Carpenter
I'm thinking of when I broke up
With Brenda - demolition man,
Judas of the heart
Safe barrier behind the phone lines
10,000kms between Calgary & Croydon
detonators set in dialing
the expectance of instinct, planted & instilled
undercovers
detonators set in dialing
the electric charge surges, current carries
the conversation and then
everything EXPLODES!
The air thickens and swells-
Like a wall blown in
And I'm next door shaking and quaking
The tiled ceiling of my emotions
Cracks and falls through me- that sinking sensation
In the pit of your gut
Her anguish expands like a sparked cylinder of
Propane - pain - I implode.
Total destruction.
I read some of the writings I did about her
Remember how I felt
Knew I wanted to know
The answers to the "what ifs"
When it came it was like a cancerous blood test
Result - diagnosed, alive and dead
Her love had found me, and I, I don't know…
I had an answer.
I'd met Jenny and Brenda about the
Same time through the hostel
Where I was working-
Began first building with Brenda
With eyes of equal levied to the other,
But
Knew, over time, that house
Could never be home - it's hard;
The splinters of that sacrificed structure
Forced to fall
Sticks deep and painful under my
Skin with its sharp slivers-
The nails crucify my emotions
But crucifixion
Is worthwhile if
There is a resurrection:
Jenny
Has brought me back from the dead
And I
Would suffer this in similar
Or infinitely worse
For her:
For the first time I am sure
Of the one I am with, of future
And fate - I've found the beauty and peace
Of which Keats had written, in her
Soft and gentle gaze
The "what ifs" are answered
As I await the when
We are again together…
"home sweet home".
Pudsey, W.Yorks., England
First Rain
The rain is falling
on the land dry and arid,
each drop cooling and soothing
for the flowers wilting brown;
The swallows fly swiftly,
swooping and swinging,
collecting grubs from
metamorphisising soil, brown...
Green grows a blade of grass side another,
a blooming tree
promising renewed life over decay,
the fallen leaves, withered in sunlight, curling foetal,
lends its shelter
in consoling shade.
Nove Mesto nad Vahom, Czechoslovakia
Battlefield
battlefields callused by souls
chaffing over dust-laden leathered entrails-
red river lines have run
from pen
to paper
and from flesh to ground
since the world
was flat.
Nove Mesto nad Vahom, Czechoslovakia
Justice
The cold linoleum met his small knees
With a thud - frail, pale forearm shielding
The multiple blows of the
Wooden spoon wielded by his mother, it
Burning like de Molay over the flickering
Flames of France;
Her eyes mesmerized with her haunting pains of
Past in Medussain frenzy- frantic
The blood rises, throbbing within slightly swollen
Lips, pulsing with the heart, accented in a horrible
Symphony in a throaty falsetto howl-
Discipline - she lashes out at the son
Who bears his father's features, as
He had hit her - discipline:
The rulings of her mind, tormented as a Grand Inquisitor
Of unknown guilt's-
Forcing a confession for confession's sake; so to
Sentence
To set free from a life of witchery in repentance & death,
With the mercy of a judge who
Sentences the starving peasant
That pinches a farmer's egg, to be hanged-
The boy grew up to be an anarchist
And believes in no one or no thing
Including himself….
Unable to forgive.
Pudsey, W.Yorks, England
Myjava Monday Morning
Stranded at the station
on a Myjava Monday morning
two weeks I have spent
in these clothes I am adorning
my hands have the jitters
from six strong cups of coffee-
my belly, cramped and prancing
from those cakes with seeds from poppies.
Myjava, Czechoslovakia
A Fine Fish
'Twas over the glen
early I did begin
heading toward the water
my pole in hand
with creel and band
heading toward the water
The crystal streams
and sunlight beams
reflecting gold and silver
a glistening foray
on this right splendid day
reflecting gold and silver
'Twas a zing of a din
as I threw me line in
a plop and ripple the water
then swift with a bite
she pulled with such might
a plop and ripple the water
She was a wonderful trout
with red belly and throat
and scales of gold and silver
didn't she shiver and shake
as in my creel I did take
her scales of gold and silver
Later alone
to me home I did roam
far from the rippling water
for porter and tea
or strong shot Paddy's
made from the rippling water
And that night I did dine
on that trout so fine
her scales of gold and silver
that night I slept well
between Heaven and Hell
and the moon of gold and silver
Dartmouth, N.S., Canada
John Brodison and the Policeman
If you be a' travelling
through Bellanaleck at night
be now you sure
that your cart has a light
for if the coppers they catch you
riding there dark
you might find your luck
to be a shade stark
Here is a tale
of a man of sharp wit
he ken of the cross
where the police would hid
so when he approached them
to where they would to find
he unstrapped his ass
then strapped him behind
Nearer to the cross
this cunning man did close
the police were just there
right as he supposed
the copper stopped the young man
who alone drew the cart
and directly at him
he made a quick start
Aye this fair bloke
was a witty ol' one
who went by the calling
of John Brodison
so when the policeman charged
"ye have not a light"
"ask the driver!" replied Brodison
with great delight!
The copper he stood there
dumbstruck as a fool
while his eyes moved to meet
those of Brodison's mule
for what charge
might one make to an ass
simply shaking his head,
with a sigh let them pass
Now some find this tale
perhaps a wee might to swallow
but if you use well your mind
your ass is bound to follow
a lesson each one
should well take to heart
if travelling through Bellanaleck
with no light on your cart!
Hunts Point, N.S., Canada
Northern Ireland
tomorrow
is a forever
locked
behind a past;
Good night Irene,
good night.
Dartmouth, N.S., Canada
The Seal
A great seal swam up the Liffey
and sought sleepy solace upon a ledge
at the base of O'Connell bridge
where little children spit upon his head...
what more can be said?
what more can be said!
Dublin, Ireland
Epitaph
God is dead,
and with It,
creation;
now all that remains
is religion to make us
feel strong.
Paris, France
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