Poems on the fly:

I wish I could

conquer the page the way

the bird conquers the sky…

unseen effort

because the construction evolved

without conscious being.

Perhaps the poet should lay down the pen

spill the ink and sit

waiting for time to catch up?

Instead we string things along…our poems

having more in common with beads

than the act of flying.

After the final punctuation we then

stand back and hope for an ovation as loud

as any explosion.

Like ancient tracks, we should lay

down all synaptic moments of pride…

ski downhill with gravity

so that when the end comes

it comes clean — art

as a knife and ego the aorta cut to bleed:

Finally the body of work

spread-eagled and flying far ahead

into the future’s past.

'Draw no more,' sage advice to my old self.

When I was seven my teacher sat

me next to Sean McCann

and as she squatted beside my desk

she pointed at Sean’s drawing

and ask me to draw “just like that,”

but Miss missed the effect her administration

had upon me. I laid down my pens

and never drew again (or if I did it was drawing

or be kept in) the fun sucked out of it the same

as when I ran in races and came last, hateful

of each and every plodded step,

but alone in the streets when no one was watching

I would run and run and laugh and think

with the wind in the right orientation

I might all but disappear.

Truth is, before Miss misinterpreted me,

I excelled at drawing for release,

like a wild beast, I scratched and swatted

and spat and hissed and with the pens as claws

went everywhichway across the page and the desk –

the way I drew reminded me of life

and the way I felt when my dad came home

drunk or when Peter McAuliffe

sought me out just so he could paint

my face with his fists

but Miss did not like the explosion.

She wanted everything smooth and calm

all the lines heading in the same direction

like serene dolphin

when I preferred the shark’s attack.

'Draw no more,' sage advice to my old self.

When I was seven my teacher sat

me next to Sean McCann

and as she squatted beside my desk

she pointed at his drawing

and ask me to draw like that

but Miss missed the effect her direction

had upon me. She did not see

that I laid down my pens

and never drew again (or if I did

it was drawing or be kept in)

the fun sucked out of it the same

as when I ran in races and came last, hateful

of each and every plodded step,

but alone in the streets when no one was watching

I would run and run and laugh and think

with the wind in the right direction

I might all but disappear.

Truth is, before Miss misinterpreted,

I liked the way I drew,

like that I scratched and with the pens

went everywhichway

across the page and the desk -

it reminded me of life

and the way I felt when my dad came home drunk

or when Peter McAuliffe sought me out

just so he could paint my face with his fists

but Miss

did not like the explosion

she wanted everything smooth and calm

all the lines heading in the same direction

like serene dolphin

but I preferred the shark’s attack.

Regret:

Sometimes my children are distant,

their voices sound like the departing honks

of geese flying to lands unknown,

and in their eyes I see clouds and skies

moving across oceans I have never travelled.

My hand then shimmers and I can see

my skin flaking, falling like snow

or manna to unknown uplifted faces

and my feet fall through their shoes,

enter the earth, and deeper still,

until I reside in the caverns of memory.

And I hear a thousand unlatched gates

closing, harsh as teeth gnashing, I smell

the sadness in a million flowers fading—

their petals falling like all the words

I meant to say and never got around to.

The unseen novel cries like a nightingale

I dreamed last night my novel

was published—released into the world

like a storm or a pebble

and it was colorful (when it should not have been)

and was read by the blind

and heard by the deaf

and when I told my wife (in my dream)

that the novel was released she held me

like I was a puppy or a tree

just beginning to bear fruit

and in the dream I knew it was odd

that she should hold me like that and Sigmund Freud

started to speak with me

but the dream rolled on like pages

flickering through fingers too impatient

to pause at any one page or maybe

as if the book

was held by someone unseen who stood in a bookshop

and could not stop to read

but must browse

in case they missed the really good book

which was mine

sitting there on the shelf

unseen.

some things

Some things feel so close you know

that if you could just close your hand

you’d hold them forever

but the only forever

is that when you close your hand

the thing vanishes.

Some things whisper into your ears

in the dark night as your head

rests upon the pillow

and you think, ‘if I stay awake

I’ll remember’ and then you wake

six hours later.

Some things reappear

when she looks at you and you think

you might remember why you first loved her

but then she looks away

and you’re left with a hole

where your heart should be.

Some things are like smells that linger long after the moment has passed

and some things are like sunshine, brush your cheek

and makes red speckles flash upon your eyes

and some things haunt…creep up and down your spine

or grow feet that kick the walls

to the womb of who you really are

and some things are lost before you think

to remember them and then when you do

it’s an ache…a concrete reminder

of that thing that is gone, a sadness

that stays with you and cannot be held or kissed

or cared for in any way whatsoever

and some things should be left unsaid

while other things need to be spoken

and some things when heard change everything

and some poems contains things that stay with your

to come and go like seasons or tides

or people.

Drowning (II) (for Grace Paley)

this is how the camel I am drowned

first
under a vast sky with the hand 

of an artist painted so blue
the heart’s red earth shatters
escapes
in clouds of words

second
a vista of rolling waves
that capture the wind
curve first this way and then
that
in the waves, footprints turn first this way and then
that
and distance is measured in tears shed

third
drunk at night
a treasure discovered in the depths
of the hidden cave
then the words and glory
turn to sand
fill the throat and mind

fourth
the tongue
flounders
a trout landed
and drowning in air.

Drowning (1) ... an edit

Drowning (I)

If sand could be swallowed

would that empty place within

curve back into a solid

and home, that recedes at dusk,

be finally re-found?

If the night, that hollow we step between

to hide all the damage

we have done, could be devoured

and made to turn again into light

would we feel the sun run

free in the tired rivers of our veins?

And if my hand could hold the right pen,

if the ink ran into all the proper places

and the lines between remained balanced and sober,

would I finally find all the images and sounds

might fall still         

the way a leaf tumbles down to the floor

and creates a sea of silence

for the many lives of the creatures that burrow

and scurry beneath the ocean of tree?

Might I, if I found my inside

had been turned out and drowning then

in the sight of what should be hidden,

be set free?

I saw a video today

of eyes

that look into the darkness where promises

percolate into strife

and in the background I heard

a sound not dissimilar 

to a baby's gurgle - except

behind the mindless intent

there is not a search for language

rather

it is the abandonment of words -

a disregard for connection,

a wanton destruction for the sake

of constructed revenge  -

and the headless bodies they collect

and the blood they drink like milk from the breast

and the fear they seek to instill

is reminiscent of the horde of locust ferocious

as it feasts upon its own green infancy

towards oblivion

or the rabbit that breeds itself into destruction

and leaves behind wretched soil blown

into despair.

Miracles found and lost again... (an edit)

The dormant tree sleeps, branches stretched out
As if into night's rumpled satin bed linen.
Below, the ice-laden field waits for the nightmares
To yield when the thaw finally declares itself.

An aching stillness replaces song, 'Farwell sweet friend,
The birds have fled, farewell and be gone!'
In swirling mist, wet with memories, sadness
Takes a fancy to the damp eyes of winter’s children.

Sodden red stars squelch beneath wandering boots
As the days march into the remorse of yesteryears.
In the paused hearts of trees there waits a promise,
Silent as a bloodied victim on the ground, unconscious.

In the golden light ice cracks and surrenders;
forgiveness is the act of closing a door on stored pain.
In lengthening darkness ice resets, a body
Reacquaints itself with the weight of a bitter aspect.

the swing

Each spring, under golden light,
a miracle occurs.
Every winter, in swirling grey,
it is utterly forgotten.

Miracles found and lost again...

The dormant tree sleeps, branches stretched out
As if into the rumpled bed linen of the night.
Below, the ice-laden field waits for the nightmares
To yield when the thaw finally declares itself.

An aching stillness replaces song, 'Farwell sweet friend,
The birds have fled, farewell and be gone!'
In swirling mist, wet with memories, sadness
Takes a fancy to the damp eyes of winter’s children.

Sodden red stars squelch beneath wandering boots
As the days march into the remorse of yesteryears.
In the paused hearts of trees there waits a promise,
Silent as a bloodied victim on the ground, unconscious.

In the golden light ice cracks and surrenders;
forgiveness is the act of closing a door on stored pain.
In lengthening darkness ice resets, a body
Reacquaints itself with the weight of a bitter aspect.

Each spring, under golden light,
a miracle occurs.
Every winter, in swirling grey,
it is utterly forgotten.

Drowning (1)

If sand could be swallowed
would that empty place within
find itself curving back into a solid
and home, that recedes in the light of day,
be finally re-found?

If the night, that hollow we step within
and try to hide all the damage
we have done, could be devoured and made  
to turn again
into light would we feel the sun run
free in the tired rivers of our veins?

And if my hand could hold the right pen,
if the ink ran into all the proper places
and the lines between remained balanced and sober,
would I finally find all the images and sounds
might fall still       
the way a leaf tumbles down to the floor
and creates a sea of silence for the many lives
of the creatures that burrow and scurry beneath
the ocean of tree?

Might I, finally finding my inside had been turned    
Out and drowning then in the sight
of what should be hidden, be set free?

It might as well be

The question is incorrectly posed as should we
Instead of why don’t we

Send our airplanes, empty, not loaded,
Ready to lift and rescue
Not drop and rend?

On a smaller scale
Why don’t we change so that the bee
And the flower can continue to brighten each day?

Who decided
A person’s worth depended upon
The god they believe or do not believe
In?

Why don’t we applaud all choices
Instead of only those we agree with?

And if he wishes to hold a man’s hand and place a ring upon it,
Or she chooses to hold a woman’s instead,
Why don’t we smile at the gestures instead
Of forcing the round pegs
Into our square holes?

Why don’t we
Save the coal by leaving it alone
So that future generations might
Do the same?

Why don’t we accept
That someone must make good choices
And it might as well
Be us?

Battered Orange

 

Holding the orange, peeled and whole,

out towards her nose, close but not touching,

his eyes peeled also, dead like the rind,

his lips round with hate, with spite, with contempt.

The juice runs between his fingers,

the pulp oozes, the sound below the capability of ears

but present nevertheless like death

residing in the first thumps of being.

He wipes his hands on her clothes,

her face and in her hair, ruining the look

she had sought that morning and he turns,

leaving without closing the door.

There is no blood, just juice,

the ruin of an orange on the floor,

the rind curling like the discarded skin

of grown snake around her bare feet.

He will return

and she will let him

the way the orange has no choice

but hangs from the branch

lost in a deception

innocence and fear have no account for.

In words we trust

Steel never worked

except for the collectors of blood

providing carcasses

over which wealthy hounds gathered

to howl,

their front feet resting on skulls

while worms burrow into the guts of everything.

Hiding never helped;

someone always found them

or the steel did

or the hounds and worms

or blackest coal lit the way

exposing them

and fear

finds everything, has a nose

large as an ocean,

ears and wide as the sky.

Pleading only makes dust

of the future,

makes forests fall and leaves

into graves for what may have been

if time was shared equally

between failure and hope

and we know that is never the case;

misery is the best poker player there is.

But words

written on paper, on walls,

spoken into the ears, into the streets -

words defeat steel because words

unlike the flesh

cannot be pierced, cannot be blooded

cannot be stopped by force.

Words have no heart

and so carry the hearts of us all.

so this is what a poet does

what does a painter do

when not weeping a palette of oils

down whiskered chin

and that man in the cart, broken in

by circumstance,

with the white brush

painting lines all day and into the loud night

so  women in bright floral 

are able to turn their vehicle

left

or right or drive straight

on into the café and serve latté coffees

with cake and a swish of décor

designed in a room with a large glass window overlooking a bluestone laneway

where suited and scarved people stumble as they hustle

just like words

and rhythm and

where to break from happenstance, where to leave one’s hat when dancing

and when to stop and watch feet

boarding trains to anywhere;

figures receding into memories and possibilities such as

when I put the pen down once but now I stop

touching the keys and hope the mind and heart

fall at ease.