The stream (all workshops)
TATTOOS
White hot sun scorches stones,
their crystals burning rainbows
sharp as glints of light that pierce the skin,
when patterns merge with matter,
man made magic, singed into the membrane thin,
a shout of pain the brain perceives,
no sound to hear, no star to see,
I love to read you
Dear Esker...
twill be a pleasure to meet you
when I come to Ottawa….
but then
I wouldn't like to risk my anonymity
Oh! what a pity
I can never meet ye
in all sincerity
but shall find a way
if wills divinity
rise ruby lisp
like a jewel lip
the hot house leap
We the attic tenders
an ache of cotton
stretched upon our arms
and the tall haze of summer
climber of the yard
we hear static whispers
in transistor resistors
the wind torn towers
transmitting
we are dark ovid acres
carbon crystals in the light
we are the hunger of water
when our loves hurt and parched
passion wends our sight
After flying extremely high
by my incompetent seat of my pants,
I finally took some time to study
how to turn down an awkward "dance".
Armed with this powerful knowledge
I'd look over both choice's results,
some asessments took me down fairer pathways
and with others, I just missed the boats!
Nonetheless, l owned each purchase
retaining what accompanied each choice,
Silently, I'll remember and regret them
or bellow disdain with my Big Daddy voice!
Lately this just friends
Thing seems more like a one
way street than any kind
Of friendly relationship
one can't help wonder
if you wouldn't feel better
just doing your own thing
Does a person really
need that many
Friends anyway .....
Just a few good friends
that should be sufficient
But we all have some
want or need to be liked
What the hell?
In my eye,
that's where you fell.
What the hay?
You're s'posed to last
all freakin' day!
I wonder why
you insist on messin'
with my eye.
Quit it now!
Hold still while
I pluck you out.
Oh my god!
You're so big
and black and odd.
I hope no body
Else could see
How my eyeliner betrayed me.
gracious
Sir you Sir me,
a non poet that I be
but
that you do read
yet not comment,
for that I have no lament
as you are on the Board now
will you introduce the system...
wherein we could once know how
many read
and
so to ourselves say
wow!.
No artist is complete
unless praise is showered
ones work is replete
Emotion-less
pathetic
As ephemeral
as yellow leaves
on poplar trees
in early fall
Or the first frost
on window glass
doomed soon to pass
and thus be lost
So, too, grains
of years pass by
matters not how hard we try
on time we never will make gains
ON MY 70Th YEAR
There is no wound deep enough
for regrets or recrimination
no yesterday worth sanctification
and no asking worth the knowing,
I am a question not an answer
and I anguish over my own mystery.
There is no Glory in living
for living is what we are meant to do.
There is no Honor in ending
for ending is what we have to do.
Desolation
A sheet of paper as blank as my mind awaits inspiration.
Gradually my surroundings change and I find myself at the centre of a white wilderness.
A wilderness whose inhospitable landscape stretches endlessly from horizon to horizon flat and unbroken. Its sheer emptiness and desolation forces itself on my senses intimidating me.
Tears well from my eyes and freeze, glinting like diamonds in the midnight sun.
Unknown to me a kindred spirit looks back from the emptiness of space.
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