Saturday, September 24, 2011

Sidwalks


On the cracked sidewalks of my mind
there’s a question dressed in rags
that begs an answer. 

Every day I pass by, ignoring its tin can
rattle, the pungent smell, need for bread,
water and a roof. 

The question does not want money
only opportunity.  I choose to mute it
with  nonsensical chatter

television, chaos of work, or a bottle
of fine French wine.  In the moments
before sleep I hear it and know

the question will follow me down
into the lucidness of dreams.  There is fear
in listening

to something that howls for freedom.

An animal trapped will chew off its own limb
to gain it.  The answer is simple, the journey –
harsh.  Tomorrow I may stop

realize the sound of my own footsteps
fleeing this earthly trap clear in the knowledge
that survival

with one limb less
will have never felt so good.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Early Mornin' Rain (partial lyrics)

Hear the mighty engines roar
See the silver wing on high
She's away and westward bound
Far above the clouds she'll fly
Where the mornin' rain don't fall
And the sun always shines
She'll be flyin' o'er my home
In about three hours time

This old airport's got me down
It's no earthly good to me
'Cause I'm stuck here on the ground
As cold and drunk as I can be
You can't jump a jet plane
Like you can a freight train
So I'd best be on my way
In the early morning rain

You can't jump a jet plane
Like you can a freight train
So I'd best be on my way
In the early morning rain

- Gordon Lightfoot -

Monday, September 5, 2011

Here or There

One day the ticking that is I will cease.
There will be no creak up the wooden
staircase of my bones, my toes will
no longer curl like tender fiddleheads
when tickled by the foot file.

All the hinged planes of my body, closed or open
will stubbornly refuse entry or exit,
push or pull, heave or heft. I will not notice
the fragrant nosegay of lavender you placed
in my soapstone hands, falsely carved into prayer.

My eyelids, now the texture of onion skin
have been closed to God by mortal fingers.
The only possibility of flight sprouts new
between the rigid yolk of my shoulders.
Soon I will be nowhere near between

- here or there -

and no-one at all will notice
my awkward attempts to lift off
with some last semblance of grace.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Open Season

The autumn wind ripples across the backs of geese
hunched and chilly in the ploughed field
feathers moving like black and white soft dominos.
There is no technology that tells them to move out
hit the road, beat it or get lost, they just know
to lift off when the ground kisses their feet
with lips subtly colder than the day before. 

My phone goes off, its fake cricket ring tone
startles what seems to be a million feather dusters
beating the air clean of blue.  It’s only the drug
store calling to say my prescription has been renewed.
I smile wryly, can sense a headache coming on.
I turn and slowly walk back down the side-road
to my parked car, avoiding goose dung on the way.

I know there is a good chance that some
will make it past tomorrow’s open season.
Decoys gleam on my back seat in the last slant
of afternoon sun, real enough to pluck.