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.

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.

Imperfect

Clouds rumble in, unexpected house-guests

to an otherwise quiet sky, pushing

through the door of a perfect summer day

to remind us nothing is ever perfect. 

Cloaked in blue grey, under-layed with rain

winds speak in the flap of tarps

rushing oceans of grass

train whistles hanging too long in the wooden air.  

Last year there were promises of return

from faraway places; now faintly evaporated

trails of words catch and crumble

like dry leaves in their annual exodus to grass.

All that is green today will soon be yellow.

We hibernate as deeply as winter bears

while stars unclothe themselves slowly

to a grim, voyeuristic night.

Alone-ku

Alone and drunk
at the top of a hill -
nobody looks like you

Briefly it Enters, Briefly it Speaks

I am the blossom pressed in a book, found again after two hundred years. . . . I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . . When the young girl who starves sits down to a table she will sit beside me. . . . I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . . I am water rushing to the wellhead, filling the pitcher until it spills. . . . I am the patient gardener of the dry and weedy garden. . . . I am the stone step, the latch, and the working hinge. . . . I am the heart contracted by joy. . . the longest hair, white before the rest. . . . I am there in the basket of fruit presented to the widow. . . . I am the musk rose opening unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . . I am the one whose love overcomes you, already with you when you think to call my name. . . . - Jane Kenyon -

Blue Guru

There is a bough on the blue spruce

resemblng the face of a guru.  I can see
his form, a hand sprouting a pointed 
finger towards my living room window. 

On calm days the guru sways gently

forgiving my sins.  The sun and shadow

reveal his own shades of grey and he

does not speak, mouth a silent yawn.

Whenever the wind gusts, he gestures

with purpose, stretches closer
wagging a finger, the movement 

of his head revealing displeasure.

These are the days that I am most

observant.  Rain hangs from the prickle
of his beard, saturates his soggy fingertip
bubbles from the end of a piney nose. 

In the nude of winter, he remains clothed,

frozen in memories iced with last year's 
unforgiving, drenched days.  

Perhaps that explains our natural kinship.

We communicate through intemperate seasons,

in little gusts of wind, peeks of sunshine

the empty quiver that is winter.  His hoary 
finger no longer points, only proffers solace. 

Today, the horizon brews rain.

I can count miles between thunder claps.

Soon, blue guru and I will speak again.

The Sorting Field

It's mid- August. 
Every man I know 
is sorting something out 
rolling around an idea - 
not talking 
lost in some sort of distress. 
It must be something 
about the change of season 
or a lack thereof 

attempting to match 
mis-matched socks 
or roll pennies into 
brown parchment tubes 
working on panicking 
when they should be 
arranging a rendez-vouz 
that has nothing to do 
with anything other than 
last spring.

There has to be 
more than this early 
September -

there has to be 
more than this.

Fly-ku

broken artichoke hearts 
green and glassy on the plate– 
a black fly creeps

Altars

It all falls apart
at the knees.   

Too much 
bending 
weeding 
kneeling 
falling 

at the feet 

of lovers 
unworthy 
weed-filled 
gardens 
false god 
promises 
posing 
rock stars 
hoping 
for 

suddenly 

it’s all 
too much 
knees give way 
freely 
no use 
standing 
no need for 
canes 
walkers 
support 

smile 
fall softly 

too many altars 
so little time

Six Days of Decision

On the first day she decides
she can live without him -
buys a sun lamp 
to permeate the gloom.


On the second day she realizes
a little bit of heaven is required
to get her through, so she smokes two -
passes out to The Carpenters.


By the third day she is so bored
she flies off to Fiji.  She delights 
from her perspective, an island emerges
wet as a bobbing green beach ball.


She spends the next day listening
to sun and moon argue about illumination.
The stars witness, and begin to chatter.
On the fifth day she returns home


buys a budgie and three goldfish.
On the sixth, she finds a cat curled
on her doorstep, its green eyes shine when
she opens the door to let it inside.  


She decides she can't live without him.  
They meet for dinner, he stays forever.
The next morning finds them glued together
with sleep.  The cat lies gleaming.


The blue budgie preens and finds its own voice.
The three goldfish hover in their bowl, looking out
at a parabolic world.  The apple she picked sits 
on the wooden table, waiting to be sliced and eaten.


Ah -
so ends the seventh day.

Two Julys

Two summers past I heard you leaving

softly stepping so as not to wake me.

The room was dark and full of you

and dread that clutched at all of me.

Instinct arrived at three a.m.

to the sound of flung locks

click of a clock,  breath exiting

sharply from an empty room.

I curled in the dark, eyes squeezed

shut, a child again at forty-eight.

It was then the door re-opened

you strode back, gathered me up

as if knowing, kissed me long and hard. 

Only then did you go fully, loudly

in defiance of the fact that you had to.

I was left alone swathed in night -

transforming back into woman.

Carnival

Few can see to the end of the tunnel of love the entry beckons heart-shaped
framing an empty void had it been labeled “HauntedHouse” half the fair-goers
would politely decline citing the sudden need for candy floss the brave
would clamber into the small cars expecting to emerge from the other side
half out of their minds

anticipating that somewhere along the line a man in a mask taunting
a chain saw would roar into the moment or that severed arms and heads
would drop lifeless from the sky fingerless toothless

There would be screaming -
and plenty of it

How then, did she coax you into the tunnel?
You - with the logical mind, practical life?

Did she look at you with her goal-post eyes?
Calculate possibilities into tiny fractions,
subtractions, additions?

Did the car rattle and shake as you clasped hands and entered as fearless
as the guests in the Haunted House? Did she kiss you with her mouth open
as the tunnel gaped, swallowing you quickly?

Cobweb hair, goose-bump flesh, a strange sensation filling your belly
your heart talking in beats assuring your mind

No sign of severed arms, heads, or men with chainsaws.
No indication that the ride was faulty.
No chance of a refund at the other end.
Just the creak and sway of the car,
teetering precariously on the edge
of something unseen.

The mind a blank a magic realism painting where the grass is too green
the sky too blue her red dress too perfectly creased see through in the sunlight
nobody mentioned the tunnel of love would be so narrow lonely dark the fifty
percent chance of emerging as two instead of one but you knew it would feel good
so good to get lost in there for even a little while.

When the ride finally came to a stop, you reeled out of the car as if emerging
from a fighter plane that turned upside-down with a G8 force the bile rising
in your throat but you swallowed it back denying the need for help your legs
wobbly and unstable she was no longer holding your hand
The crowd stared as if you were a freak in the big tent and you tred to smile
put on your best front your mask dripping with the sweat of denial

She was no longer holding your hand

Always Ride a Horse on your Birthday

Did Hitler Eat Eggs

Perhaps he preferred the art of poached

over the simple act of scrambled, admired

the precision required in timing their quick

ascension to the top of enthusiastic bubbles,

slightly runny centers wobbling as they slid

across his black and white plate, a side of burnt

toast to mop up the spill, washed down by a glass

of unspoiled apple juice.  On the table a vase

of closed Edelweiss, one pinched and tucked

behind his Eva’s ear.  As he stepped off to work

Could he hear her humming

oblivious to the scream of the plate

as she scraped away his leftovers?

All heft and cloud

capped white souls

froth sky blue 

Riddled (new version of "Anyway"

I wish to die a slow death

riddled with something

incurable -

lose my mother tongue

the ability to smell fries and vinegar

or new rain on the fur of spring violets.

My cat curled, pushed

against the weak flesh of my belly

her purr a movement of fur

keeping time to the metronome

of the bedside clock,

my breath a rattled score

sung to the earthworm turn of seasons

Postcard From Here

Twenty-six days

of stories and ghosts

scribbled caricatures

sketches and silhouettes

shadows inked over cobbles

in old Montmartre a decent man

sells word art behind a beat up desk

a curl of smoke

singes the rafters grey

he calls me kind

the gristle of his beard 

mutters it

as twice he kisses me

Anyway

I wish to die a slow death riddled

with something incurable -

that you would die for anyway. 

I don’t want to go unknowingly

in my sleep

or fiercely combust in a blaze of glory. 

I’d prefer to suffer

home to a number of infirmities

steeped in awareness

of my own tragic flaws.

I could lose my mother tongue

my ability to smell fries and vinegar

or a fresh summer rain on the fur

of spring violets. 

I might become a simple blank stare

where the trees once met the sky. 

Clouds would not matter

or the earthworm turn of seasons

save for the layers

I might need to assume. 

I wouldn’t mind keeping

some bodily functions

as in the basics;

peeing, drinking

knowing when to love

and when  the burner

should be turned to off.

My heart I’d also like to keep

close to my chest -

like a house of cards

so close to collapse that

all it would take

would be a puff of breath

or a  ghost of a hiccup.

I’d rather die a slow death riddled

with something incurable -

your afterimage still burning.

Anyway.

Good Luck Jonathan!

I was ill and could not attend, but check it out:


http://www.jonathanball.com/?p=1625


I'm betting against the odds.

Signals

They creak and sway, ancient tuned 
forks pitched to the language 
the steel of the track 

oblivious to crooked stones 
in parallel graveyards 
or the choke of wildflowers 

between live rails 
signals play witness 
to rail-riding tramps 

stoic conductors 
guardians of velocity   
they orchestrate commands 

observe the curved moon 
turned like a Grandmother’s hip 
bent to reap and sew 

measure the length of ghosts 
by the weight of a whistle 
as a slice of sun sets over iron backs 

we stand - watch the signals spin 
very much in awe 
of what just blew by

Give Me Something Beautiful

Eve needed to feel the pen
heavy in her hand so full of 

everything forbidden has always been
fair game

Pop

The first time she heard his voice

a bubble of champagne

caught in her throat like news of death

blooming darkly through the wire it fell

visceral as a bat’s night wings

sudden against sky

every string appeared to play

bass collapsed in fragments

of pitch and timbre

she curled into its character

no longer aware of street noise

in temporary search of destination.

A Bell Tower Speaks

Sky interrupted

birds fly from tiny chipped spaces

hollow bones turn flute

notes high and breathy

below the dirty snow melts

into dirtier puddles

a small boy jumps –

his red rubber boots

distort reflections

birds turn pinwheels

on the street corners

familiar curbs reveal their crumble

as winter erodes into liquid spring

a stranger smiles at nothing in particular

she grins too, orange coat open

as if to welcome anything other

than last year’s white

There is Nothing New Under the Kitchen Sink

Distracted, she stirs the kitchen with a spoon

Far, Far Away

She sat cross-legged

on the moon

waiting for answers

Moon stayed silent

ladled stars

into galaxies

Party Crasher

Uninvited, It sits with us, cold.
We try to ignore the way it stares.

It’s infringing on our space until the booth
becomes uncomfortable. One of us says

“I’m so busy I haven’t eaten or peed for three days.”
The waitress delivers the sandwiches and salads.

Barb rolls up her sleeve to show us her implantable port.
We see the tube running up her arm

into an incision in her neck, we know it also runs inside her.
“Only twenty rounds of radiation now

like a long slow round of of golf, one hole a day.“ We laugh.
Nobody seems to know that "golf" stands for gentlemen only

ladies forbidden. “Does my wig look like a wig?” we both shake
our heads vigorously, “No as a matter of fact

your wig looks fantastic, how often do you have to wash
it?” “Every seven to ten days I drop the wig off

at the hair salon to get primped. Sure cuts down time
getting ready in the morning.”

She winks, states twice that she will never again complain
about having to style her own hair.

It shifts uncomfortably in the booth, nudges me to move aside
while eyeing up a group of seniors at the next table.

It wants to go out to play. I shove it back, advise it to settle down.
Bad manners to leave the table when you haven't cleaned your plate.

The Art of Goodbye

Snowshoes are so much softer
than a heel on concrete
or boots down a hotel corridor

It’s one advantage of living here
leaving is easier than sucking an ice-cube
on a July terrace in Montreal

too many years of phantom pain
still reaching out to

Lament

I’m not writing
but feeling the weight

a pen in my hand

listening.

listening.

listening -

dull ache in the left side of my brain.

Gravity Bites the Big

Apple, Adam, Eve
sparrows from a bell-
tower

Lucifer too
tumbled – a wished
upon star.

Fruit from every tree
litters gardens every
where, sunken tombstones

across from a farm
dead tracks that once sang
parallel songs to yellow fields.

My abs, your hair, rusted cars
little black flies swirl in the red
of my Cabernet

Last night I swear I saw
Humpty sat on a wall, today
shells in the eggs.

Even the doves have flown -
leaving peace as a bite-mark
on the branches of olives.

The Truth Behind Chicken Little

In the end

The sky was not falling -
Chicken Little
was only growing

up.

Something like the Blues

thunder rolls out its familiar timpani
wind turns grass into flutes -
a train in the distance wails for rain

Junk Mail

Papers everywhere
little bits, torn or whole;
newsprint, blank cheques,
lined paper, ruled paper, graph
paper with those little squares.
Moleskins, fake moleskins,
faxes, emails printed, unprinted
receipts, money, cookbooks
journals, telephone messages
labels, assembly instructions
Christmas flyers, catalogues
paper bags, paper towels
napkins, tampons, toilet
paper, kleenex......

all my books
all my unwritten books

Reclamation

She knew when the refrigerator light went out
that so much more would fall apart.

Words no longer transmitted between
heart and hand, no feeling in the fingertips.

The sun began to erode into winter,
bright but without the substance of warmth

or happiness, what about happiness?
No longer a funny kitten with a limp

or a dog with one eye. It’s the small things
that slowly leave us. Like dusk to sundown

queer indigo space where nothing matters
just a fraction of what used to be before it disappears.

With everythig in shreds, she revels
in the null of quiet white spaces.

Midnight

I am the stranger you should have kissed
over there in the corner, against the wall –
me, in a little orange dress, silver stockings,
real lips, real time. Instead, you settled for
the same old thing, a lack of everything
but the same old new year.

I watched her little black dress swing
as you walked out of the place.

But I saw you look back -
I swear, I saw you look back.

White Out

I guess there is always something new to look at or learn, something like living through the first snowfall upon settling in Manitoba when all the trees were ripe with leaf, rivers full of survival. Until the mosquitoes in May - Until the yellow orange leaves in September - It’s still a place you can see for miles; here, they still hang a sheet on the line when someone dies. Until everything prairie howls white .

The Great Thaw

And suddenly, words

melted, ran, flowed down-

stream, mesmerizing as they

ran clear, brighter than any sun

day and the forests flexed with the

muscle of loggers, lakes crested

heavy with shippers, next to fields

full of poppies, lavender, spring

anenomes that only nod their white heads

for over a week - yet all these brightened

as the words tumbled by, in love with

themselves, clothed in a magical purple -

their own bruised truths. When darkness

fell you could hear them all singing, as if

they had just become something

closer to magnificence.

Snow-Globe

Finally, there is peace and quiet.
From a distance this city might look
like a giant snow-globe, freshly shaken by
some invisible hand, all the building windows
glowing yellow. From back here there are no
beggars in the street, no homeless children,
no girl shivering on a dark sidewalk waiting
for her next trick, no rock star playing God
to a dwindling audience. A fireplace roars,
tries to mute the whistle of the wind as it
lassos the house and pulls the rope tight.

It’s winter in Winnipeg
even the devil knows -
it's best to leave by the back door.

Night, Silent

I would have gulped the silver star
until the black hole of us became
bright; skin illuminated from the inside
like Christmas or a pomegranate reversed,
consumed back to what it should have been.

instead I kept it all on the outside
wished upon a distant star
just before turning out the lights -
I could hear night in all its finery
silent

getting ready to feed.

Un-Earth

It’s time I stopped digging you up -
only to contort you into some new position,
place a fountain pen in your hand, a cigarette,
a daisy with one petal, or a piece of granite
from the lake-shore.

It’s time I stopped digging you up –
to look at you, or tilt your chin towards me.
Once, I removed your tattoos, inked a new one
“He loves me he loves me not …”
I enjoyed watching; pretend it didn’t hurt.

I know you’re supposed to be sleeping,
but I swear I saw your number
come up on my phone last week.

Did you ever find that plane ticket in your pocket
dated a year from the day I placed it there?
Or the love poem I wrote before I knew you?
I wonder if you later read it to someone else, a lover,
her long dark hair splashed across the pillows
your mouth so close to the oyster shell she could hear the sea?

When I dug you up to ask you were turned
away from me. There was no note only a view,
the broad of your back. Only I was left, crouched
in a wheat field, earth clumped hard in my fists.