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.

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 -

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.