Etobico Creek

One last thought before I dull the pain of my tired feet by closing it into the dark of shut eyes.

The pain was well worth their pleasure.

How many wheels, at least automatic, could have crushed the tiny splinters of that bridge?

None.

How many horns could have disturbed the peace of that thriving, peaceful community of resident ducks?

No one walks around with a trumpet.

No trailer hitches snag on the flowers, no rubber tire mess litters the river.

And yes it is the city, and yes there is litter,

and yes the squirrels eat from what it delivers,

but they've adapted this way.

The city I can appreciate is filled with life, with bounteous life, and as long as I can travel on my own two feet, I can find it everywhere, I can leave the street.

Blind Faith - Aug. 7.

I will devote my life to the science of beauty, I will appreciate, with awe, the wonders of science, I will relate these wonders and experiences thereof, and, so doing, rest my incoherent soul.

They say NB is lovely this... or any time of year.

Oh, bearded wonder-

ah, me, your long-haired flower.

How you walk from city to city,

never stopping, no, nor resting.

How your house is made of canvas and,

oh, how I follow you,

perched upon your arm like a shirtsleeve

tattoo.

And yes, I'll stretch and fade

as your skin grows thin,

as we pass the years my ink

will seep so deeper in,

oh, bearded wonder,

your long-haired flower

is looking to stake in.

As long as you have starfish and

a pleasantly hairy chin, oh,

I'll follow to the city,
I'll follow to the water,

you can be my son, oh,

and I'll be your daughter.

Aug. 23, '07 - new book.

Another new slate,

another new page,

metaphorically and

rhythmically speaking.

Another stolen word-

a songbird-

and the bricks in my soul are creaking,

set up with mortar to shield

against future theft-

but you stuck a card and made a hole, and

when it dried I breathed and the world was yours.

No use for regret,

I'm not alone yet.

Go on, it's all yours to take,

when I'm gone I'll start

With a clean slate.

The Pansy Sun

So now I flutter my eyelids,
the grace of the sun in my window
polite as to try not to wake me -
misguided, as now I am late.
Good intentions, shy as a sparrow
my pretentious hands will shove them aside!
and cry,
you bastard, you blind
I cut off my eyelids, I tear out my eyes.

But no, so softly I flutter my eyelids,
In grace I'd forgotten,
forgotten my place.
Chopin and Berlioz hum through my lips-
that's a lie,
I know not
either of these.

I hurry my routine
damn light, damn sunlight
and your quiet peeping
that gave me this plight!
and I shove food in my mouth
as my feet quicken pace,
and my eyes dart ahead
and I fight for my place,
and the sun rises, rises,
burning my eyes,
when I want to sleep
to sleep
to lie.

But, so softly I flutter my eyelids
lips tight together in silence,
in smiling and sipping
my warm beverage-drink.
Of bouncing and dancing and thinking, I think.
I bask in the sun and I think, I think.

(Damn me leaving my alarm clock on the bus.
The sunlight is too pansy to wake me up.)

Forest-fire-forest.

forest fire, forest,
forest fire farm,
from dusk to dawn
fire beating on your arms.
oil pressure gone into-
sky pressure into-
your lungs breathing, in and out but weaker, weaker than,
the tiny pieces, tiny breath that then from me you stole,
whispered out between my lips, my last clean crystal soul.


forest fire forest thickening and thicker now,
black clouds of soot resting when my eyes go out.

Streetlight angel dust particles

I shone a light

by sitting pressing yellow flowers.

Yellow through me, light saved me

in the city's pavement eyes,

flower eyes look so pretty

when paired with flower hair

and the flow-er waters flowing

in blue veins, into the air.

I looked into the light

flying at me like angels

at a million miles per hour.

I remember the dance

in the middle of the night

in the street, your city flower.

To be stale, to be full of water,

to be sitting in a cooler for days,

to be pressed like a daisy in a book,

to be giving cars the right of way,

I walk submissively down the sidewalk,

I sleep peacefully in a parking lot.

Eerie mountain.

I go into these woods,
open my windows to the dark-
dark night, not quite
so friendly as I once did know
its brother,
the city.
But the city's never dark as the woods
I'm walking into now.
It's always purple when the light
glows off the clouds, my night
is interrupted by the gas station traffic,
but nurtured by the streetlights and
the windows and
the signs and
the moon.


My windows emit no light but
the blue will hold you and guide you.


In the woods there is nothing
in the night there is nothing.
In the day there are shadows,
in the night there is nothing.
It moves up and down and emits no sound,
which is what scares me.
I keep my ears full of sound and it surrounds me.
I listen so the music in my heart
thump-thumping like animals in
the woods
in
the woods
in
the dark
in
the silent
silent
cave
of trees and moss
the bridge
you balk
we turn
around,

We don't go into the woods at night
or under the bridge-
we just love it from the light of the day,
the kind of love you give
to a mysterious stranger.

What is the moon:

the moon laid down
to setting rest, from
black to black behind a mountain.

glowing nightsun,
(fiery orange glow)-

fifteen minutes til' it did-
pinprick, my eyes blinked-
and it was gone; though left behind
a memory of white-
translucent light-
over the mountain city blue,
so far away
that we couldn't see it in the day.

so i hope to be not like the mooon
nor sky nor sea so always blue
but a happy mixture of the two.

Jordan River Melodies

water.

w a t

e r

wa t e r

hushing -

quieting me

sssh, ssh, shh,

crashing-

inspiring me

ccsh, cssh, cshhh

thunder rolling in from somewhere else

warning me to stay away

stay far from that somewhere else

but oh, would I like to go.

cssh cssh cshhh

maybe you're landing today

somewhere near nanaimo

somewhere in the ocean bay.

find yourself here in the rain

in raindrops beauty lives again,

leave those eyebrows off for days,

listen to the waterwaves.

Saskatchewan

Laying sprawled in the

Saskatchewan farmer's field
hands behind my head
feet crossed at the heels.
Breathing in quietly a vicarious life
(I know he worked hard for this.)
Waiting for the lightning to strike into my heart.
Colours of the sky,
the holy grail of art.