Ameliasburgh time stamp

there is a lost seclusion
drifting from childhood into
adult life
a period of time where
fascination drifts from the
memory until you
walk with someone you
then inside an old barn museum
where you spy on old relics
of simple living or
living made simple
that the memory

you recall lessons given
by living
or deceased adult mentors
pointing out such ways of how
it was

the heat of the barn yard museum
pushes you out through the
you turn and look once more
at old artifacts -

are they the lost key
to a tribal civilization somewhere
far past any continent
living a way we have lost?


it’s a finished calendar
dated before
how we live today
understanding the short passage
in time when things
were what they are not now
and yet
the decades between these
two eras whisper
in your ear and tell you
enjoy the moment your living
before your ways
are behind fence posts
with laminated signs
that yell

‘do not interact’

paper sailing boats

Michele steps from mic to grass in such
effortless grace, she must be channeling the
feelings Eurithe has for the day.
this backyard stage – a deck – but a stage
with history to rival Massey in toronto
or the Empire in Belleville, downtown.

for us humble writers,
we walk on lyrical holy ground
where one must first cut the grass
then sail a paper boat, and wonder for
days, if it could reach Vancouver

and if it does,

then by long distance, we must all
write a note in thanks, whether to
Eurithe, or whom ever
may see it come into port.

we must pray it sails somehow past
that he will add a p.s-
that next year sailing winds will
and the grass will be long

- stage door ready, to the right.

dear katherine, thankyou…………

(before the show)
wife and i walk around the ameliasburgh
historical site

back to the basics
when books were a luxury
the escape after supper, where dad
could lay on the couch to sleep
with warning to read quietly
(turn down the t.v)

in our wanderings we find the
log house loo,
pre-jitters speak to me
and i fight the need to
sit down and play the

(after the show)
Mrs. Leyton steps up to me
saying it’s her birthday-
i sign her a copy of my
stuff, grateful
i am still in my homeland
and don’t have to join
toronto troupe back
through 12 lane correspondents.

we leave,
though it’s not leaving
when all this feels like part
of your backyard
- it grounds you thinking
about locality, and counties
a rounded out identity
and time lost

-when you live locally
time means nothing
and a historical walk before
or after the show
leaves all the voices around


i understand what you meant
now, and why one
last time you stood by the
shores of your
own home,
and have never truly left.

a yellow table……

a camera crew roamed the property.
every once in a while you’d sense
the boom mic above your head,
the lens nearby

in the background
kids played in the water
a neighbour tightened in deck screws with
a squeal
a canoe rubbed against a dock

at intermission,
one lady asked for a signature
and as i wrote inside her book,
the camera zoomed in
so i wrote,’ this sig for you, has
been caught on film’

the table i was given to use was
an old yellow round one with the
paint flicking off,
and i wondered about what kind of
coffee or tea he drank in
the morning
while he listened to the waters,
to the neighbours

i am somewhat pleased with myself
with how well the books sell -
all the credit must go to my wife
as i break for the portable toilets as
often as possible

but i am still an ant amongst men
and rightfully so, Al’s books out sell
me 20 to 1…make it 3, or 4 .
but i sit here behind his table-
a kid in the candy store
not entirely sure what to make of the whole

-kids splash in the water, in the background………..

Better Make it 3 Dozen ( for Mr. Sweet)

Mr. Sweet of
& company, won’t
be called David.
Not when he’s toting cookies
and pie

most of the ground audience
have finished their
sandwiches & pasta


the talk of pie is starting to sound pretty good

under certain benches of
different on lookers, are bottles
of white wine-
maybe, Mr. Sweet….
a bit of cheese to go with the wine
and the pie, old of course
crumbly white
& for the kids, a splash
of milk
to accompany the cookies.
A reward,
for sitting up straight


listening to the short hand stories by scruffy men
and beautiful women

- ah,there’s always next year of course.

…and it did (roblin lake poem)

the sound guys
boom mic
and 3-stand-mics
sound board(s)
and whatever

i always love seeing the sound guys
they’re the ones who make me nervous
the speakers or rock n

it’s the sound guys i watch
milling around, busy
before the show
who i step to the side for
and think….holy shit

forget everyone else
if there(s)sound guys
and equipment-
something cool is about to go down

- and it did………..

Reading at the A-Frame…….Purdy Awesome – and this, is post #1,000











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