The Dressage

The black:

saddle
dressage boots
bridle
horse

The arena:

brown sand
high windows
alphabet down the line

And Then You Dance

with the feel of leather between your hands

left heel
right elbow
spine arched

ennio morricone playing

and you believe you and the horse
are a combination of
piano and player, both sharing
instrumental duties
striking white ivory
pushing gold pedals

music sheets scatter up wards

the audience moves edge wards

emotions moves you out wards

as you place yourself back in the black seat

of locomotion

together in partnership
your horse becomes your skating partner
you dance in figured pairs

while the dusty sand before you turns white

and the Sahara turns North Polic

ennio slides onto the piano stool
pulls out the extra keys
and with the added sound
now from a bosendorfer,

you focus on the task at hand
and turn it up a notch

the crowd stands in awe
straining to hear you whisper

as you say,

‘Dear Friend’

‘dance with me tonight’
push the clouds away from Caesar
let Zeus call for his thunder herd of
apocalypto lipizzaners
let Spain release the
dogs of speckled birds

‘dance with me tonight’
let my stirrups slip into your spirited hands
allow my soul to speak to you

About Generations and Love

permit my body to become you
and show these judging bastards
what the love of four-under-one
truly means

The black
The Arena
The horse

The straight-spined, shoulders back pianist

The dressage

Generation

Generation

We are the Canadian Irish
the lost moose tracks of a green island
traveling in the white fog
and building history
before disappearing

We build a church
out of nothingness
in the middle of nowhere
we are the farmer who stands in his
stone fields before the round bales

We are the forgotten world
outside the busy streets
hiding within the youth
of gravel roads

The Moose will travel
and appear before the lucky
the farmer will be the silent spine
of the few
and the Irish
will teach you a song
tell you a story
inside that forgotten youth of a brown
pew

We are the Catholics and the
Protestants
the tullamore dew boundary line
where Jesus himself said,
‘Sweet Lord But They Are a Bunch’

We are Read and Marysville
the triangle tip of Tyendinaga
and the never forgotten of Deseronto

We are the patrons who created history
who remember all the stories
who travel backwards
to see our future
and build our dreams
by holding strong
our
present

Trip the sweet traveler

Trip the sweet traveler
melodious spirit makers
blue in the marley
pushing a dead wheel
bring your eyes up to your hands
saddle the horses, say your prayers
the croppers fields, young women in living rooms
fossilized remnants, chinese patterns
the pink flowers with butterflies
old women on couches
autographs on saturday
the wedding dance before the journey
adam was naked and so was eve
but even now we hardly notice
the moustache covers all expression
a smile from an alien holding a trophy
the street scene
the bottle of rye
the spanking of westerns revitalized
the collapse of gas industry dollar
all the writers who are famous are in america
not canada to be more precise
all the actors are images personified
all the young voters died on confederation
the debates are southern viewed
northern ignored
politics always ruins a good poem
kerouac said pome not poem
purdy said ‘let me antagonize ’em’
the rest of us we’re not that important
the red white and red
the tragic roadside
a smile
your smile
my goatee in arms
the steady moving of the plates
melting ice caps
mountains breathing
a guitar above the clouds
the jet breaking sound
rain
sky diving
melting
landing
sounds
a gun pocks the air
the swamp swallows a frog
all the horses
all the poetry readings
all the movie posters
the audience members famous
the cup to your lips
the quotation we all remember
‘i promise you today – you will eat at my table’
earl grey
grandfather at head chair
dinner set and ready
forget yourselves once more
forget yourselves
let’s all sitdown together
promise our love to one another
remember those not with us
pray for the less fortunate
and wave the pink flower for the camera
the piano is ready
the cigarettes are lit
one fingers at a time play a song
the director says when you’re ready
a soft voice a low voice your voice
and i’m ready

playground

we once said
‘ girls need to be
up side down’
we were on swings
the daisies were shy
to the bees
the trees hid smoking
farm kids
the lawns were preparing
for track and field events

they needed to be upside down to
understand them better
or we did atleast
flipping off the swings
unimpressive
giggling nothingness

i am a man now
you are my wife
you need to be
by my side
i feel comfortable
at times i walk behind
you

we once said
‘girls need to be kept
on their own side of the playground’
but then we quickly chased them back over
to our side
and they threw dandelions at us

sax a phone

i stood up and picked up the
sax a phone
no,
i’ve never ever played it and
yet
here i am picking it up
we’re in a pub
together
and you ask
‘what the hell are you doing’
and i simply respond,
‘i’m picking up a
sax a phone’

i’m on stage and infront of the music stand
i’ve clipped the microphone to where the
music comes out
the curved trunk of the golden tree
the magic elephant
and i see you
hiding your face

and then i play

i play a love song

and it comes out perfect

because when i do something for you

i always want it to be

perfect.

afterwards
i put the sax a phone
back in the
sax a phone holder
i leave the stage
the crowd clapping
i pass the guy who i guess
plays the
sax a phone
he gives me a dirty look
like,
i shouldn’t have played his
instrument
but i don’t care

i aim my body towards yours
you with your hands out and away from
your face
the embarrassment turned into exhilaration
you loved my song to you

my love song

on a sax a phone

played

for you

It’s a (smile) Job

pull the cigarette
stamp on the boots
throw on the jacket
get ready for the morning cold

tug on a horse
yank on a bale
spit on the ground
rub old wounds

face the wind
neck rub the afternoon sun
climb on the tractor
smile at your freedom

Carry On With The Job

Weekday work

Set that hat down
find a drink to choose
open the window
close the newspaper
and sit down

Smell the greens frying
television v.s the radio
computer programming winning
the day

Hoping for the telephone calls
wireless msgs
they mean nothing to me

Close my eyes for five minutes
wake to a kiss from you

5 pm, i’m home

Valentines

let’s call it v-day
kinda like d-day
it’s all about the landing
taking the beach
being properly armed

…..i won’t make light of d-day
i am most curious to see a
canadian version of events for
that campaign…..

i stand in doorway
the mouth of the landing point
ice cream in one hand
wine in another
(tucked away chicken wings
for me later)
i spot the enemy (beautiful wife) in
foxhole (bed) camouflaged (bedcovers)
ready for me
tho i am heavily armed and will
win this battle

what was it Patton said?
‘May God have mercy on my enemies
because i wont’?

and i will be merciless in my lovin’
in my gift bearin’
she will be enthralled 1 hr
12th year in a row
i will be victorious
great General am i
i will be royalty tonight
because she will call out my name
KING! KING! KING!

eventually there will be
mv-day
(male valentines)
we will get steak and beer
our foxholes will be reclined
our televisions turned on
and for 1 hour
we will be left
alone

Before Breakfast

walk on an unfrozen lake
into the morning sun
and only the bottom
of your
feet are
wet

hear silence
in the middle of
the bay
telling you it’s
tuesday
and you are spending it
standing here

look between your
toes
as the current pushes
fish and bits of
dust
look back up into
the sun
and have it not hurt
your eyes

understand the nothingness
being said to you
every important unspoken
word
given in a
single moment
not needing your immediate
answer

Whispering Saint Church

It floats
across the crowd
from a stage
stops at a bulletin board
with a harsh sound of
silence

i twist my hands into
fingers
for a liberal sign of faith
and beckon
through the crowd
back onto the stage
to the altar
wondering about the silence

how does sound carry
vibrations
when the wind refuses to
travel?

how can the truth be asked
prayers wished
when a bureaucratic state is
veiled
then harshly cloaked in
grace?

Why do i hear holy
crying in my dreams
and feel a heavy weight
from such dead air?

I want the words to whisper
back to me
like a woodland pine
at a graphic park
and
come from the foundation
of a strong river
gushing from a great mountain
with the source
as transparent
as i wish my soul can be