Monthly Archives: June 2012

(our) Canada Day Fireworks

the long strokes of
your slender
fingers
finding ground
around my
rib
cage
the warm
air
my breath
caught short
at
the nape
of your
neck
the stars
a canopy
over the
waters
waiting for
the explosion
of young
anticipation
pulsating the
night
sky
vibrant colors
deep guttural
booms that
shake the
bones of
our feet
this is
our
Canada
Day
and
the
public
applause
after the
final
crack of
minstrel
light
makes
you
sexy.


Northern Climatics 1.

Your body –
pinocchio
We’ll start from there

Canada Day
this harbour is Hamilton
The sun hates fireworks

There’s a tree in our house!
– water it
, No you.

my eyes hurt,
Seen too many breasts
life is more real

your breasts seem small –
My hands are cold,
a mind shrink

Fireworks at 5?
it’s too bright…..
too hot

Your curves
my loins
A December baby


the windmill

i am a windmill
i am canadian
mom and dad in a jesus sort of manner
completely willowed backwards
almost dyslexic minded to get the ideals

i am in love with a girl who slingshots
me forward – my thinking straight and realistic
a goal of unfeeling guilt and life engulfed towards
happiness
she shows me jesus in her charity smile and works
of disbelief creating a faith i know she doesn’t realize

at the hip

at the cornerstone

together

we are so familiar
an interwoven famalia
we are canadian
in folded hand politeness
and generosity
english french and CSL
we stand together and our bond
is an unguarded border

i am farmland
with acres of dripping wet
green maple
my potholed laneways represent all my faults
my kitchen is where we meet
and what we play here on guitar
around a glass of beer and whisky
we work on out there beyond the crops
truth keepers
moving at a pace that holds us firm

she is the city
ever moving
and i glide into position
downtown livelihood
readiness
and we share the necessity
of surviving somehow
bettering ourselves and each other

mom and dad

are you out there tonight

‘a foolish question my child’

and i work on that
the foolish question
recognize the answer of Peter
and the acknowledgment of a
passing car

i am humble
i am proud
and i showcase myself to you
quietly
strong
and self sure

these are my words

held on the eyelash of a horse
at the hip of my plowed field

standing tall

the windmill


Marriage

I wish my bed were a cot,
placed in the middle of an Ontario forest
on a June-lit night, till the second week of
September.
I wish my clothes were the embodiment of earth
far away from death,
in the colors of October, when everything is going home
and home for me were already here.
The poplars could be my rain
the soft white cedars a, fortress Cathedral
God would be jealous
but pleased to visit,
realizing for the first time
what His hands have created.
I wish you were here to share it all
and you are,
in return I’m realizing for the first time
why God created what He’s created.


Summer Taste

Pronounce secret tongue
teach wild song
when day and
she
grow sister love

Smell page work
burn lace
build wind sound
from use and
put
red bouquets
after evening blossom
Morning Avenue.


PLAYBOY (For the Articles)

so they say
the first chapter of
Dennis Lehanes’
new novel will be in
Playboy.
i’m left to think,
‘what better’

breasts and fiction

two fakery’s merged
together.
dark fantasies brought
to life

with articles of words
and articles of clothing

thrown away on each
page.

but do i have the courage
to go to counter
as married man,
and ask for such
rag?

I suppose if i can convince
wife (beautiful)
that Lehanes’ writing is

more real
more beautiful

than all the artwork
read between the lines,
then maybe….

and if she can believe
that i’ll be the first man
telling such truth
wholly,

then perhaps…….

oh Dennis,

why do you perplex

me

so?


Our Father

I heard that Gord
Downie
keeps a little
book on his
person
to write ideas
and words
down.
I understand that Willie
Nelson
sometimes sleeps on
ideas for a
song
and only if he wakes
in the morning
and the melody
is still
there,
only then will he flesh it
out.
If you go by that Moulin
Rouge movie,
you have to be high
to write good stuff
and it seems Charles
Bukowski
needed wine, cats, and
Mozart.

What about the Bible?

It sounds like most of
the spoken stories
weren’t even written
down
until almost a
century
after Jesus
died,
those words translated
so
many times that
the original meaning
behind much of it
is lost;
just look at the Lord’s
Prayer.

then there’s me….

and i’m left to
wonder,
where do all my
ideas fit
amongst all this?

How and when
should I
write them
down?


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