Monthly Archives: February 2013

the long blank

i tried to run and lose your face
to throw the world and
lose the pace
the crowd beyond
this earth i
taste
oh silent words i hear you now
the crowd is gone
i move the plow
the fields are here
i’m home again
no one like this has ever been
young trees and old
i trace the wind to make it
scold
i race the air and
make it
cold
someday somehow
this i know
what once was is
will be again
a face has been will be
mine and then
i can slow and lose the race
look around and take
a taste
my childhood when none of this
was in
and hit the ground and be again
just a kid and just a
friend
oh Lord above do hear me now
i’m not a farmer where is my
plow
i’ll fill the sky i’ll turn the clouds
carve a path for your
feet to touch
in this i know, oh somehow
i’ll be the race
the angel charge so
remember me when you touch
ground
i’ll out run the Michael and his
sword
and clear the way let you
move forth
let everyone say before we go
who was he who ran
so slow
catching up and to the crowd
but you and i
we will know
but
you and i
will have made you proud
i try to run and
keep your
face
let go of the world
and keep
the
pace
earth and ground and heaven(s)
taste
remember me
my hands do shake
remember
me for
heavens sake

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The Dried Died Tree

look at this city
she
says
i am my own tree
growing from
loins to belly
and reflected
from the window onto
the buildings
where
men write papers
and women hold
office
I
want to be
the fruit of my own labours
a pull out bed
of tangled sheets
and a ceiling
that i can’t
reach despite
my hands
raising
and capturing rain
before it hits
the streets
below

.

her back arches out
the wind blows the
branches
and the photograph
turns
black into
white

.

i am a dried – died
tree


and don’t get started on the hat and jeans…..

this is no
American Cowboy
but
a Canadian Eskimo
shit kicker
boots to throw
over
horse and ride
the sunset
of true prairie grassland
where hollywood comes to remember
and
shoot their history
while here
those
who choose
still
live it


Regarding Ron Sexsmith

there’s graffiti on the walls
a man walking down-
clothes, colour of
brown
violins play in the
footsteps
play in
his
footprints
the alley is a painting
a way home
while he’s
walking
a gallery of the in
famous
the un
known lost
or perhaps
waiting
the gang tag sig
natures
of a friendly city
lost to the un
employment structure
and wrong
place
at wrong time
midnight
stroll
or
party new years-
the walls are lost to the art world
a man
is lost
to
time and echo,
his
foot prints
continuous sound
of
foot steps


Two Ontario Canadians

Shorty Jenkins +
Don Baker
both
caretakers
of
ice and
water

‘ a puck doesn’t kn
ow its a pu
ck, but a
rock sure
does’

‘fish are color blind
any good lure
will
catch
’em’

and i sit there

tape recorder going
pink hat +
foam
chair
behind store
counter

I drive
thru
into stage
coach valley
cutting into oak
hill
s
with swallowed mind

I will
write both men down
10 years apart
80
each in
their own days
wondering
if Ontario
will
remember either
or just
Trenton
or
not even
Napanee
lost
to
native Canada
and the
new social
media outlet
outhouse
lifestyle

Shorty Jenkins
+
Don Baker
the
afternoon
caught
in a
winter drive
home
neither knowing either
myself
not
knowing me.


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