Monthly Archives: April 2013

port-all-view

i
touch the strokes
from your
brush
and it reads like
braille
a moment of the
story from the
past
while you sat or
stood
to easel and
brought about this
formation of
cloud colour

i am re-connected to you

the painting
stays
the same
but the feelings
change each
view
beginning of
time
or start of my
death
a full circle
of light
to life
and my fingers push
to reach

the dry paint is wet

your brush is moving
and the present is
my own future-
travels
you are alive in
this moment
in my memory
and beyond what God
knows
was lost in his own
stories

the trees call from the
earth
the sun reaches down
from space
and your smile
is there again

my eyes read what my brain can not comprehend

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don’t get bit

I

watch
the
neighbours
cutting
logs from a
tree – fallen

dear God protect them
i’ve never
seen such
danger(ous)
moves


the dog

the dog sleeps wistfully
now
there’s a friggin word

wistfully

probably chasing cars in his dreams
remembering
the
one that nearly took his
life

wistfully

or

briskly

that car only blew his tail over his ears
and as he sleeps

the dog

is likely strategizing
a better way
to
do it again

next time


heart breaking

George Jones died
i
sit in front of computer
tossing – tossed
bits of
cardboard into
a
fedora

too scared to place bets on the cards
or play the hand
i’m being dealt

it’s notions like that
that just
break your
fucking
heart


things like this

They say
enjoy
the time off
write
all day
find
places to submit

so

i write
and i pace the hall
walk the
floor
and wonder about
death

when
my time comes
will God
see a life well wasted
or just
endless days
of writing

things like this


All the Actors Do It

when that
green puppet
of
a frog starts
smoking

you

know

things in this world are tough

back stage with
that
blank ‘+’ stare

or

walking out onto a patio
in
france
sitting over a
balcony
and wishing
the day
were
through

good night sweet prince

your song
a

hacking
cough now


i am a died-dried tree

i am the ghost
that
never ends
the tree that grows
already
dead

‘whos gonna cry when old john dies’

not the
figments
or the lights
they stream
us
both in a blur

our canadian spring
traps in
the grey where
even the
wind can
not chase it
away

but my tree stands
firm

a
gardener of
tomatoes
while the cigarette
billows or pillows
from your
mouth
still laying on
the bed
i toil in early
morning
hoping to bring
change
four seasons
will hear my
spade

and understand i am human

no longer a
ghost
but trying to create
change
in a life
that keeps time

with

the

trees


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