there’s Eve
off picking apples (defiant woman)
smelling flowers – her fear lost
oh sure
the kids are clothed and fed
but still
it takes guts to plant an apple tree
knowing what it cost
but there i think
she prays in the afternoon
when the sun is setting
the kids have been fed (again)
not quite bath time
and there she’ll be
just like now….
so the gun just sits there?
She’s an Amazonian warrior – i’m telling ya.
amazonian?
Ppl have gone into that house
and she’s been wearing war paint
chain mail underwear
and music in the background that sounds like – chanting
chanting?
Chanting.
i’m telling ya – that gun
it’s never actually been cleaned
it just sits there on the table – for aesthetics
you mean like – just for looks?
Man – you tell me which would scare ya more…
a regular gun in yer face -or- someone who lives on a rumour.
a rumour that says the bookies assistant can eviscerate you….
quicker than a bullet can kill ya
i am. never. placing. a bet. again.
Not with her anyways.
i loved you before you were even created
because in love – you already were
beyond an idea – the idea of conceptualization
blue print ideals – worries
your name was chosen to help create an identity
borne from a familial – landscape – guidance plan
there’s been conversations and arguments – already had
songs sang around the crib – a series of momentous dances – toe tapped
i love you because of your mother
because unless God said otherwise – our love had to step outside – within
circular –
first child – only child – middle child …..
boy or girl
you are already and will always be
beyond deep conversations or discipline or expectations…..
know this love
– know i will always be amazed….
dance into the autumn with me
we will be defiant together
the forest cocoon until nightfall
needing a fire to stall out their wild eyes of hunger
and our swords will stake the ground
our 4 limbs will match their strength
and we will wish for morning as though prayer
was never whispered as loudly before
but a what a night
and what love we’ll share
better than listening for ghosts
and painting our warrior faces
jumping at sounds
wishing for stars and tasting the smells
our frozen breath
frost – then – dripping morn – fern – green
our cocoon canopy turning gold
followed by the colours of oranges’ red – her brown lit earth
as we leave the forest behind never so happy to be back outside
crossing a cow field and heading for home along a gravel road
knowing breakfast will be on the kitchen table
or in the cupboard
hey Frank
how did she look?
how did who look?
the bookies assistant.
the woman with the weave.
womans got a knife at her side
wanting your attention
got a gun air drying – as much as she is
there’s an outstanding debt that ain’t being talked about
and she might be the only woman in town
who does what she does
and won’t get referred to her proper name
other than being the bookies assistant….
and you wanna know what she looked like?
well yeah
i mean
you couldn’t a been lookn at the ceilin’ the whole time
i mean come on Frank….
…..Artie….she looked like a Glen Orbik painting….
if the woman in the painting were 50 years old and
if she had – had some encounter with
Fester Addams who had decided to do some bomb testing
and she was a casualty of bad timing…..
you mean
i mean
in all round tactics
she’s the scariest fuckn person ever to let you know
you better pay what you fuckn owe…..
gun moll?
bitch is just crazy.
she’ll walk into the room
– fresh from the shower
sit down on the sofa
hair in a towel weave
the only towel i might add…
and while you’re looking
at the ceiling….
she’ll pull a blade from between the cushions.
shit
shit yeah.
then she’ll just get up
wiggle her naked ass out of the living space.
you’ll hear the blade chunk into some wall in another room
and she’ll lock the bathroom door
turn on the dryer
crazy
CRAZY.
fuckn gun of hers
sits on the dining room table
taken apart
ready to be cleaned
oils and what not out
with pipe cleaners.
she don’t need that fuckn gun
to get the message across to ya.
take a warm pull off that cigarette
hug the tree – fallen leaves – her dress on the ground
it’s the artist woman you can’t stand
but Emily, she’s speaks to me
wave of the tossed off Coca – Cola can
white streak across the red
aluminum husk along the river autumn.
where will this trip take us now?
take a another tobacco drag – look up, see
the lodge off in distance, our cabin-chimney stoking
telling us we are not lost – no, the way is home
let’s run off into the trees.
leave the ship on shore
follow the same path the artist chose –
and in the city they’ll see it too
saying, ‘from this photographs surreal painting, it’s almost as real
like being here is the same as standing there.’
and our cabin chimney is cooking heavy
supper is ready
are you hungry?
are you cold?
are you tired of the colours for one night?
i am too…..
what’s this in my middle chest
the river, this Severn, along the Fall tree line – orange.
a second Autumn portrait of yellow in the park.
what’s this written (up front)
on my hands?
what am i moulding – this mould – i am moulding
creating anew within me
half clay,
half soil,
eroding old memories,
a young seedling,
an aged tree,
a wise woman,
this resting place,
a time line,
no rest,
i am resigned
resigned to?
tight jean jacket,
blessed kiss,
wind breaker,
First Avenue –
let’s go to 2nd street.
catch a plane,
expose ourselves and bring home
or go home….
wrap me in a blanket
i am honoured – knocking a travelogue off my shoes
(before) entering your home.
let’s ride in your single ship,
i hear a connection down the quiet river
a whisper,
a train 600 km’s north
north –
and it’s still only
Ontario
n
t
a
r
i
o
.
.
.
.
at the Sandbanks with Niagara wine poured into local jugs
and crushed shells rolling compacted into the sand –
we stroll the October skyline staring out and over waves
strong as an ocean but without the smell of brine.
we think of umbrellas and hold hands
take a picture and watch the dog bite whitecaps
teaching time a lesson – while tail rotates in rudderless fashion
and web feet paddle for shore.
is this a staycation?
no –
it’s an awakening – taking time
recognizing the coming together of family
from across Canada
traveling thru bus stations and trains
hopping planes and leaving parts of the world
you and I dream of visiting.
put the camera down my love.
let me kiss you-
the dog can be jealous and try to knock us over.
October can remind us of Hallow Eve and All Soul’s –
it’s yours i’m after
and it’s mine you have….
this family encircled all around and waiting at a dinner table
sharing wine and memories
renewed vows – and rekindled friendship
wrapped tightly inside a temporary home
a permanent promise.
the flower is at her hand
the window is reflecting a glint
– a belly ring thru morning sunlight.
she is looking out at the bridge
listening to the bath tub – fill
she stares
wondering about time.
it’s time for coffee
time for the early edition
time to slide into the porcelain bed.
the flowers continue to reach from the pot
and her hand comforts them.
her fingers click the latch
the window slides down and cuts off the Fall air.
she leaves the window
as the coffee maker clicks
faucets are turned left
and the paper slides under the door.
the flowers twist back into position
and the bridge continues with morning traffic.
a small spoon dings inside a stirring cup
a small ripple is heard.
The Crazy Irishman 