Category Archives: Stirling

love note left by husband on eve of hunting season…..

present yourself to me
in such a verse
makes me realize
i didn’t know
hunting season had arrived

November has come early?

let me put on my orange vest and my orange hat
scare all the small creatures out from under the hunters cabin

the devils paintbrush has arrived
because i check the calendar
and see
it is still only September
-only in October
can one call it God’s paintbrush on the

But there you go again

and the hunter in me smells the fall air
and the 5 am coffee makes up for the 5pm rum until midnight

let’s not put off the inevitable
find yourself purchase on the frost floor
i will give you a head start
by noon it will be warm
by noon you will hear me coming
and tonight’s feast…..

you present yourself to me in such a verse

and the grounds north of hwy 7 are where i’ll find you
and the grounds north of concession 7 are where i’ll find you

there you go again.


a dove of all things

i had a bird once
swoop down in front of the truck.
the fog lights in my bumper scooped him
up at just the right time
at just the right
and he was fine when i pulled in the driveway.
i walked over and with a slight prod
and a bit of a dizzy flight
bird flew to the top of the grain tower

but not this time

this time the downward angle of the
was too much for the bird
and it was an ugly sound
and a visual display of a final flight.

it wouldn’t bother me that much
if it were just
a pigeon or maybe a seagull
but this one happened to
be a mourning dove

the poor dopey bastard

trying to avoid the commuters up the hill
only to find me coming down it
two trucks intersecting like a pair of

-prayers earlier in the morning before leaving the house
only to have a dove do this
and i’m a bit perplexed

but that’s the irish in me

and now that i’m home
i’ll have to look it up
in a book somewhere to see what
the ancestors would
have to say about it all

just the way things seem to be going
as of late…

in front of the painting is real life….

i look at the painting-

wish i
could step into it
inside it
and be in old montreal once again.
seeing the painting at the tweed flea market
after the fire
before its final closure
and knowing you had to to have it
i wish we lived in a time
but a time where immediate gratification exists
is not a time i look forward to
i wish we lived in a time
where the painting
was more than visual
-capable of touch and i could reach in
and pull my self into the location.
once again tell me-
it is possible
just stand in the silence
in the hallway by the front door
by the umbrellas
and let the painting pull me 
i realize it
i (we) have returned
to old montreal
we are holding hands in the summer sun
walking up the small cobblestone path.
i am pronouncing words incorrectly
but you are laughing
i am wearing a brown fedora
one behind the basement bar already purchased
from the first trip.
moment is ours 
the possible outcome to our lives back
once again at bay-
immediate gratification.
and my eyes open.
the painting is here
old montreal is out east
the daily uninsured promise
we have to handle
before we can
back there-
is at our front door
in this 
small town
just south of 
let the wolves in baby
i’m ready
do battle
instant gratification…..

Richard – the local journalist…..

for Richard,

‘write us a poem’

best Purdy voice
catching up to us
at the Hastings
Plowing Match.

more in regards to

‘smells like Elvis, soap’

and together we quip
the smells must be
cheeseburgers or pea
nut butter and

it’s a helluva walk in the 1″ plus
rain, now mud-
the Forstell farm

‘speaking of Elvis, it’s his annual
festival in
Tweed this weekend’

from there,
i comment about Mitchell on morning
radio, years ago
when he said,

‘makes sense Elvis would be in Tweed,
it’s a dead town anyhow’

and his joke didn’t go over the airwaves
and the reminder today is
still finding itself
stuck in furrow-it-later-mud

Richard walks onwards,
camera in hand
wide brim ready for more rain
and we keep walking
not really trying for any
particular destination

Dear Richard,

for now-
this is as close as i can come
to a decent poem about


when a better one comes to mind,
i’ll be sure to put your
name on that
as well.

the passing cars

up loyalist wallbridge
passing each other
morn/quitting time

checking make-up

drinking coffee

either from mugs
or Tim the Buffalo

will i see you this afternoon at 4?
tomorrow morn before 8-

stop sign
cop sign
road crew madness

4 – corner stop. restaurant sign?
on the way home maybe we stop?

it’s too early at 4:30
and by 6pm we’re not driving back

maybe saturday
saturday night – with hockey
with ron and don
and those toronto bums on the ice

when the waitress asks about coffee
we’ll look at the t.v
and ask for it – to Go

Henry Street Art and Ball

boys have grown into men
mothers turned into wives
as mostly middle-aged baseball players
run onto the Henry street
field and their
counter parts find space on
the pine planked stands

we set up tents beyond the caged
perimeter of the outfield
under the trees and by a summer creek
of being a spring river

by 11am the game picks up
both on the field
and outside the foul line
wives sit on benches
and wives sit under tents
husbands play ball
and a few husbands showcase
their art

with every crack of the ball
conversation behind the
plate and in the park
takes pause to look up
listening for bombardment from
the trees or a clang
against the

winning and losing on the field
buying and selling in the park
and an overall showcase of your talent
depends on how you play the
game and draw the crowd under your spell

art and baseball come together
yet somehow seem as though
they always were
it simply depends on how you play
your game.

April showers bring…

if you want to call it construction,
rages out the front window.
lost bulls on a farm searching for the
gap, and finding only
more fence line.
and black pylons stack up the
chess board road
pawns, covering exposed
lungs and
sphincters under the newly
narrowed street.
have been told, only 50 cars
a day travel here,
despite the 100 or so houses
and 3 points of access for
3 main drags.
no longer bulls, the crew moves
in huddles, pausing –
pick microbes from each others
orange vests, scratch mind and
buttocks, peering down a
newly developed crater,
decide over ladder or to rebury
and keep searching.
if this were Corbyville and not Stirling
or if we were closer
to waters,
I would suspect they were digging for
rare whisky or lost gold.
more orange vest and white hats
last years temporary blue
water lines are being reattached
and once more,
we are off the grid.

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