I'm grey
like an owl perched
on a water-worn post
of a fence
separating one nothing plot from another.
I'm silver
like jewellery economical
comely for a spell
until tarnished by time.
Our chemical interaction
has changed me.
I'm ashes
like sunbeams avoided
like the many transgressions
shouldered
and absorbed.
Burned down to the quick.
Just a heap, a shifting pile
lifted by the wind.
I'm lead
ductile
Twisting and turning to suit you
Thinner and thinner I am wrought
Yet oddly -
heavy around your neck.
I always stay too long
the host is trying to remain polite
but we've run out of conversation
and the potion has worn off.
The spectators are weary
the playlist is repeating and
no one wants that.
The dithering ends
When the captions are empty
When the street narrows to one way
and the thousandth sigh has been expressed.
Axis and Allies
Two mourning doves
silent in the grasses
"On call" this morning.
Strangely the grackles
allowed this turf transgression
Word is on the street.
Continuous line -
Problem isn't a problem
Look the other way.
Those doves, they just knew
Their presence would bring cool calm
On this hot, fraught day.
Hands
My left-handed niece
She with the siren hair and
the megawatt smile
Has the same hands (as me)
Square-ish, small-nailed, capable.
Mine are deft on a keyboard
Awkward with a Frisbee
Generous with a pinch or a pat or a
message written on a steamy window.
Tracing hearts are the first to mind
Then my name
Sometimes I carve out a little window
To see what I’m missing
Out there, in the world.
Hers will know
handstands and
harmonicas
Be the holder of rings
from consorts or alma maters.
Trowels, teapots, toggles and tangerines.
I hope
Trapeze and a tow rope
It’s important to know
When to let go.
Keyboards black and white
Frets, certainly.
Fevered foreheads
Gloves woolen.
High fives and peace signs
held high and often
“Cheque, please”
When your lids are closing
and you’ve had enough.
Give and make waves
Ride them too
It’s a long journey
These hands will carry you.
Mad Granny
She thinks we’re poisoning her
Through the vents in her room
Surrounded by Jesus and Mary
On the walls
On the dresser
In the books
Held together with elastic bands.
We appreciate
That she no longer writes
His words on the walls
Although it may only be
The wood panelling
That’s stopping her.
Her eyes are clouded
With age
Not rage
Her food must be softened
Whirred.
She wears my old training bras.
There is something weird about that.
No past referred to
It’s like she doesn’t have one.
But I know that it’s been hard
He sold mom’s snowsuit
For a drink.
She’s small and quiet
She eats consommé.
The humbugs are for others
But they don’t come.
July, 9:35pm
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Everybody's favourite Easiest to love It's the blonde of the four. Sun-bleached, buttercupped A preening repose in the calendar Snug and warm in the middle Framed with snapdragons and sailboats and melting ice cream. Sprinkler sprinkling Wind chimes tinkling school is out pools are in. Warm brick Fat squirrels Tan lines Juicy peaches Gold-est golden light.
The Pull and the Push
Give me
flurried skies
meat pies
rosy cheeks
and languid sighs.
Take your
gaiter-ed shanks
shuffling ranks
of pale soldiers
Counting down to Cuba.
Give me
deep red
down-filled bed
Kid-filled sled
Roast beast for dinner, please.
Take your
frozen thighs
weight rise
groundhog lies
rodent reticence always underwhelming.
Give me
breath I can see
warming hands on tea
frosty lashes
snowplow gashes
along the attention-seeking driveway.
Take your
hat head
the plants are dead
lost mitt
depression pit
Is 10 hours oversleeping?
Punch out the white
on this February night
fairy lights
should be a permanent thing
to illuminate the way.
The colder it is
the more stars you’ll see.
A Toronto March
Spraaaaang
Dirty, dirty city spring
Butts and bags and dog remains
Embed every expired snowbank.
Sun too bright
Pants too tight
We’re all covered in dust.
But lo –
A crocus pokes up unexpected
Causing pale worker lambs electric
To shed their wool premature.
It’s finally over, they shout
We must renew, re-set, get out!
Yet.
Brown grass forbidden
And bulbs still hidden.
The greenest green is weeks away.
Winter leaves a mark.
Pre-coffee repose
Gazing slow dander flurries
in morning light shaft.
What Rises to the Top
January three
I resolve to be
kinder, more thoughtful,
less inclined to accumulate.
Easy on the vices
Full speed on the enterprises
Intentions verbalized
Excuses deferred.
New year
same me.
Stand up
dust off
Do.
July. Jewel-ly.
The most anticipated 31
All is growing
All is reaching
For pinnacle summer sunshine.
Time outside
Distended
To catch sun downs of
Orange, fuchsia, millennial pink.
Every fruit in season
All the boats in the water
Every leaf and flower and insect at peak
Daylight lingers long
The hour of gold maximum divine.
Bonfires
My favourite perfume
Hypnotize all the humans
Lost in abstract flames
Contemplating galaxies
Or burnt marshmallows?
In moments of sidereal repose.
Long ago
on my baby blue banana seat
Days were missions
In forsaken school yards, gullies, construction sites.
Crab apples in our pockets
We would ride
We would spy
Run errands for cash
Dickie Dee our siren
Nearby.
Right now
A verdant lawn still warrants a cartwheel
And sprinklers will get a leap now and again
But Pop Shoppe was replaced with Prosecco
As languid days now have an adult-y train to catch.
Salad days
Are now days to eat salad.