NOTICED

The Stream

The stream delights in a silky bed,

the glamour of everything in his path;

is an amber tongue of the spirited dead,

a glacier's and peat bog's aftermath.

The chuckling dancer pirouettes,

backs up, tumbles, is all escape,

wears mossy, mushrooming epaulets,

a green cap and a green cape.

He is effortless and has no direction,

except downhill, the easiest way,

never reflects on his resurrection,

only part of a  day's pay.

I Am The Picture Of Jesus Christ

I am the picture of Jesus Christ, on sale 

for the price of the frame at Woolworth's.

Fatuous and forlorn, lugubrious,

I waft my hands and in lighter moments,

long for the slightest improvement, a pimple.

God! Why have you forsaken me

to guard pet supplies and plastic house-ware?

What was the cross to this to bear?—

sky-eyed and Hollywood,

rung with a nimbus against the bright blue.

I want to get down and upset a fish tank,

charcoal my garment, beard and charm.

I want to be bloodied up, dirty and poor,

as dear and as free as pain itself. 

Emily Dickinson

Your poetry is a breeze to sailing ships,

a light to miners,

and a psalm to earnest theologians.

I see your reasons in the tulip that expects the sun.

Your words are rain upon parched meadows,

freedom for prisoners,

and children to people who want them.

I feel your passion as a waterfall up close.

Your emotion is touch between lovers,

home to missing soldiers,

and clean windows for the sick.

I find your work a form of play, pain or pleasure.

Your poetry is a fire in winter,

vitality before the aged, young strength,

seed in the fertile earth, and surprise.

I know your spirit like an Indian the good within his world.

Raising Ozymandius

That poem Ozymandius wrote,

or Shelley wrote, or ghost-wrote,

Or God wrote and nearly erased

to prove it couldn't be erased–

Is that a poem for little guys,

or is it a poem in the guise

Of a love of all things going level,

itself not being on the level?–

But raising itself on an old plinth,

pretending to raze an old plinth,

And finding itself a place to stand,

letting Ozymandius stand.

A November Day

It was a dim and skimpy morsel of weather,

by which I mean, if it were a crust 

of bread, it would have been on the ground—

old, cold, moldy and wet, coated in sand.

You’d have to be hungry to pick it up,

but then it would be a blessing.

We did pick it up, the wind from the north,

coming in off the black Atlantic,

snow in the offing, no sun in the sky,

grey and freezing, a short day,

soon to be night.

We brushed off that metaphorical sand,

ignored the mold and cold wet, 

inhaled the sensation of being alive,

and felt the first flakes on our cheeks. 

Teacher

Well show us if you're so flippin' sure,

said the woman to one of two four-year-olds

she seemed to command, and tease and adore,

as they walked at right angles to my path.

The audible space of our intersection

was no more than three or four steps of mine,

but enough to see the interaction

among them flash like a verbal light.

You see, the child is smiling too,

considering herself and the world

by dint of answering,

I really don't mind if I do!

The Perfect Clerk At Value Village

The boy is dressed in wares he sells: 

shiny pants, a peculiar vest, dressy

loafers with pointy toes,

not current but suiting him, pleasing me,

to me he looks like a rocket scientist,

thick glasses, pimples, long brown hair.

On his right pants pocket hang two empty hangers,

reflecting how much he’s concerned with style,

and he likes his work, anyone can tell:

when the woman he’s serving asks for a discount– 

a button’s missing from a pair of jeans–

he says, I’ll find out, and calls Claudette.

The rest of us wait, curious as cats.

Claudette comes over, all pissed off, 

and tells her, No, we don’t take off extra 

for missing buttons. And the woman says, Fine, 

I’ll take them anyway, forks over 3.99 and leaves.

When it’s my turn we have a smooth transaction,

wishing each other have a nice day,

which it’s plain to see we’re both having.

Whereas

Whereas a lawyer begins a long sentence whereas,

and whereas everyone knows that whereas

is not a word, whereas clearing the throat

would do just as well, and whereas the lawyer uses

whereases increasingly meaninglessly,

whereas he could just as easily

flip out his dick in a little cartoon

of himself in the margin saying whereas,

and whereas that would bring more satisfaction

than anticipation, which is all that whereas 

has ever offered, and whereas there is never an answer

to the implicit questions and unending logic

which evaporate before they arrive anywhere,

whereas the entire practice stinks, and whereas

it is hereby prohibited from ever being used by anyone

in the presence of anybody, ever again— whereas—

whereas may be henceforth used in private

for any residual joy it brings.

Sketch

A girl sits on a metal guardrail at a turn in the road,

a child on a scythe above rocks and ocean.  

She looks at her sneakers and not the traffic.  

She is going nowhere.  Nothing is.  At her house,

a hundred yards away, two squad-cars fill the drive.

Poor Tennis And A Sack Of Lost Ass

A skinny old woman in short shorts is out

sunning her skinny bare arms and legs.

She stops at the side of our tennis court

in a ritzy district to see Lee.

She says, Hi Lee, I see you are keeping fit,

or some shit, and Lee says, Hi, and they talk a bit,

our tennis game ground to a halt.

It is clear she was once pretty beautiful,

but now wears the skin on her legs like socks—

great loose socks, all the way to her ass,

that has vanished and become a sack of lost ass.

Jesus! What am I doing here?

Playing dismal tennis with ancient codgers

in the middle of a week-day morning,

and now that I think of it, losing!

A Guide To Improving Modern Verse

The only occasion on which one should,

for goodness sake, end lines with the,

is that one which whereupon he could

think of no other suitable rhyme for a.

Pumpkin

The green twine

makes gold knots.

Sunflowers

Stand like people against a wall,

tied to keep them upright,

their heads bowed, apologetic

to not know what the crime was,

Yellow beams from their dim souls,

the glowing smiles of simpletons,

and every pair of leaves, a shrug,

the arms of good green ignorance,

They want a few more pleasant days,

the flower in the sky to shine,

their toes curled in organic muck,

their brothers there to brush against

Before the funny crack of frost.

The Beauty Was

The beauty was,

when the rain began,

you could hear it 

before you felt:

The tapping, touching,

tender foreplay,

knocking leaves

into thinking roots.

And it continued

to a deluge,

drenching, super-drenching

wealth.

The love, 

The liquid life of it!

The beauty was

The downpour!

Snowflakes

Snowflakes parachute into January

slowly, welcome, defining, 

tiny, insightful guides to freedom,

the truest opposite of power.

Their rudders aim in all directions,

steer them safely without hate or haste,

and some alight on his black sweater,

gentle hints of being there with them.

A Stately Model Slimly Shopped

A stately model slimly shopped

for produce in the produce section,

had next to nothing in her cart, 

a celery heart, some green onions.

She took a modest, measured step

without excessive sway of hip,

toward the Chinese cabbage and…

decided no.  Was it the cost?

I have no idea.

Neither did the produce man.

We watched her go from there to carrots–

yes! and on to the lettuce.

He kept putting out damp mushrooms,

I looked over a hill of oranges,

feeling suspicious in my overcoat.

At last she chose romaine lettuce

and two tomatoes, fairly large. But

what she had wouldn't nourish a gnat!

She looked up; we, down;

got back to business 

and watched her wheel away.

She Titupped Along The Quai Henri Quatre

She titupped along the Quai Henri Quatre,

it could even be said she minced,

she prinked and pranced and titupped and danced,

and a bonne physique evinced.

Along in the other direction came

another jeune dame de France;

she had on culottes, a grand cuirass,

and a most ferocious glance.

What ho!  What hey! cried the two in French,

Which one will be queen of the Seine,

and they circled around with clear intent

to throw each other in.

Then they heard the goo goo of a little bébé,

and looking around they saw

a bourgeois femme as she pushed her pram

and instructed them plumply: moi.

Canadian Tire Service Centre

Trying to read at Canadian Tire,

I give up and study the situation,

rubber tires peeled from rims, new ones

balanced, bounced on concrete, 

followed by the pneumatic chatter

of nuts twisted on overly tight, hear 

an unknown rapping of steel on steel, watch

brakes being bled, Keep pumping!  More pedal!

and also problems with power steering,

Again! Once again!  Hard to the right!

Plank!  a tail pipe drops five feet 

onto cement. Snap!  The torch is lit again.

SSST! Acetylene cutting metal.

Varoom! The sound of a racing motor.

The stink of exhaust not vented. 

Dirty blue jump suit under the hood,

leg extended out behind, a sole. A call

for the small wrench, minor adjustment.

Varoom!  Varoom!! 

OK! That’ll do! Shut ’er off!  I said!  

Are ya fuckin’ deaf?

Listen, as somebody inside argues:

This work broke down!

Clerk saying No, something else went wrong,

guy saying, No, it’s the same damn thing,

screwed, he feels, and can’t afford it,

really in no mood for explanations,

came here to stand for his rights at last.

I’m sorry, sir, that’s all we can do.

Click!  The shop window sliding open,

weary grease-monkey waiting in wicket,

holding his last piece of smudged paper,

glad to see the clerk getting shit.  

It’s late in the day, old coffee burned,

linoleum tiles all filthy and wet, salty to boot,

with sand, but still slippery,

opening doors, on the store and winter,

newcomers forming a line at the counter,

chrome and blue vinyl, ripped furniture, trash,

bags of what-have-you under the seats,

miserable magazines, re-read ragged,

TV blaring away in the corner, Oprah

right back after these brief messages,

telephone, ringing, ringinng, ringing,

twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty- 

Good afternoon, Canadian Tire,

What year is she?  What size motor?

Just a moment, I’ll have to check,

a rebuilt one would be three twenty-five,

tax and labor, you’re looking five eighty.

Exclamations at the other end,

Whole bloody car only cost five hundred!

Clerk holds the phone well away from his ear:

a tiny voice shrieking its pain in the din.

The Hunters

We stood on a knob as they approached; visibility, at least thirty miles;

barrens blazing, vermilion, yellow; the Atlantic, a royal, white-capped blue;

the sky run racing to meet the sea; a warm, uninterrupted sun; smiles

on the faces of all our party; the heat of walking fairly new.

Eleven o'clock, October 9th, nineteen hundred and ninety-four,

slightly south of Petty Harbour, headed out as the hunters came in,

discouraged by the evident lack of game: no fowl, no hare, no more;

a man and his son, they stopped to talk, to tell us of their neighbors’ sin.

The man remarked how it used to be, fifteen or twenty-five years ago:

partridge everywhere you looked; and now there wasn't a bird left.

People let their dogs run wild; this was the fact we needed to know

to understand the situation, and their sense of loss, acute as in theft.

Looking within for pity, I’m empty, despite their pleasant ways,

for if, to go with the day's glory, there had been one last bird to kill,

and they, lucky enough to nail it, firmly in their metal gaze,

they'd have swung it home thinking: All is well with the world still.

March In Newfoundland

March is giving the house a thrashing.

Part of it really seemed to have cried,

which may seem absurd to say of a wall,

but it sounded as if the boards mourned.

The winds are mountains of white crashing

over our generally satisfied

feeling in this little wood structure, all

atremble, and we are warned

Of things fundamental: the dashing

of what was sound to pieces, the pieces tried

to their limits, atoms; and that atoms fail.

The wind is nothing, but it makes you forlorn

That it’s only March, a Nor’easter gnashing

its snowy teeth, off the great, wide

North Atlantic. You don’t, of course, bawl,

but realize, all life was lost when born.

Iced Tree

One day, after an ice storm,

I was coming home on Witch Hazel Road:

poles and wires down all over,

and there was a tree across the road,

so you had to drive to the very edge

to get around it, maybe for days,

work crews having so much to do.

So I went home and got my chain saw

and came back and cut it up to move,

in three-foot lengths, except the top,

which I left the height of a man.

I couldn’t lift the pieces, none,

(they must have weighed over two hundred pounds)

so I wrestled and rolled them up the bank

the plough had left, winter's work to that date.

Tonight, outside my window, stands

another tree, a favorite spruce,

this one about a hundred years old,

mature and potent, a living force.

Uncrowded he is, and stout and wide,

laden from sky to ground in ice,

and on top of that, a thick wet snow.

No wind is blowing, he’d break if it did:

standing in moonlight, straight and draped,

white, indifferent, ponderous, pensive,

a ghost among ghosts and wonders:

What now? How long till the wind,

mild weather, a change.

Whatever it is will snap or release him, 

let him stand easy or lie down and rot.

He doesn’t care, I can tell you that,

and also how very heavy he is.

Percy’s Help*

He feeds the stove wet fir as we talk,

one stick at a time, a bit niggardly

but it snaps and seems to punctuate, and hisses.

Mutual appreciation fills his near-starved kitchen.

An old man is he to me, admirable for what he has done

and I cannot (write something worthwhile), if pitiable too,

for his slender gains, an example of some future self, perhaps,

but tearless in small, limited defeats, such as lie before him

in these the pages on the scarred old table.

He reads and understands my trials, inured to insignificance.

A dispassionate analyst of passion, Percy

sets a pace to exasperate the grave, pondering details,

dissecting intention, the laid-out verses considered

more carefully than they deserve.

The rain turns into sleet outside, white streaks in a driven fog,

lashing the window after dark. The world is inhospitable

to this, re-writing writing on no major theme,

and I suspect, leaving, that Percy knows,

he is the main refuge of my work.

---------------------------------------------------

*Percy Janes regularly read my writing.

I Knew A Big Man With Furry Knuckles

I knew a big man with furry knuckles

who played in the orchestra pit on a pipe.

At times like these he was touchy and brusque,

but all his faults were forgivable.

After the show, when he rose to his height,

and his puzzling hands hung near his knees,

you could think of him knuckling through the woods,

eating berries and roots, and undoubtedly grubs.

It was harder for one to love him then,

and harder still when he shed his tux

and donned a more casual, loose apparel,

revealing his dark woolly ankles and toes.

In the afternoons, he was sunny and simple,

and sluggish and useless around the house,

where he tended to absolute bestial depths

of good humor till nearly concert time