The Silent Evermore

bones, bleached bones
we are dead bones and marrow
at the end of the day comes
the spade and the barrow

we fritter time away
unafraid of the reaper
we glimpse as we age
the cost of time’s keeper

bones in museums
bones in the earth
all these remains are
runes in the dirt

no more petty woes
nor bitter grief borne
just the dirt and the worms
and the silent evermore

from this silence we came
and to it we return
one bacchanalian ball
ere a rest undeserved

no more petty woes
nor bitter grief borne
just the dirt and the worms
and the silent evermore

~e

cheers!

cheers! and here’s to friends
on whom each passing year
we increasingly depend
–cold days draw near

and gently who with sledge or blade
can clear away the solid ice
from a chilly core where love did play
amongst the naughty spy some nice

with age the lines are blurred between
familial blood and friendship’s love
ere the end that comes oft unseen
be true and strong until it’s done

happy birthday! happy christmas!
light the candles and serve the dishes
banish worry and welcome bliss
take heart from flame and make a wish

hang your joys and vivid fears
string them high upon the tree
bring them out each passing year
and light them up for all to see

let’s hang them out like dirty laundry
judge not our lives by hollow musings
both our sunday best and knickers tawdry
as we own and live them, our utmost truths

~e

The opposite of grief is not happiness. Rather, it comprises those rare expansive moments in our lives where something beautiful
or magical captures our attention and for a brief respite, we
unreservedly immerse ourselves in the truth of an
external reality.

~e

The Fallacy of the Concept of Evil: Or Why Hitler Didn't Kick His Dogs

Centuries of lingual and rational shortfalls have resulted in the concept of evil as a concrete, externalized force. Evil has become a token of a dichotomy described only in black and white tones. However, it is a false dichotomy predicated on the idea that human beings are either good or bad.

Reality dictates that good and evil are poor descriptors of people and their behaviour. Just two shades of the morality scale are hardly enough to describe the complex blend of values found in human psychology. Yet we cling to the simple notion that evil is an outside, absolute, all-consuming entity beyond our own determination.

Heinous deeds do not require the presence of a mythical totem. The truth is, good and evil actions result from the choices we make every day and every hour.

Hitler committed some of the most despicable acts on record. Yet it is recorded that he was kind to his dogs. This means that there still remained within him some small scrap of humanity. The icon of ‘evil’ displayed kindness and affection towards his pets while trying his utmost to exterminate the Jewish race.

This doesn’t mean Hitler was by any means a good man, but it shows good or bad deeds stem from the decisions we make day after day. And that just because an individual may choose to commit a litany of barbarous deeds does not show him incapable of mercy, tenderness or love.

The responsibility for our deeds falls squarely upon us. On us–not a shadowy myth, not a winged do-gooder and not any externalized force or supernatural being. This can offer us misery and it can offer us hope. But it also tells us the choice–in the end–is ours. On our choices shall history judge us. For they are ours alone.

~e

Home And The Unseen Transfer

I bleed with weariness one mid-June evening. My being reeks of addling insomnia on the bench waiting for the homeward city bus. My head is down, ear buds in, hands in jeans pockets and legs extended and crossed. An unmet woman bumps into me and abruptly sits down. Starts speaking of bus routes and detours and unreliable general contractors. At me.

She’s an unemployed widow, says she. In between her tirades on one unsatisfactory aspect of life and another, she starts in on how she’s a christian woman and about Jesus. She has much to say on the matter. From my bleary fog I notice her face, her body and her pleasant appearance. Middle age has blurred the lines some but not overly so.

She is patronizing and chatty when my only wish is to immolate myself against a deafening wall of silence and stumble home to my warm bed. No empathy is in me for distractions just now. I weigh the option of positing an opposing view on religion. But I just don’t have the energy. And the Jesus people are heavily defended. I was.

Standing in jerky, achy motions, I excuse myself from her earnest soliloquy, replace my ear buds and stretch my legs. The bus arrives in the nick of time. The detour proves less bumpy and I close my eyes. The diesel noise and foul fumes pollute the interior. Seats jostle as the driver guns down suburban streets. Stops come and go.

I transfer at the Lakeshore and there’s a long wait. I walk a stop but my feet aren’t amused. The soles are tired and sore. So I sit. I’m listening to a classic rock station. Hardly listen to the radio anymore. They were playing 1980’s music at the restaurant but it quickly wore on me. Platinum Blonde and Duran Duran have lost their appeal as decades slipped by. Little wonder.

A group of special needs folks amble up with groceries. But they don’t want to sit so they move up to the sign to wait. CCR plays, a Steppenwolf track, John Lennon’s last single. Cars stream past.

Two twenty-ish hormonal couples show up and play flirt-flirt for a bit. They emit a ‘we-just-fucked’ vibe. The girls toy at colourful straws in their slushy drinks, laughing and joking. The oral metaphor seems to amuse them no end. I avert my gaze. The bus is visible and I move toward it.

In a half hour’s time, I’m deposited at the train station in Port Credit near where I once lived. Wrong-numbered buses cycle through without a hint of the westbound 23. Brick buildings across the street catch the colours of the setting sun. The air cools and dampens.

I think of boyhood walks with my mother and sister along these tracks at sunset before the station was built. Back in the simple days before an internet age could be dreamt up. I recall the joys of playing outside, petting our cat as it stretched in the sunlight. The way our imaginations dominated our young lives. The truth of a simple life bound together by love and strength.

Lights blink on around me and the gray-haired woman sitting with her rolling walker. We are the only fools waiting on the scarce-seen 23. I remember another grayed lady I was rather fond of. I miss her still. Exhaustion is often attended by emotion. That’s the way it goes with me.

I’m sitting on a concrete abutment retaining the slope of the train platform above. Bells ding as eastbound cars slow into the station. There is a sweet smell in the twilight I can’t place. It isn’t lilac. It isn’t the cloying scent of weed. It’s lovely.

A mother and daughter saunter by and enter the converted apartment building opposite. The infestation of condos continues to wrack this former village. The city is still mainlining developer fees. Those big wheels keep on turnin' too. The fucks.

23W rolls round the corner in the failing light. I wave the lady ahead of me and step aboard after her. My Presto card beeps the scanner and I nod at the driver. Our empty bus slides through town. Hipsters crowd the patios to sip their boutique ales. Pub grub is carried out to their tables by nubile servers sporting yoga pants.

The rippling Credit shimmers in the encroaching dark. Kayakers pull out at the rowing club upriver. Yachts and sailboats sway in their harbour slips opposite. Mute and empty churchyards lit by floodlights stand abandoned. The old petro fields lie barren but for toxic trees. I nod off once or twice.

In the distance I see Silver Birch Trail and relief. Bexhall is announced and I yank the string to request a stop as we roll by. I pull myself up with the yellow bar and slope off my last bus into the suburban nightscape. Downhill I float past short-sleeved kids playing ball and teenaged boys smuggling beer to a townhouse.

Coins jangle as I pull my keys. The lock clicks and in I step. There in the dark, unseen, is my huge bed where dreams of black birds and bare breasts await me. I’m home. This long and lonely day butts out with diesel engines droning in my mind. Wheels turn. Metal clangs.

But just cause I paid the driver, it doesn’t change my destination.

~e

Goodbye Now And Nothing More

you were still

and everything

went mute–the doctor

and his wristwatch

last words we had said

and your hand held

there in a hospital bed

peacefully

suddenly

dead

we told your wife, your mom

huddled in a room

tears streamed down lost faces

family held fast and tight

how could he now be dead

the friend who grinned and said

squirrel

at your service in

remembrance i said

we come to mourn his death

a man ever laughing

a smile lighting up his face

a richly lived life lost

too too soon

sincere words were said

and teary goodbyes met

and you in a wooden bed

peacefully

irretrievably

dead

afterwards i sighed

a lonely turn inside

how could your life be gone

and we to carry on

the oblivious world spins on

wearily

what words might we all have said

what good times laid ahead

plans dashed now and forever

it’s goodbye now my friend

and nothing more

~e

In Rhyming Chain

It’s delicious lying crooked in bed

composing poetry in my head

luxuriating in the afternoon

dreaming of a woman i once knew

i feel so drowsy i may doze

dream of her remembered pose

skin as soft as a petal’s rose

downy and fragrant to the nose

i could lie in bed all day

and wrongwise write the day away

typing stanzas with eyelids shut

in poetic dreams, director’s cut

what is a poem it has no mass

a thread of words laced with panache

puzzle of meanings subtle and plain

poignant message in rhyming chain

~e

Maritime Sketch

in fundy bay boats start to trawl

as the briny tide ebbs and swells

wee chilern wander clutching shells

while from the mist a lone gull calls

mothers hang washin’ on the line

and chat with neighbours over a cup

’til clothes are dry or weather picks up

and smiling dads come home to dine

on pei the sand is red

from iron in the rock below

in its loamy soil corn will grow

for the lobster supper spread

a careworn figure stalks the beach

scouring hunks of driftwood found

he’ll paint ‘em up and turn ‘em round

and sell ‘em for a hundred each

in nova scotia they’re friendly folk

beer and mussels and a handshake

all are welcome at the clambake

singin’ along while supper smokes

go to the docks get us some crabs

look lively now the dory’s back

’tis raining out so wear your mac

look lively b’y no jibber-jab

on signal hill atop st. john’s

spring has started when you see

icebergs parade in chilly seas

and cutters in the harbour yon

at end of day the tide returns

fishing boats unload their holds

artists mix their reds and golds

to paint the sea as the sun sojourns

~e

Her Black Eyes Misting

i am yawning

my eyes crease

and water

in a spate of gasps

still i climb

following her

haunting scent

the clockwork cedes

our blueing light

cold hands clasp

a warming cup

a cupped cheek

a rosy breast

then her black

bitter eyes

blink at me, misting

november visits

ill moods

frosting chill

dying trees

rotted leaves

manifest in slanting light

slowly spun

windward from the sun

five months spring

rounding fresh

glacially

we throw off

our tatty clothes

our failed

melancholy hopes–

our greedy

fusing

bodies

in soaring heat

stoking fire

to ride out

mighty winter

~e

Becoming Mist

a great irish wolfhound

jogged along the trail

its mistress tethered

in a stylish track suit

people climbed stairs

to nowhere

while off to the side

lay the true path

in a bed of colourful leaves

neath an arching footbridge

mossy stones were strewn

randomly

small rapids led

to a glorious waterfall

wind from above

gathered moisture

became mist

swept down on those below

wetting cheeks

like tears

~e

Apple Thieves

swirling leaves

apple thieves

pumpkins carved

witches gnarled

pumpkin pie

chestnuts fly

ghosts about

shelling out

parents rake

grammas bake

morning frost

daylight lost

hockey game

logs aflame

thanksgiving feast

migrating geese

grey cup champs

embers dance

coloured trees

steeping tea

winter threatens

armchair beckons

suntan fades

santa claus parade

snow tires on

a later dawn

windshield scraped

apples baked

harvest moon

cold and flu

scarves and mitts

candles lit

poppies pinned

biting wind

trumpet plays

vets parade

~e

Little Loving Urchins

waking up

sun breaking

air is still

water calm

a loon wails

tea kettle answers

brew a steaming cup

pull on a sweater

down to the dock

mist rising

lake shimmering

deep breaths

slow sips

in the kitchen

bacon sizzles

eggs are stirred

toast pops

and coffee drips

an angel wakes

comes toddling

from her room

hugging her bear

rubbing sleep

from her bright eyes

a cuddle with mum

to start the day

‘did you have good sleeps’?

gets a nod and a smile

mornings of love and wonder

too soon just memory

little loving urchins

stumbling from their beds

dreams fresh in their faces

warmed by the wood fire

and gentle greetings

snuggling under blankets

clutching a favoured toy

parents spoon cereal

while they have the chance

babci in her bathrobe

and little boy

in the green room

speaking of

bull dozers and birds

busy in the trees

days of play and adventure

splashing in the warm sun

reflected on cool water

running still and deep

like family

~e

A Morning Jewel

sunrise on a northern lake

whorls of mist on the glassy pool

push off from shore in the paddle’s wake

sunrise kayak–a morning jewel

the mist slowly lifts revealing blue

sun burns off its billowy veil

blades carve water straight and true

lily pads sway in the rippling trail

sliding slowly across the bay

as the sun ignites in hues of red

a touch of beauty to start the day

while companions still doze abed

on the other side rise small isles

where birds collect among jutting rocks

blueberry island brings a smile

with noisy gulls amid the flocks

listen for the loon’s wailing call

watch for cormorants flying low

in the marsh stands a heron tall

the wild glides by as i serenely row

so rise with the sun in a scenic spot

for summer’s close is nigh

and every morning kayak taken not

in winter’s freeze evokes a sigh

~e

A Morrow Less Wet

raining raining

windows wet

come the storm clouds

dark and gloomy

an end to sunlight

poorly met

raining raining

dampened fur

the shaking dog

and its dripping coat

on the carpet sleeping

lies the friendly cur

raining raining

lake water stirs

cold grey depths

in lapping waves

no people swimming

no dogs immersed

raining raining

so wet and cold

children huddled

‘neath cozy blankets

quietly reading

within a sofa’s folds

raining raining

boats bob, docked

no water skiers

cross the wake

no rods are cast

no fish are caught

raining raining

laundry spins

dishes washing

a kitchen cleaned

newspaper read

nap begins

raining raining

the unseen sun sets

start the supper

and chill the wine

hope the dawn brings

a morrow less wet

~e

To The Curb In Reverb

slip-slap flat feet hit the mac

rolling out yellow grain growing high

tic-tac bad breath on the mat

walking like you’re late for work

arms glide green fields slide by

pushing up the hilltop

ball fields cut grass warm dry

frisbee flies leaping up dog grabs

young man shin pads soccer ball–gol!

extra practice uniform dribble drills

train rumbles traffic stops red lights ding

cars resume woman with stroller smiles

short breath light sweat level off

paved lot glows hot cars in spots

lester young solo sax–sweet spot

gliding in smooth sound cross town

cross the street tall trees hidden path

leg cramp sidewalk crack broken back

house numbers hydrants painted doors

cul de sac turning back off the track

ella sings heartstrings lush voice

louis toots big horn bold as brass

from the grass to the curb in reverb

walking on heartbeat up setting sun

going down head for home shuffle on

mingus plays fight song takes too long

front door turn the key earphones out

relax gulp some juice kick off shoes

~e

And Small Birds Sing

the house stirs

doors are shut

sun beams in

i am awake

indian music

plays softly

from the kitchen

wafting like spices

poems hung

on the walls

abstract art

everywhere

the mistress’

little touches

throughout

but she’s not here

downstair neighbours

come and go

their numbers grow

vagrants wander

and in my rooms

my pictures hung

an uncle’s lamp

lights waiting laundry

my bonsai grows

new green buds

i pull off everyone

like horsefly wings

in a corner

my mac shines

its calling light

reminds me to write

while wet towels hang

slowly drying

on the back of the door

beside my robe

the sporadic smell

of mary jane

lingers round

stirring memories

lock the door

and start walking

today i climb the hill

ignored too long

the first step

always the hardest

a hurdle leapt

and small birds sing

~e

In So Many Words

storm clouds and broken glass

bleeding fingers and the chilling fog

empty like a tide elapsed

the gnawed abyss deep inside

storm clouds and chain-link fence

the caged voice screams

and in silent torment vents

hot tears streaming cleanse

storm clouds and loneliness

the patient freeze of isolation

anxiety's frisson with attendant stress

the long decline and no sensation

storm clouds and dark of night

the sleeper slowly wakes

and in a stupor stares in fright

at shadows weaving on the walls

storm clouds and bitter rain

the sense of failure's keening ring

the giving up and the trying again

the pervading numbness of everything

storm clouds and rays break through

the shadows and the piercing sun

the lasting struggle for my virtue

the moment passed the challenge won

storm clouds in a steel blue sky

roil and broil toward distant plains

depression in so many words

stills the body and numbs the brain

~e

A Warmth That Went Cold

box of old letters

love letters of old

scent of her incense

and a warmth that went cold

such potent memories

of our lasting fling

we played out our romance

it consumed everything

hearts are too human

and fail over time

discarded connection

the young lover’s crime

time carries on

unmeasured like rain

marking our world

in sand’s single grain

subtle scent beckons

her lovely face

we kissed in the dark

stars shooting apace

a love writ in letters

from beginning to end

hearts bled on pages

we’d faithfully send

our love was shortsighted

and doomed to its fate

i buried her letters

in a dusty old crate

hidden away

abandoned to time

the sad little story

of love in our prime

she chose her way

and i took my own

the world lies between us

we reap what we sow

forgotten and wistful

love letters of old

wilting away

like lovers grown cold

~e

Round The Stage

blonde curls in a tutu fly

round the stage as years flit by

dancing bunnies hop in tow

parents cheer and laud the show

summer days in the cottage sun

splashing kids having fun

jump rock leaps and pedal boat rides

roasting mallows under starry nights

intrepid skiers practice turns

with rosy cheeks from frostbite’s burn

the brother always takes the jumps

while the sister tries to stay off her rump

bundle them up for the big ski-doo

and to build a giant snowman too

or skating round the hockey rink

back in for cocoa with noses pink

school nights are for getting studies done

homework help from a teacher mum

dad will drive you to the game

get iced cream then back home again

years flit by kids grow up fast

but treasured times will forever last

family never goes away

but in collective memory stays

~e

Fifty Bells In Lac-Megantic

fifty bells in lac-megantic

one for every person lost

a rail disaster so tragic

toll out the names and the cost

seventy-two tankers wait

above the sleepy québec town

no crew aboard to watch the freight

silent wheels start rolling down

the darkened train speeds downhill

tankers filled with light crude oil

it runs off the rails at rue laval

fireballs rise and smoking, roil

lac-megantic is afire

a wall of flame roars through town

claiming lives in the growing pyre

’til the musi-café crumbles down

local people flee in terror

train cars strewn about like toys

the sleeping engineer in error

the heat the flames the smoke the noise

in the aftermath a province grieves

so many young among the dead

the railway defers; survivors seethe

oil pollutes the watershed

lac-megantic used to be

a scenic summer tourist town

before the tanker train rolled free

and fifty mournful bells tolled out

~e