Love & Other Complaints

The Arrow of My Ways

Like an arrow
thru the darkness
from the wilderness
in whispered flight
to the bonfire center
of the square
of circled wagons
I struck
shivering
at the maidens' feet.

The honesty of my youth
like an usher of spring
spoke as softly
as the feathers of those dead birds
who flying again
guided me
thru the darkness
from the wilderness
to the foot of the cloth
that draped her.

You must not touch
my untouched fabric
she cried
and now you have
disturbed my perfect vigil
I will raise an angry alarm
so my people rush
to cast you
back into the darkness
of the wilderness.

January 24/2011
Dryden


A Moment of Clarity

I would like to drive again.
Drive into some town or city or village from my past
and be greeted with vague familiarity by buildings and hedges
while memories cradled under blurred gauze coverings
of time offer nothing by way of
detail
just the warmth of another womb which slid me out forever
closing behind me.
A moment of clarity.
like that gravel road near Coboconk where I had to pull over and stare
at myself for a few hour filled minutes in sheer wonder
certain I was in someone else's life and had not ceased to exist.

January 10th/2011
Dryden, Ontario


The Seed of Sadness

She is pregnant with sadness, and due most any day.
From the seed which I have given her
will forth this great dismay
And all complaint will cease and still
when slips out the display
Of a couple without coupling
And two lives left astray.

The Phone Call
I called you in the middle of the night
in a dream.
I spoke lovingly with your heart
for a full minute before
your mind kicked in
and you hung up.

The History Channel
There are spores loose in the canyon
Their age still undetermined
for now.

There are songs on lip-less bones
Forever undetermined
for now

There are smiles on bony teeth
Still undetermined
for now.

For now
For now.
How long is that

I watched a ring of silent bettors
casting stars still undetermined
on a blanket
While melodies and smiles rushed past them
In this place
that might be heaven.

I cried out
the trouble with betting
in this place
that might be heaven
is there can be no losers.
And the smile I left is mystery
And the song I left is mystery
and all they have down there
is history
For now.

Revised April23/2011
Dryden Ontario.

The Chameleon

I hitchhiked as
a chameleon
and sat happily
next to strangers
with or without reasons for
taking me along.
A plumber who was a poet and hated mine
because I used words he never did.
He let me sleep in his shop with two dobermans
He would have offered me a bed but
his wife would beat him for it
and turn me away.
A Mother from NYC and her two children
who slipped Yiddish words into conversation
like little haiku offerings that
pleased me
and she chastised them for it
despite my protests that it rang like poetry.
A school teacher that stopped at a young deer
mangled by the road side and we wept
in our helplessness
then shared her bed because
it was the least we could do
for the poor thing.
A pill popping skydiver who raced through the darkness
as if already plummeting
who kept nodding off and I would shake him like the winds
in the doorway of
some little plane.
I would have abandoned him but I did not want to be
his murderer.
An equally opportunity racist who turned
the chameleon beige and neutral with
a practicality known only to
those on the side of the highway
in a prairie winter
who would ride with the Devil himself
if he had a heater on full.
A chameleon can only adjust to his surroundings
and not be choosy
and listen to each story as if it were
being heard for the first time
and wonder at the marvel that is kindness
and the puzzle that is man.

February 6th/2011
Dryden, Ontario