In the ‘hood Johnny’s version… skipping across the table..

Tentative Equinox

He’s tall, thin, and tweedy; dressed in a combination of wheat-coloured linens and wool and accented with dramatic scholarly tortoiseshell glasses and thick rumpled hair. His presence is out of sync in our little town that houses not one but two feed and tack stores and a pharmacy that has a livestock medication section. He would be better placed in Oxford or an EM Forster novel (adapted into a movie by Merchant Ivory Productions undoubtedly). I don’t get to hear his voice but I imagine he must speak with a plummy English accent and teach a corking history class. Despite his incongruity with his surrounding, he doesn’t look at all uncomfortable. He walks purposefully down the sidewalk, all angles and bones with an alert straight-ahead focus thinking his professorial thoughts. I see him hold his hand out behind his back and waggle his fingers even as he continues to look…

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Poetry in Calgary

Is THIS true?: One cannot write poetry in Calgary.


The dowager sleeps in her bed in the Sandman Hotel. She is not exactly Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey, but she is a version thereof. Oh, the stories… the stories.

We have a little Apartment for two nights, quite by accident, room 111. This is of course our personal favourite family number, for no clear reason, but whatever….

I have taken my mother out on a road trip with Rosie. She is 84 and has been struggling for some time, nay, perhaps, all her life. “looking for the Magic Kiss” so they say… anyway, one thing and another, we are now in Calgary. We drove in four days from Collingwood. The first day was with my 84 year old father who was off to do a two week surgery locum in Hearst. “Somebody’s gotta make some money around here,” he says sorta laughing, but also with some unlying concern. Afterall, he loves his children, but they seem to have been struggling to work and be gainfully employed, and, well, make something of themselves. Is this true? More stories.


Anyway, my mom and my dad separated when I was seventeen, and not a blessed second too soon as far as any of the children were concerned. “not a more unhappy to be together couple in the world could be imagined by any of the children”. And until, four days ago, they had not spent more than a few moments together a few times or shared a few verbal exchanges in 40 years.


Anyway, Hearst is on the way out west, and I don’t like my dad driving alone up there for 10 hours on his own. So I wondered if perhaps my mom would like to go on a road trip out west, and well, we could drive with him up to Hearst, and take his car and Rosie, and pick him up in two weeks when he is finished working and well, have a lark in the meanwhile.   So here we are in Calgary, at the Sandman Hotel, suite 111, it is almost 8 o’clock and Rosie and I have been off on a dog walk and to survey the situation.


The Sandman Hotel is across from the Olympic Ski Park, from the 1988 Olympics….So this particular spot must have been flourishing then for a while. The remnants are obvious, building artefacts. Rosie and I take pictures of the graffiti on the wall, and the blossoms with the strange building in the background. It must have been an Olympic Building, or something like that. Now the paintings on the brick…. Etc. In the Metaphysics of Adjacency, we are watching molecular waves of our own physical creations rise and fall……but the underlying, thick molecular stew upon which we walk and float, this is much more stable than we are….. but boring, lets face it, who would want to be a rock, or even a cow, for that matter. My mother and I were watching the Alberta Beef Cows in fields. How long would a person want to bend over chewing their cud staring and traffic now and again before a welcome bullet would make you into a beef pattie.   We had hamburgers at Denny’s for supper last night. There is still a half of one in the fridge. I am longing for a salad.


To day we are going to see Luke and Lori and the great grand children, Lacey, Riley, Jessie, and Jake. My mother and I have gone over the lineage a few times in the last twenty four hours. The blood lines are hard to keep track of. It occurs to me that from the dowager’s perspective, everything is ‘drifting off’, where from a younger person’s perspective, everything is still ‘coming towards’. Imagine, great grand children. These four are little beauties if I ever did see them. Luke and Lori are beautiful too…. In a luscious and generous and perhaps somewhat precarious way. I love them all and hope the world is forever kind and happy for them.


Anyway, My mom will be ‘all duded up’ as we say in the family. We bought new curlers at a pharmacy yesterday, because we forgot hers at home.   This was a set of coloured ones, about 50 curlers or something. I am considering curling my hair also. But not just yet….


So Is it true. You can’t write Poetry unless you are free and happy and able to see these great mythological stories bubble up and froth all around you, in the most common and ordinary event.


My mother liked the waiter we had last night. A Dark man, who exclaimed over and over again how grateful he was to serve us. I wondered why he did this. Was it his custom? Was he ingratiating himself? Or did he look upon us, this strange travelling duo: The dowager and my self, and consider that perhaps in some strange and distant land, he was for a moment serving the Royals? O’, we can only hope.

Thai Son

If you ever wondered,
You are the center of the known universe.
The cosmos revolves around you.
You stand in the center of an orb,
A field of everything imaginable.
Let us call it ‘the Future’.
and: Make no mistake.
Every choice is real.
Coffee or tea,
This apple or not.
Your choices story your world,
Like mycelium
Building a world of Wonder
or Whatever

So if you are discouraged,
Let’s say you have your eye
On some thing far away
Dubious and highly unlikely,
Cast a whim and wait.
Wait, wait, oh, wait until the cows come home
and the chickens return to roost.
You are irresistible.
Your ‘thing’ will sidle over
In your direction
And stare at you,
And this could be annoying or confusing
as well as the best thing ever…

The universe is like that.
you are the center
The one and only
The solution to the riddle
Of Your Life.

Have you ever notice,
The universe is not round?!
More like a tree or that sort of thing
And this changes things considerably.

musical chairs

Wagnerian, perhaps a woman a dark horse, going for broke…

So what happens next…. in this happy tale….

if someone listens…

who emerges?!…

What a crop!

a riding crop

a crop of cotton

a crop of merry men

and lo and behold,

someone is in the kitchen

strummin’ on the old banjo,

a playful fellow

who ever he is, thank god.


The Apple o’ Neon

Flourscence is such a hard word to spell. 

As a result, it is somewhat surprising to see it 

when it shows up in the natural world. 

like a fire fly, or the magical algae 

that swirl underneath the midnight paddles 

in of all places Hopedale, Labrador…. this type of chemistry is very special

like photosynthesis… 

really, what is the problem with Green things, including people… 

we could live forever and travel the stars in deep meditative states of wonder, 

and sometimes we might come down upon a planet

and love it so much, 

that you find you have forgotten 

the magic out of which you have been spun. 

to this,  certain, bop de bomp hahah, factor, 

I will be eternally grateful.  

as Guy Andrew said: “if you keep life simple,

it can be a good laugh.”

To the new lighting aspects–welcome and cheers.


mostly ryan’s poem…. not mine…

Mostly, Ryan’s poem:

a bifurcating, fulgurating non dual stanza… liberties taken

Some day we’ll all

Once upon a time, we started a thread.

It began with you and ends with me,

or the other way around.

Evidently, it matters, not.

In the end this thread creates the Universe.

Yet, in-between the King of Long Distance Wisdom

will bring to singing his fingers

oft’ without a soft care that winds up in your air.


Desire creeps heavy

and saints die daily.

I wouldn’t chastize you, entirely…..

I would not chastize you at all.

At least, not on a good day,

a good day to live.




regarding sucking poems

Photo 7

I have been considering

[so much lately… as opposed to ‘usually’.(ha)}

the nuances of being the ‘other’,
with another
each new person
and to pin it down even further

I am loud
you are soft.
I am softer
you disappear
I get loud
you get louder
I am funny
you disappear
and I wait
considering the lead balloon
I may or may not have vomitted up
inadvertently over a pretend lunch or better
yet Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
we become Audrey and Gregory
and you have the critical shot of me smoking a cigarette
Oh, to publish or not.
Hostage to love.
You are funny
I laugh my head off
and return with a hearty rejoin
maybe you add or not
or maybe you clamp a hand on my back
in hearty recognition.
or maybe you change the subject
leaving me to decide whether or not
I have finally become the dreaded Bore in the movies.
And then, just when, “fuckitIcando”Boring!””
I notice
you are off chasing another clue down
and I love Molly and she loves you.
and Iove you too.

And then I have to decide how to reframe
“my poetry sucks”…
Oh no my lord, “sucks”
and then it can go either way or many ways…
but I am reminded again of the suckling of the piglets in the poem
called St. Francis and the Sow…
and that is how you poetry sucks to me….

Blessing, my beautiful friend.