There’s a trick in the ring

A way to make it through

Make it through the round

You imagine the punch

Hitting you in the face

Because then when it happens

In the real world

Under the lights

In the surrounding smoke

It won’t hurt as much

You can handle it

But no one tells you

It doesn’t work

No matter how often

You run through it in your head

It still hurts like hell

Because there are no tricks

Pain is pain

And it comes all the same.

Step off the bridge

Fall into the water

And just pretend

Pretend you can still breathe

This is life

A process of dying

While inside you are lying

Convinced of immortality

We walk in the dark

While thinking we can see

This is it…it’s easy.

The archaeologist knows

Nothing buried

Remains buried

No matter how deep

Everything surfaces

Eventually.

The sky is encircled
By a wreath in the window
Captive to seasonal garb
Made festive somehow;
May i frame my mind
In the self-same fashion
Rising to the occasion
Filled with a rare spirit
And lifted toward a new year.

Years are days now
Flying past
Never knowing
Which will be last
Feeling like fading
As though you are gone
Replaced like a dead battery
With something less drained
But who knows the limit?
Could be 50 more years
Could be five minutes
Gotta stop thinking about it
Look to the day
That already has
Its hands around your neck
And struggle forward.

My column in this week’s Winkler Morden Voice and Altona Rhineland Voice.

The day was a blur

We were up

Taking care of cats

Then there was breakfast

And put to thrift

Back again

A little rest

But friends are coming

Make the soup!

Make the brussel sprouts!

We must eat, drink and be merry

For tomorrow… who knows really

Today is the only day we have

There are no other days

Now it’s almost tomorrow

Time to sleep

And hope to wake

One more time.

i smell lilacs
in the late spring
they conjure
a comforting ghost
too soon lost in time;
she comes to listen
and bear the weight
of sails whose ropes
have broken in
one too many storms
until a current takes me
and carries me to harbour
until i drift out to sea again.

a child cowers
and asks in wonder
from whence comes
this terrible thunder
but we of years know
having listened intently
to blow after blow after nlow
this awful, growing crescendo
heralds the flooding rain
heralds the lightning
that brings bright pain
and in its crushing greatness
in its dark and swollen form
it heralds the terror,
it heralds the storm.