Rain, then sun, then cloud

Then rain again with thunder loud

But look, sun peeks through once more

This strange morning suggests

A day of conflict and confusion

If one believed such things

But the grass is greener now

And stitched with shadow-edged gold

As the heavy air presses down

Like comforting blankets piled high

While crystal water falls from a laden sky

Drip, drip, drip

Small, soft hammers tap this world

Purifying it… washing away the dark

Bright birdsong heralds some new thing

Rising with intent in the faithful east

Tempting us to join the chorus of tweets

As if no other days had come before

As if this day was the first

Of countless many more

And I am solitary, grateful witness,

A living improbability

Hearing, feeling, seeing

That which shouldn’t be

This impossibility

Of life…of death…

Of anything with breath

Or anything at all

But words are too small

And life too short

To do justice to what it is

To be.

It was a witch who said

“By the pricking of my thumbs

Something wicked this way comes”

As Macbeth strode towards her

Full of fire

Full of false noble desire

A witch…

What would it take,

What kind of mistake

For a witch to declare

That something wicked approaches?

Dante would have put him

In the ninth circle of hell;

And what would they say

If you or i walked their way?

How do you get out of your own head

You looked and saw a light out

And wandered in to check the bulb

But lost your way in the labyrinth

You’ve been there ever since

It feels like forever since you walked

In the open air

Canada Day

Canada eh

It is another day

An artificial day

A tribal day

To celebrate occupation

But

To celebrate

Who we are?

Maybe…

Who we want to be.

It’s complicated.

Was it ever not?

Maybe in another

Century or two

It will be a day

Everyone

Will love.

sometimes poetry
is the equivalent of
a Jack in the Box
you turn pages
and you turn pages
and it is delightful
there is nature
there is life
and there is the ponderance
upon all that is good
until

BANG!

one them jumps out
and smacks you in the head
and you love it
or you hate it
because of what it made you feel
how it made you want
how it made you want to
to kill the poet
and never read again

it’s these few moments
that validate the writer
and the writing
they stick with you
in ways the bland never will

You

You live in the back of my mind

Like a parasite

Gnawing away of what remains

Of who I was

And

Who i could’ve been

Once completely unknown

Now all consuming

Like am eclipse

That never ends

Switch has flipped

It does that by itself

Not sure why

Maybe

I know why

At a different level

But not at this one

I was six when it first went

Everything turned off

Lights out

Cold

How do you know you’re different
When you stand alone?
You don’t –
You exist in blissful ignorance
3, 4, 5 years old…
Until people come into your life
And they let you know
They stare, and they talk
And they chase you round the block
They grab you and they beat you
And you just don’t know why
But you know it’s something,
Something about you
It’s everything you forget
It’s too much you pouring into them
It’s never starting anything
It’s never finishing anything
Then doing everything it all at once
It’s staring out the window
At the boundless blue sky
Imagining that you can fly
While a teacher drones on and on
About what’s supposed to be important;

And they won’t dance with you
They leave you standing against the wall
Wondering at the point of it all

Until you realize with stunning clarity
The solution to this shit that is life –
Shed your skin, become the others
Talk like them and walk like them
Until you forget what it is to be you
And you wake up every day
With the burden to be new

A lways
D ifferent
H orribly
D ifferent

is it real?
the house?
the light that spills in
through the windows
that look out into the yard
we so deeply love?
are we real?
are you real?
how do i know anything?
(with respect to Descartes)
are those stars peering down on me
or is it me peering down upon myself?
i don’t know
i don’t know if i ever knew
and does it matter in the end
a wound watch will tick
tick, tick, tick, tick
until at last it winds down
it doesn’t wonder
why am i wound up?
and why do i tick so?
and why, oh why
am i?
it just ticks
and then it doesn’t.

for now
i am real
and
i am here
the scent of your hair
as i drift off to sleep
is the most real of real
these things,
they anchor me
in this harbour
until one day
i am set adrift
and am pulled out to sea
away and away and away
into the dark
and who knows what
but
for now
i am real