Several Times Have We Been in Love

Several times
have we been in love
before, you and I.

Once, long ago,
on the eve of a
diminishing
boyhood, I caught a glimpse
of you,
and what love could be:
should be.

And then, in the rush
of teen hormones
I imagined the passion,
and almost saw you
there
behind a facade
of lust.

Ideals flying,
I set forth on a voyage
of romanticism,
soon wrecked
on the rocks
of Reality.
But you were there
with your siren song
of truth,
of change,
of love,
of us.

Several times
have we been in love
before, you and I:
but this time
is for us.

Teaching

He had often found that, 

in seeking results, 

he had forgotten the lesson.

Marking the papers, he had thought 

that the truth was dependent 

upon the master copy.

In finding the answers 

did not match, 

again he read the subject.

Humbled, he returned to the papers, 

and found in each one 

a version of truth more relevant than his own. 

Erosion

Grey wrinkles on a pallid face,
eroded by the wearing pace
of life,
and the arrow of time.

Deep pathways carved by tears
for loved ones gone for years:
in memory
living proud and strong.

Captured on our aging skin,
echoes of love that dwell within
carve deep
our sense of loss.

Ancient canyons wrought by grief,
as time rushed by us like a thief:
a monument
to loss, and love.

From the Nor’east, Forty

The sirocco blows soft out of Algiers:
it tells a mystic tale, of the streets of the Casbah, pale;
of Arab women, veiled; of the call to prayers, wailed;
of the hand of Allah, the sword; of the life of Mohammed, the Word.

An Arctic gale sweeps from Greenland:
it whispers frigid tales, of glaciers and white whales;
of seas that have no chart, in the places where icebergs start;
of expeditions lost; of snow-plains that n’er have been crossed.

A mountain breeze sighs from Haiti:
it speaks of a green-clad  isle; of dark-skinned girls that smile,
while held high on their heads are baskets of mangoes or breads;
of dark and moonless nights, and secret voodoo rites.

But the winds that lash the Banks:
they keen heroic stories, of schooners, codfish and dories;
of small boats that sailed with the tide, and how men who sailed them have died;
and yet through the whitecaps and foam, they carry warm memories of home.

Early Spring

Silver thaw is glistening,
and we are happy listening
for the passage of the geese.
Outside storm clouds are blowing,
and its just started snowing,
while we lie here knowing
the crocuses are growing,
and we have love,
and peace.

Cloudburst

Watching
a relationship e
                         r 
                           o 
                             d 
                               e
is like drowning:
flashes of the past
flow before your eyes.

With the knowledge
of hindsight,
you watch
and recognise
the failures,
the weaknesses;
the massing of the clouds
that will (in a moment: in an eternity)
obscure the sun.

As a Sail on the Horizon

The boy looked out to sea: 
past scrub spruce on rocky tors, 
his gaze skipped over gravel shingle 
whispering an ageless sough to the sea. 
There! Across the reach, beyond the island! 
The tiny sail touching the horizon 
would stay with the boy for hours,
traversing his lilliputian world.


Later, an economic refugee 
"going down the road," 
the boy was reminded of the sail 
as he watched through the night 
on the "Maritime Express." 
Small pools of light would appear 
in the Stygian darkness of a New Brunswick night: 
reminders of comfort and home.


On the horizon of my life I have seen many sails. 
Some have docked, sojourned, 
to become part of my life for a while. 
Others passed, unknown, into the vortex of Time. 
I only wish, at this late date, 
that I had tried harder, made more effort, 
to make the journeys of others 
as joyous as my own.

Across the Meadow

Across the meadow, the grass was green,
the clover sweet, and the air was clean:
the rivers fresh, and the ocean blue,
and in April forests, violets grew.

We could smell the dust on a country road,
and were not afraid to touch a toad.
We could walk a fence ‘cross the top of the world,
and lived for the winter when snowflakes swirled.

We loved grasshoppers, and were shy with girls,
and examined shells in search of pearls.
We built flimsy rafts for profound explorations,
and awaited summer with wild expectations.

Now no one cares that the birds have flown,
and who is to notice that the leaves are brown?
For now we are old, and have lived long in pain:
     I wish the grass was green again.

Epitaph to a Wave

The moon is forlorn.
From the midst of the sea, a wave is born.

Basically meek, it does not know
Why it is, or where it will go.
In silent decision, it gathers in force,
And, like a ripple, speeds away from its source.
It has no purpose: (like the rest of its kind)
It rolls on without destination in mind.
It grows in stature, in power and might,
Still devoid of ambition, with no goal in sight.
It gathers momentum, not knowing what for,
And, with one final fling, it dies on the shore.

He dashes through life with a rush and a rave:
He dies without question.  Man must be a wave!

A Sudden Channelling of Timothy Leary

(Reclassified to "Cannabis and Creative Cognition" Series)

(Reference Leafly.com "Moby Dick".  

This was reclassified because of the great description of Moby's effects)

The vibration of the Third Eye Chakra
gave a shimmering orange neon edge
     to the Reality of
          the quiet hill.

The jackpines meditated
     and focussed
on the gentle sigh of their breathing;
the South Wind whispering
     tropical secrets
of moonlight romance.

The shadows skipped
     forward 
     and
                 back,
as though we were stuck
in a time loop...
     an Escher mobiüs strip
          of Eternity.

Truth beckoned,
just an illusion away,
as Cosmic meaning
     was revealed.

    This.
         Now.

Circadian Reflections

It has just turned September,
and July and August
have condensed into
a
time
capsule...

swimming lessons, reunions, overnights,

visitors, camping, marshmallows, birthday parties,

Annapolis Basin sojourn,

meeting with old friends, and talking ‘til three,

swimming at the lake, and in the ocean,

walks with dog, gardening, and

l   a   w   n    m   o   w   i   n   g,

arrivals and departures,

hellos and farewells,

“I love you,” mouthed at departing planes...

to be examined at leisure
during long,
                     cold,
                             dark,
                                       January evenings,
as fireplace and Jameson’s
inspire, and enhance,
the joy of remembering,
and living,
my life.

Body and Soul*

The mellow sound
of his alto sax
suffuses
the pedestrian mall
with the echo
of a gentler
time.

Several older listeners
think of Charlie Parker,
of Stan Getz,
and of the magical freedom
jazz bestows
on the human
soul.

His worn Stetson
accepted the tribute
of coins
that could not begin
to feed the hunger
behind
his scarred arms.

He plays
as though his spirit
was aflame,
the difficulty of his
methadone treatment
and his worsening Hep C
forgotten.

He smiles
as several of his listeners
break into applause,
just before
tone-deaf Mall Security
roughly tells him
to move along.

* “Body and Soul” is the title of a recording made in 1939 by Coleman Hawkins that became THE model for later jazz solos on all instruments.

Unwelcome Guests

The oscillations of kinship
attracted the vulture flies
to the decaying cadaver
of my intellect.
The escaping of putrescent gases
intoxicated them to the hysteria
of temporary sanity.
But I did not linger
too long in the stifling shade
of Eden’s tree.
I departed in haste,
anxious to reach
the point of my departure,
only to find to my false and careless dismay
that it had metamorphosed
into the antique past
of my mind,
that subtle and sublimated guest-list
for Society’s Party.

Standing in midnight sojourn
on the balcony of my solitary summit,
I viewed the myriad paths of approach,
each one simple in its complexity.
I feel secure.