POETRY

Hungry Night Owls

Spent the evening round the kitchen table

Long hours spent on late night conversation

Tales told, some true, some fable

Heart felt words that need no translation

Your eyes were heavy, your chin hung in your hands

I could tell you were ready to throw in the towel

The words never come out the way one plans

Willing to wait for dawn, a hungry night owl

You retired to your heavy down

While my hands found a pen to caress

The silent words kept twirling around

With just your empty glass to address

The night was still young as I zipped up my coat

Slipped out your door and tucked my hair into my cowl

Mulling over all we’d said, I made myself a note

And went out hunting like a hungry night owl

Wandering through a maze of snowy blocks

Under calm street lamps I’d add a few jots

Passed Hopper’s café with no Nighthawks

Not another wakened soul off who to bounce my thoughts

In search for what, we never know

Got no appetite but still the belly growls

Scribble down the inspiration’s dying glow

But I’m hungry for the words of another wandering night owl

January 4/07

#18 bus, Halifax

I saw you hesitate before hitting that chord

Your fingers a tremblin’ as if you were grappling a sword.

Tossed into battle, the warm lights dancing on stage

Riding the saddle like a woman in a cage

Yet the freedom in your stance,

The two step in your prance

Strikes at the chord resonating through the sound hole

Torn open in the centre of my soul

When the house lights came on

A few hours before dawn

You unstrapped your guitar and put on your mask

You returned to the crowd, the day and its task

February 9/2007

Ginger’s, Halifax

Window of the Soul

Out of hiding and into the search

You open the window of your three storey perch

The hot city wind breathes into your room

And fresh blooming trees add their perfume

Moonbeams filtered by the dusty glass pane

Spilling onto the floor with a bleached blue stain

The rains have all but passed

When sorrow comes it doesn’t ever really last

And you know its time to go but you only want to stay

You make a decision and leave without even knowing which way

June 2006

Dartmouth

The Old Backshift

Early morning bus bobbing home,

Another long wakeful night has past.

A head full of weary ideas that continue to roam,

Wonder how long all of this can last.

Night after night the sands of time pile and drift;

Crawling home from the old backshift.

Not too sure what all the waiting’s for.

Time and wages bear no worth.

In the empty hours of the wandering whore,

Before the sun spreads its mirth,

The burden of night gets to heavy to lift;

Crawling home from the old backshift.

A fresh snow washes the dirty cityscape,

Stitching closed the vein the night has bled.

All the days these backshifts rape,

Stumbling back home to a single bed.

That which must be given once came as a gift,

Crawling home from the old backshift.

February 21/2007

#18 Bus, Halifax

Who Are We

Who are we who stand as trees;

Standing where the rivers freeze?

All the leaves and tears we shed,

Mourning by the stumps of our dead,

Lying ‘neath our knotted knees.

Beneath a moon of blue light;

Blue as snow and winter’s white.

Such lonely songs, strong winds will sing,

As we wait for death or spring;

Pining for the ebb of night.

Who are you come dusk and dark,

Trembling in your husk of bark?

Some uproot, some have fallen,

Others wait to spread their pollen,

Upon warm winds new seeds embark.

Before dawn, the grave may howl,

Through the forest like an owl.

Who’s to know when death is near;

When all your leaves have disappeared,

And one lone crow serves as your cowl?

Who are those that oppose the night;

Wading through the tides of blight?

Through the silence they meditate,

And without violence, they choose to wait.

We are those who need the light.

June 3/2004

Winkler

Musee des Beaux Arts

Paint cracked with age

Over two hundred years on a lit up stage

Once the easel cradled its grace

Upon which recorded such an eloquent face

With such gentle beauty in patient strokes

Touched by the curves of sunlight’s spokes

There is silence in the pose

Which the painter so skillfully chose

Pulled out to reveal the joy within

Reproducing the past where breath has once been

Taste the fragrance of the once fresh oil

Feel the agony of the painter’s sacred toil

The current of a rhythmic brush

As cattails sway under the weight of a thrush

Crickets can be heard in the woods behind

And even shadows reveal secrets to find

But now the paint is cracked with age

Maybe forever it will last on a page

July 8/2003

Montreal

Toil the Oil

oils spread, so curled and deranged

the colours wet, swirled then rearranged

blending in shadow, slapping on light

the current revealed, mapping out sight

thick stabbed strokes draw in the eyes

smeared earthen tones as raw as clay that dyes

cold and dark blue, defending what is warm

the brush nimbly dances, blending in the form

visions of the mind, composed with urgent speed

before the dream is closed to the deed

smiling eyes amused with the meaning

resting hands abused by heavy leaning

the body rocks; time is but a race

with silence hours crawl into the space

energy fading, to a gentle caress

one last mix, a sentimental signature to address.

July 10/2003

Montreal

Silent

Thick clouds are afire

with the coming of the night.

Sparse tree tops reach higher

to catch the last of daylight.

My weary voice is dead

before this whispering grass.

Too much has been said

and what of it will last?

I am here.

These chuckling rusty tracks

travel beneath my stumbling feet.

Angry tears, hot bleeding wax

pry themselves from my heat.

Skeleton limbs hang scornful,

as white as paper’s ash.

The feathers of freedom are mournful

and the flames of love will lash.

I am fear.

The grey streaks of light

slide into the wake of stars.

The coming of the night

is the bending of my bars.

If peace is a blanket

draping the sky with silence.

Then the river’s dry – I drank it;

the dead trees stand in violence.

I disappear.

July 23/2000

La Riviere bush

A Pocket Full

a pocket full of poems

a coffee tin full of paints

a guitar case full of songs

a black book full of saints

a drawer full of photographs

a sketchbook full of you

a belly full of spirits

a heart you painted blue

a pillow full of feathers

a canning jar full of tears

a wooden box full of ashes

an empty house full of mirrors

a palette full of questions

a canvas full of dreams

a mouthful of kisses

a handful of moonbeams

a cold heart full of graces

a basement full of broken stairs

a pasture full of sheep

a pocketful of prayers

March 15/2006

Dartmouth

Bus Stop

Crowds mill by with smiles or frowns,

It’s the same old same in any old town.

We choose to build or choose to burn,

Rising from those lessons learned.

We choose to fight or choose to fade,

Fallen through, those plans we’ve made.

We choose to learn or choose to lie,

And face the truth we can’t deny.

We choose to give or choose to gain,

Riches earned and stored in vain.

We choose the present or choose the past,

Might lose the future when it comes too fast.

We choose to wait or choose to wander,

The times we give and the times we squander.

There’s not much left that surprises me,

I’ve seen it all and none of it comes for free.

Time blows by and little has changed,

A few years older a little more estranged.

April 2006

#2 Bus, Dartmouth

Everyday we feel something new

Whether it’s pink, orange or blue

Or maybe just plain old black and white

It’s all levels of darkness and light

Things we remember and the things we forget

The things we long for and the things we regret

These are the ingredients that make us who we are

It’s all the things that have brought us this far

The times we’ve run and the times we’ve knelt

The love we’ve held and the pain we’ve felt

Some things were taken and some were given

Mistakes we’ve made…some were forgiven

December 29, 07

Highway #3, MB.

My heart resides on homeless streets

empty handed to become complete.

Passion falls on hungry eyes

full of laughter’s hiding cries.

Frozen sleeps on concrete beds,

washing away, this callus sheds.

Slowly growing, like copper bummed,

singing hymns, so softly hummed.

Bus shelters the matted mind,

passed out thoughts that leave me blind.

Hell is here where shadows play,

labeled lonely keeps friends at bay.

Stranger’s food smells so sweet,

Cadillacs shield the concealed heat.

Exhaust harbours a chance today

as doors open wide, inviting me to pray.

“Take some more if you must,

but in return leave me trust.

Without this grace that is so small,

my heart would cause my head to fall.

Humble these hands to give again,

to mark my name so I know it then.”

February 10/2002

# 18 Bus, Winnipeg