writing live

[cascadiabound]

27. 1/25/2022

5 o'clock summer sun presides over
Receding winter's day tide
Two hours past noon
White noise of messy surf
Growling waves rising, form a half mile out
Close waves rear into a kicking chorus line
White froth glints and falls back
Polished cobbles grey black green
Seastack silhouette
Washed in the falling tide
January north coast beach

 

[Winter_Fare]

#25

I was left alone
Making sense of shifting sands
It was just a dream

You became my rock
Fixing my horizons but
It was just a dream

Then unchained I rose
Above these illusions but
It was just a dream

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

# 11 1/26/22

Mike

He grows his own stash,
maybe sells a gram or two,
“justa cover expenses”
He calls it Skunkweed
“on account it smells
like you just flattened
one o’ them critters.”

He’s grey and grizzled, always
with a three day old beard, neither
here nor there, but he is an avid
reader. consuming books as if
they’re food for the starving.

Never married but loves
the ladies. Always inscrutably
polite, he’s a flirt, never
missing the chance for cheek.
To establish a blush is a triumph,
chalking one up for
the team.

 

[cascadiabound]

28 1/26/22

The isolation breaks us
Breaks the old and infirm
Shortens lives
Stresses staff
Thirty days of protection
Thirty days of isolation
Apartment confinement
Confined apart
Breaks my heart

 

[Winter_Fare]

In the window
Was a black out curtain
And a moon and stars
Of fuzzy felt
To block out
Bright blue
Summer evening sky

What it taught me
Was to fit in somehow
Make straw into gold
To self soothe
Become
Someone else's dream

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

# 12 1/27/22

The Presence

His presence, a ghost
haunting my nights, trailing
aftershave mingled with pipe smoke
and laughter through my dreams
and yet we’ve never met.

Desire only could paint his face,
delirium his eyes and carnality
conjure up a perfect body
designed for pleasure.
A voice I’d never heard
urges me on to higher plains
while unfamiliar phantom hands
hold me there for hours
leaving me breathless.

No canvas, no photography
could record this shadow visit.
He leaves no evidence behind
except for this seed of longing
never to reach fruition
and the sweet memory.

 

[Piscator]

sans nombre 7

a sickle moon hangs in an ice blue sky
my breath hangs in steam clouds
quiet save for the faint clamour
of the freedom truckers convoy
on the not too distant highway
this too shall pass but I'm glad
we've abolished capital punishment

 

[Winter_Fare]

#27

Small things throw spirals
Trace galaxies inside
Mirror to a
Blind universe
Braille
On the surface
Of my heart

 

[Winter_Fare]

#28


The weight of all our water brought me here
The weight of us, the weight of all our tears
The weight of fear

I was a little speck that you held dear
And with you my soul's shadow disappears
The weight of all our water brought me here

A light you are for me my pioneer
Finding in me vitriol that shears
The weight of fear

Separates us from the caul of fear
Swells my heart with all our loving years
The weight of all our water brought me here

Our journey bundled up together dear
Warms my heart with all our loving years
The weight of fear

Changed us phase transition near
To breaking close to broken no more tears
The weight of all our water brought me here
The weight of fear

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

# 12 1/29/22

The Cellist

He must be a great lover
with his nimble, sympathetic fingers,
face registering such ecstatic emotion.

The bow caresses shivering strings
in a long, drawn-out sigh,
his eyes close as if sensing
the slow slide into a warm embrace.

Head thrown back, neck stretched
in orgasmic tension. Mouth in an O
of surprise, we feel like voyeurs
witnessing a private, intense moment.

In faster more passionate
passages his whole body moves
as if driven by desire, sweat,
like lust, glistens on his flesh.

At the finish, he collapses,
his instrument left, leaning
into him, replete at last.

A cigarette would not be
out of place but neither he
nor his cello smoke.
The adoring applause will
suffice.


​

 

[Lyricalli]

11

The words aren't necessry
I know
though I miss the sound of them
the way breath gave solidity
to the intangible

 

[Winter_Fare]

#29

Hey you!
Keep growing
Hey!
Keep going up
Own it
Where your roots are
Was a tight space
Dandelion between the cracks
Buddleia on the roof
But look up not down
Be free!

 

[cascadiabound]

29 1/30/22

A date with Jack
waking from a dream
my erstwhile companion
attends me, waiting
his sharp wit cuts
through missteps
undoing
revising

what dream
perfection?
Jack intercedes
ready and willing
pointing where
best efforts
are mere fumbles

misaligned
malformed
mismatched
Jack is my hero
unflinching
in resolve
to revise
my dream

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

# 13 1/30/22

Classy

A connoisseur,
of wine and food,
expensive scotch,
of books and art
and women.
He loves women.

And I appreciate
his poetry, sometimes whimsical,
often erotic and always,
always absorbing.

His desire
to inform, educate
in the nicest of ways,
is delightful and valued.

His voice, erudite and tweedy,
mature and composed seems
out of place in a site for porn
but he gives it class.​

 

[cascadiabound]

30 1/31/22

In the garden of desire
Wide stone steps beckon
In the garden of desire
Winter bare branch beauty
In the garden of desire
Organic shapes here coaxed
Into architectural lines
Arching, bending, reaching
as the eye traverses
each branch with delight
In the garden of desire
The yews subdued
Waiting their turn
Deep rhododendron canopies
Where hydrangeas cavort
Flourishing in their shade
Vigorous blooms ready
A summer showcase
In the garden of desire
Winter’s hedge curls ‘round the curb
like a dinosaur’s tail.
Not one branch
Nor a leaf
Is out of place
In the garden of desire
Lead me hence darling
Into the emerald grass
I will leave my pruners by
For a promenade
In the garden of desire.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

# 14 1/2/22

The new lonely

This is my new lonely.
Rarely solo but always alone,
our shared pleasures sloughed off
one by one and all at once.

Music, unexpectedly heard,
opens a wound. A sudden
slight graze of memory
brings unexpected tears but
the days of gulping grief are over.

Solid, stern, supportive,
you were my rock
anchoring me to our life.

Cut loose, I drift on tides of love
and dependency from new sources
but your presence hovers,
an aching comfort.

 

[butters]

#15(?)

silent choir of cardinals

Honeysuckle bole
gnarled, impenetrable,
lifts many thick-set arms
to spread in even, arcing sprays
banks of graceful, busy stems
pleasing to the eye

Though yet undressed–
too cool for spring's green haze–
the sun's long rays lay transient gilt
the topmost twigs the last to lose their light

Throughout the day
red choir plays positions
invisible directions for future voices
swapping
layering
ribboning for best effect

Decisions made
numbers whittle down
the brightest voice come spring
perched centrally
on the very highest perch

 

[todski28]

And so the blade spins
rips through timber screaming it’s resistant
cry

timber spews its insides into the air
the drone of a monotone
sound constantly pulling
air and particles to save lungs

music hammers the background muffled
by ear muffs
dust sticks to sweat soaked skin
margins, timelines minutes hours
the blade cuts through it all

until 130pm when
we hit a three finger discount….

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

# 15 2/3/22

Almost Lost

It is your fault,
that stubborn streak,
which finds us stranded
on Christmas Eve
in Muskoka, knee-deep
in snow and French patois,
on alien roads.

They may look familiar,
that central stutter of white
dividing the sentinel telegraph poles,
but the signs are unfamiliar.
and our usual radio stations are AWOL

Around us frozen fields spiked
with stubble, blown bare of their blanket,
now bird-dotted, offer up
their meager left-overs.

You stand on the verge
clutching the gas can foolishly
hopeful, while I sulk in the warmth,
mulishly doleful, sure that no-one will
"be along soon" on this bitter day.

And yet,
over the crest,
a car.
​

 

[Winter_Fare]

The sea fills me
And I break like a wave
On the walls of your harbour

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

# 16 2/5/22

Arizona fill-up

The truckers used to call it
“ Last Chance”
before the ghosts took over.

Rusted jalopies,
paint faded to fumes,
litter the scrub behind the building
that’s barely there anymore.

The two pumps,
Regular and Premium,
stand side by side but distant
as if embarrassed to be seen
in this state of dishevelment,
still wrapped in the perfume
they didn’t choose
but that will never fade.

Premium’s nozzle hangs loose
playing a monotonous tune
in the hot wind.
Percussion is provided
by the flapping Camel sign
nearly worked free from its crucifixion
after years of trying.

Here’s an antique stone jar.
Moonshine?
Molasses?
Sandblasted to a satin finish.
It became our souvenir.

 

[Lyricalli]

Uncountable half-written poems
that refuse to end
struggle with the inability
to go too deep
to the place where I'd break
if I had to think
too hard about the losses
instead I fade to background noise
turn my hair red
blow out another year's candles
make half-hearted wishes
that can't come true

 

[29wordsforsnow]

'lea

counting half-broken promises
denied to be fulfilled
struck with invainity

no, stop to weep
the time when you began to leave
if I'd shared a drink
to hold your losses
instead, you face an unsound poise
churned and now dead
brush out another tear's scandals
make half-spoken pledges
to care more for the next you

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

# 17 2/8/22

Bob – the form

Bending, blending
shifting shuttle.
Smooth move loom
weaves warp to weft.

Smooth move loom
makes perfect patterns.
Spreading seamless,
Right to left.

Spreading seamless,
plotting gossip,
stitching stories,
a wordless wend

Stitching stories,
pleaching poems,
melding meanings
until the end.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

# 18 2/13/22

Hungry Jack

Room service, how may I help you?

Mr. Nicholson would like one
of everything on the breakfast menu.
Five pots of coffee, sweet rolls and
hot water for tea. Got that? Oh!
And five Mimosas

Yes, yes. Right away.

Panic in the kitchen, under-staffed,
it's Sunday after all. We don't
expect a movie star to order
a breakfast orgy. How much
can one man eat anyway?

Eggs bennie, omelets of several
kinds, soft boiled eggs, platters
of bacon and racks of toast.
Waffles with maple, muffins
and cinnamon buns.

Tray after tray is readied
and steadied, trundled up
to suite 107 where Jack
must be starving.

The man opens up himself;
waves us in with that famous,
wolf-grin.

Here you are ladies, breakie.

And four lithe beauties unfold
from the King sized.

You didn't think it was all for me?
I'm a man of many appetites
but that would be just greedy!