Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Pigeon

I

Strutting down the sidewalk

and not retreating from me.

Cocky pigeon.

II

Fleeing before the Number 1

bus.  Flap like mad pigeon!

you forgot

your bus pass.

III

Front yard invasion.

What is so interesting?

Pigeons confuse me.

IV

Six pigeons in a circle

on Brunswick Street.

Not a NSCAD student in sight

to film, paint, or sculpt

this confab of wings.

V

Pigeon in the rain.

I’ll share my umbrella.

VI

I miss pigeons when the snow comes.

VII

If they were an Airborne Division

we would cower before

the pigeons’ gray, purple,

and turquoise colour scheme.

VIII

Maybe we should charge them

rent if pigeons are going to be

our sidewalk roommates.

IX

Thanks for inviting yourself

to the barbeque, pigeon.

We’re cooking a distant

cousin of yours.

X

Who talks this much

about pigeons?

XI

Pigeon eyes are like

googly eyes pasted

on Paper-Mache birds.

It unnerves me.

XII

The industrial revolution

brought more than people

in to crowd the cities.

The pigeon nuclear family

is alive and well.

XIII

Thirteen pigeons outside

a coffee shop.

Lucky or unlucky?

Let’s wait

and see if they attack.

Three Limericks for Canadian Summers

The heat eats us up like the gas tank of a Hummer

And global warming seems like such a great big bummer.

We sweat and we toil,

Complain we will boil,

But come winter we’ll beg for the furnace of summer.

The suns fierce rays seem to be frying my brain

And I find my focus is hard to maintain.

Then I think of the Equator

Where the heat is no doubt greater

But a proud Canadian’s gotta complain.

Up in the sky, our Oppressor has shone

As I lie sprawled in the grass on the lawn.

And I know the day will come,

And it’ll make me feel glum,

When that lovely gold Oppressor has gone.

The Salamander

The salamander runs on crooked legs through the city

welcome and applauded thanks to minds eager for fireworks.

It does not need to hide in the shadows, forcing its

opponents to seek shelter there instead.

The dim glow of a reading light beneath the covers

illuminates black text inked into nutmeg scented paper

thin as the breath between my teeth as I absorb

more than the sum of the words but the sum of the ‘I’.

The salamander is our hero, the best friend of bliss.  It alone

can promise not to compromise smiles with unfiltered reality.

Its tongue darts faster than the eye can follow and before long

Huck is off his fence and the white paint has spilled over everything.

Somewhere far off a siren wails but it is as if it is in another

land far beyond my reach.  Blinking becomes an infuriating

necessity that delays my overcharged brain’s feast.  I engorge

myself on literature.  Asimov, Orwell, Tolstoy, and Stein.

The salamander hunts without tire.  It compromises the machine,

the printing and the printers, the publishers and the published.

Talons work from the inside, pushing the former gods out

and replacing them with fifty shades of hollow replicas.

Montag flees the Hound, McMurphy suffocates beneath

the pillow.  And the I beneath the sheets sweats and feels visceral

and finds on every page I and I and me and I.  The pages

are soaked in humanity as I am soaked in humanity evermore.

The salamander is my enemy.  The salamander sniffs the air with

its tongue and looks for me.  It fears me knowing my I.  It fears

others knowing theirs.  It wants us to smile and laugh until we

can’t be anything else.  The salamander burns away the I in us.

The fires are already burning.  I seek to douse them in ink.

Inspiration

I lie on my bed with my fingers poised,

Hovering over a keyboard, waiting for that clicking noise.

But words do not spring to my finger-tips today

And I search all around me for something to say.

Tree leaves flutter against light afternoon wind

And a gray layer of clouds refuses to be thinned.

Engines hum as cars drift on by

And birds chirp faintly as they touch the sky

Bed springs knot and ping as I shift my view

To look at shelves of books whose numbers are not few.

DVDs and movies rest on brown wooden shelves,

Testaments to our attempts to entertain ourselves.

Then, a white doorway leading out to the hall

Followed by a closet, a backpack, and a deflated football.

My desk rests in shambles, debris piled up high.

I can never keep it clean, as much as I might try.

Inspiration is tough to come by, sitting on your bed.

I have a laptop, and keys, but nothing in my head.

The dark enemy is writer’s block, holding me back.

But maybe the answer lies in a folded laundry stack.

We search this wide world, for some new stimulation,

Feeling ourselves lost in some unholy stagnation.

But, inspiration can be found in the glint of window glass

In the heart of a loved one, in the smell of newly cut grass.

We call out for something to unhinge our emotions

But sometimes one only needs the simplest of notions.

I can feel the cool breeze drifting over from the ocean,

A call of inspiration for many a Nova Scotian.

So, good-bye to writer’s block holding me down.

I can find my afternoon muse in what is around.

The rustle of curtains, the dust on the shelf,

These are all I need to inspire myself.

Forgetting

Beneath my fingers and thumbs

the flat keys wait, lifeless and still.

Heaney rode backwards through time, riding

on the memories of father and grand-father,

for the past was his concern, not the future.

But I will look forwards to the times of my children

and my children’s children, to how the world will change

and how the words and the writing will change

as technology advances.

Will my children write essays snug in their beds,

with eye strain caused by hours gazing at their iPads,

breeding a need for prescription eye-glasses?

Will they remember paper and pen

or will those be relics of the ancient world of their father?

You may laugh at the thought, but we have iPhones and Kobo ereaders

and even Bluetooth control for our cars.

Will my grandchildren think their words and watch them

spread across the holographic screen, bringing new meaning

to stream of consciousness writing?  Will they even know

what foolscap is?  Or lead pencils?  Or pink erasers?

Or will writing have passed out of style with a new medium

rising to illustrate the need for story and word

to express the interior thoughts and emotions

of this race of humans, flawed but fixed by tech.

How will my children write?  Will my grand-children write?
By the time my great-grand-children are born will they be a part

of a world that has forgotten the pen and the pencil

that allowed us to express ourselves with this written, divine language?

Beneath my fingers and thumbs

the flat keys wait.

What will I choose to remember with them?

Atlas Tripped

“I think we should stay in Europe but all the politicians who destroyed this country should leave.”

-          Katerine Apostolaki, 20, Student

Fire reflects off of shields held high

as soldiers march like Marathon remembered.

But they grip shields of polycarbonate

instead of ones made of iron and bronze.

They are no Spartans, though valiant they may be,

for there is no glory to be found here.

No Simonides lives now to write an epigram

for the epitaph of a nation.  Besides,

the coffers are too bare to spare

the (useless) coin needed to commission

such a project.  Oh, woe to the west

where anyone can be at the scene

of the dust and the smoke and the rage

simply by turning on their phone

and googling a nightmare half a world

away.  It is possible to look but impossible

to see.  As in an age long past

there are three hundred who stand

against an onslaught numbered

in the billions (of euros).  Three hundred

representatives attempting to preserve

posterity (and posterior) with austerity.



(http://www.theglobeandmail.com/report-on-business/international-news/amid-flames-greek-parliament-approves-crucial-austerity-bill/article2335517/?utm_medium=Feeds%3A%20RSS%2FAtom&utm_source=World&utm_content=2335517)

Deucalion

While driving passed the Larry Uteck exit
I spy a rising column of smoke stabbing
it’s way upwards over the tree tops.  I do
a double take as I see the mushroom cloud
has unfolded like an umbrella over Halifax.
I struggle to reconcile what I know to be
impossible with what my eyes see.  It’s only
later, once I’ve gotten closer, that I realize
the smoke is coming from the candy-cane
smoke stacks in Dartmouth, belching their
smoggy waste into the cold mid-day air.
But the image shakes me still.
 
I am reminded of Victor Frankenstein.  His ambition
birthed a monster that he couldn’t take back.
Shelley had another title in mind for
her famous work.  The Modern Prometheus
still lives today, bringing fire that hiccups
haze into the air I breathe.  I am a child
of the Modern Prometheus.  So,
does that make me the monster?

I keep driving and turn onto Connaught
but suddenly all I can see are rising streams
of choking fog from car after car after
car.  And then my mind drifts up too
and crosses province after province, country
after country, seeing all the hundreds
of thousands of cars, each with its own little
fire whispering smog coated lullabies
to the Earth.  Prometheus brought us fire.
Frankenstein, like our parents, brought it
to life.  Now we are one and the same.  We are
the sons and daughters of the Modern Prometheus.
We are the monster.

Fathom Launch Party Reading

It looks like its sideways, but its not when you play it.

Sore

Alarm                    no, please, five more minutes

drag       out this fleeting comfort

                Alarm.  Not enough,                       never enough time is gained

by five minutes of sour disappointment.

                I lurch outwards               strong sudden moves

are the only way to commit myself

to the morning.                                Oh!  Sleep does                not

                relinquish its hold so easily, like chains

hung round the neck.       Pain lances through tendons

                                sore, so sore.

I am up, slapping the alarm with one hand,

                massaging my neck with the other.  I stumble

around, eyes blearing with longing

                                for hours needed and denied.  I quickly get my chaise

on and slump into my desk chair.  But no

                amount of massaging is sufficient to free

                                my neck from jealous sleeps revenge.

       I don’t want to go, but I must, things to do, a whole ros-

                                -ter; to that end I lift my weary frame

and proceed upstairs to searing hot streams

                of water ejected from a shower head.  Ribbons

of water sluice down my frame.  I tilt my neck into the

welcoming spray and let it knead my tightened muscles.

                Steam clears my befuddled mind and I shove my

face into the spray, letting it wash over my eyes and clear

the smog of sleep.  Sweet coherence!  Shaking off the

                brutal taxation of sleep on me.  So good, so coveted,

and so cumbersome.  With reluctance, the shower ends,

and towels dry me down.  The day is ahead and ready now

but the soreness will not really be shaken until sleep come again.

Eating Together

Thin porcelain plates reflecting chandeliered light bulbs,

Cracked plastic cups filled with filtered water,

Utensils lain adjacent on woven place mats,

Light brown cork boards topped by tonight’s dishes,

Steam hovering lightly over peanut-butter wood;

Six mismatched chairs for five murmuring stomachs,

Faded white rimmed door smeared by sunlight,

Dulled blue-white tiles lost in symmetry;

Peeled potatoes and grilled pork chops,

Sautéed onions and scattered green peppers,

Barbequed chicken breast and boiled asparagus,

Vibrant corn and richly wrinkled peas;

Five family members sitting down together,

Eating together so we aren’t eating alone,

Eating together so that we can eat alone.

Up in Smoke

Hey guys, here are two different versions of the same Sestina.  Which one do you think is better?  I'm interested to hear what you think.  Feel free to leave a comment.

Up in Smoke (Version 1)

Like the spear of some crumbling Grecian phalanx the cold

pen is held in his hand over pages that seem almost wet

with the wasted words of an hour’s worth of writing beside the fire.

As always, he faces that moment when the well runs dry

and those treacherous muses cease to sing their obliging music

and they fall, like so many leaves on the autumn lawn, irreverently silent.

Except for the crack within the iron hearth and his heartbeat, all is silent

in this house where every happy memory is a hallucination.  The cold

of the mahogany wood flooring against his feet makes his nerves tingle with music

as he rises and heads for the kitchen.  The emptiness left by the muses has wet

his appetite.  His skin feels chalky, as if his blood has been pumped, leaving him dry

and all his thoughts turn to the boss who came to him that morning looking for someone to fire.

As he returns to the study with an empty glass full of water, his eyes dance with the fire

and the idea comes to him, whispering in out of the omnipresent darkness, silent.

It is simple, elegant, a magnum opus that is sure to immortalize him like an otherwise dry

career has not, be it the business one he lost or the writing one that has remained eternally cold.

It is autumn, he recalls, and the air is crisp.  There has been no rain for weeks to make the house wet.

His writing is a failure and the need for it his undying tormentor.  But for him there shall yet be music.

He climbs the stairs and peeks through the door that creaks.  The music

rising from the bed, her constant breathing, reminds him of the fire

of their budding love begun nearly seven years past.  Tears make his eyes wet

as he realizes he cannot do this without her.  As he tip toes away he is silent

knowing that, were she awake, her words would be like a wind of bitter cold

snuffing out the flames of his truest inspiration.  His mouth quickly becomes dry

with expectation as he heads for the garage.  Never one to let his gas tank run dry

he has kept a supply of gasoline in bright orange cans behind his crates of music,

vinyl records collected over forty years of life.  Out here, they know only the cold

that awaits things forgotten and unable, by their nature, to adapt in the roaring fire

of life’s cauldron.  He works through the house for the next hour, sagacious in his silent

arrangements.  He covers couches, floors, and writing – oh, the writing! – until it is all wet.

Then, there is only the before.  The infinite and finite moment when the air seems wet

with the anticipation and the awareness of what must inevitably come next.  Dry

match meets soaked life, drenched dreams, so that  the air will no longer be silent

but erupt into a phantasmagoric display, multifarious with its ethereal music.

And even then, the splendour of it all begins to feel like too much for him.  But all fire,

the great red flower, is always more appealing to us, the frozen, who live the life of the cold.

So, onto the irrevocably wet floor he lets the match plummet to conduct the music

and the well that seemed to defeat him when dry now serves as the pit for the metamorphic fire

and his immortality is achieved in the silent smoke that rises, amalgamating all, out of the cold.

Up in Smoke (Version 2)

Except for the crack within the iron hearth and his heartbeat, all is silent

in this house where every happy memory is a hallucination.  The cold

of the mahogany wood flooring makes his nerves tingle with music

as he rises and heads for the kitchen.  The emptiness left by the muses has whet

his appetite.  His skin feels chalky, as if his blood has been pumped, leaving him dry

and all his thoughts turn to the boss who came to him that morning looking for someone to fire.

Now he is just another member of the unemployed.  There is no fire

strong enough to overcome the bitter ice that clogs his veins.  Silent

as the full moon that hangs like a misplaced eyeball in the sky, he finds dry

food stocked within his fridge.  He finds small comfort in the cold

air that laps against his meaty face and that distinct background thrum of music

only a fridge can make.  He grasps the water jug and feels wet

droplets of condensation break against his palm.  The pages on his desk are almost wet

with words but he tries not to think about them.  No doubt he’ll commit them to the fire

once he’s read them over.  The words are never good enough.  If there is an ethereal music

guiding great writers to their finest works then for him it has remained silent.

Like the spear of some crumbling Grecian phalanx, the pen sits dead and cold

in his hand, bringing him nothing.  He is empty and his well has remained perpetually dry.

And he begins to ask himself, what is the point?  His life has been nothing but a dry

leaf on the sidewalk, continuously crushed beneath the shoes of those passing.  Wet

laughter first filled the halls in high school then later in the office break room.  Cold

and indifferent stares.  Whispers:  Freak, loser.  They say cruelty ends after the fire

of high school, but it doesn’t.  It just recedes.  Becomes subtler.  Learns to work in silent

ways.  He remembers the history classes he loved, the way dates and ancient customs were like music

he couldn’t get out of his head.  Prometheus, bringing fire to mankind, Apollo, God of Music,

and also the God of the Sun.  He delved into the myths, loving the fantasy.  There were also dry

laughs from girls he’d fooled himself into asking out.  They would always laugh, laugh.  Silent

stares of horror were almost worse.  But not quite.  At least they felt bad.  Wet

spit balls getting stuck in his hair, swirlies to wash them out, the story circulating like wild fire.

Now, years later, he pours until he has a glass full of water but a house empty and cold.

And then the idea comes to him.  It whispers out of the omnipresent darkness like a cold

breath against his skin.  His hairs stand on end.  He may feel like a failed writer but there shall be music

for him, he realizes.  He steps back into the study and his eyes alight on the dancing fire.

It is simple, rooted in history, a magnum opus that is sure to immortalize him like an otherwise dry

career has not. It is autumn.  There has been no rain for weeks to make the house wet.

It will kindle nicely.  And he will be one with the phantasmagoric display.  Then he will laugh.  Silent

and sagacious, he goes about making the floors wet until they are ready for the music

and the well that was dry will now serves as the pit for the metamorphic fire

and he achieves immortality through immolation; all is silent as he puts an end to the cold.

The Ant Colony

I can sit idly by and try to ignore them no more,

As they march obscenely across the wooden floor.

Here I am, trying to play my PS3,

And I’m worried about these ants crawling over me.

Their small little forms can’t help but get on my nerves,

And if I kill them there are just more in reserve.

Damnation! Frustration! Curses and cussing!

These are barely visible insects we’re discussing!

They irritate me so as they crawl across my toes,

And the darndest thing is that not one of them knows.

They are oblivious to my anger as I stomp about,

Calm in the face of my anger as I bustle and shout.

I take slow deep breaths, and try to control my rage,

But these ants are an infuriation I must engage.

I assemble my arsenal and slay every ant in sight,

But that won’t stop them from marching day and night.

Brave Men

I have come today to visit my father.
There are many who consider him a man most grave.
But if you know him as I did, like flowers
his love did grow for friends, strong as an oak.
He was a man of his age. He worked, hands in the dark,
until dusk, forehead speckled with sweat droplets.

I think I remember most well the droplets
dripping in the cylinder hanging by Father
as he lay, struggling. His eyes, like dirt,
stained by pain, seemed fixed on the grave
of his father. He told me once of the oak
that was his sign post across a field stripped of flowers.

There is a cruelty to the gift of flowers –
real ones, not imposters – petals like honey droplets
brimming with life. But they are not strong oak
but soft, easily crushed, seeming t mock my father
with their fragile life. Nurses, Doctors, look grave
as they whispered condolences that filled my mouth with dirt.

My mother still plants things in the dirt
where once his hands bled for red flowers
that brought light to her face, no longer stone grave.
My hand darts fast, casting away droplets
that well on my lashes as I look. Father,
tell me again the story of brave men, steel, and the oak?

Once, he built me a treehouse in the oak
overlooking the eastern hills of cold brown dirt.
His voice broke when he asked me if he was a good father
when he snuck me sweets. Syrupy, sugared flowers
that melted on my tongue into warm droplets.
Yes, I said, hush now. No relief, only eyes grave.

There is a special place we put his grave.
Beside brave men, beneath shade of Oak.
I feel a tap, and look up to Sky’s tear droplets
as it cries with me. Beneath my knees, dirt
becomes mud. I place them carefully. Flowers
I brought, I raised, proud, to show Father.

Now spattered with droplets is his stone grave,
slapping above Father, sliding down Oak.
But, up from the dirt will Autumn bloom new flowers.

Yellow Umbrella

The perfect protector from falling sky.

A drum being beaten by drops of rain.

A warrior braving liquid daggers.

A shield, resolute in its sole duty.

An eager and intimate guardian

sacrificing its own comfort for yours.

It’s not perfect, as no lover can be,

but it does what it can in rain and wind.

Its edges run with tears like meteorites,

but you can trust it will shelter your secret

beneath its yellow nylon cupola.

Fall

Plummeting headfirst, F, the upside down man,

begins his journey with limbs splayed

like paint on a Jackson Pollock.

Finally, he curls into a ball, tucked up tight.

He retreats to the comfort of the fetal position

wrapped in himself, around himself, with himself.

And then down, down, down he goes

where he stops the splatter shows.

It’s a matter of perspective whether or not

the fall is short or long. Does he clip

off the L swiftly to get to the end or does he hold it

as down, down, down he goes.