Monday, November 11, 2013


her soul trembling and forlorn
surrounded by cracked walls
and salsa rhythms
she sees his shadow

driven by broken hearts
encircled by gnarled beats
and a lost lover
she feels his shadow

her soul tremulous and stiff
enclosed by a rusty past
and memories lost
they dance

photo by Edgar Degas

Sunday, September 8, 2013


                                                                       PRAIRIE TRAIN

The white train comes from a dark tunnel
of rocky mountains with its covering of snow.
The white train looks as though it has just escaped
from the jaws of darkness.  The white train steams
from the mountains into the flat
prairie, yielding the fresh seeds around it.

The horizon is exalted.  Ancient plains.
Whole sections never to have been farmed.
Over there the strong arms of farmers who
stand in little groups.  You cannot see
warriors or lost faces. Cattlemen at a distance.
On their way to a roundup maybe.

In the dining car, behind the hardwood door...
breakfast cereal and berries, cold juice
and a smile.  Already this morning
the chef has prepared breakfast for twelve
while tracking the prairies;  the formal
waiter never spills a drop only smiles.

A clean white napkin sits on the table
like a small mountain ready to fall.  Suddenly
the train brakes and stops.  The boy and waiter
peer through the window with wonderment
as they see the farmers with silver scythes
ordering them off the train, into the prairie.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013



with the shell of memories inwardly held
she once was approachable
ever captivating like frozen rain
her problem is what will come next
being alone is not easy

her soul has hardened
now petrified of other people
even those who love her
so she escapes from them
being alone is not easy

she likes nothing more than a sip of tea
so she can forget the dizzy race
and search for the stars in the sky
instead of watching old movies
being alone is not easy

buried deep beneath her brooding soul
remembering her life as a tale of misfortunes
and finding solace in self pity
she sees herself as a victim
being alone is not easy

thinking it best not to deal with details
she has difficulty with simple things
paralyzed by her will not to change
she feels good to be sad
being alone

Sunday, August 25, 2013



they walked this highway to no end
up North, a place buses neglect
hitching rides with their fears
where the beast preys on the desperate

the dark clouds covered them in mystery
with the falling rain waiting
as angels weep for the brave
and the beast preys for the desperate

this endless highway of tears
standing at the edge of somewhere
should be leading  towards the light
towards a saviour without a dead end
as  the falling rain drowns the beast

             this photo by  Steven Kelly reminded me of HIGHWAY 16 in Northern  British Columbia
             ...known  as the Highway of Tears...since 1974, 20 or more young women or girls have either
             been murdered or gone missing along this highway.....MOSTLY aboriginal.  This has been
             horrible...and for the most part police and authorities just didn't care....anyways this is the
             poem I many of us have cared and still care.

Friday, August 16, 2013


                                                                   original painting by Wayne
beside the timeless moment of silence
I saw eternity.  I saw the abode of angels.
nothing was happening.  the events of
a billion years ago were just as ghostly and
ungraspable as this moment or a billion
years from now, or the moments of the next four
minutes.  perfectly imperfect emptiness
of silver solitude....there were no questions
of not being alive or being alive, of dislikes or
likes, of taste or no taste, of not hearing or hearing,
of not far or far, of not seeing or seeing, of giving
or not giving without judgements.

beside the timeless moment of silence
I saw clarity with confusion.  the house of roses
standing in the wind.  the events of
tomorrow will change just as phantom and
ungraspable as this moment or a billion
years from now, or the moments of the past four
minutes.  refreshingly cool, empty from the silver
filled with solitude....there were no questions
of here or there, of up and
down, of believing or not believing,
with the sun on my eyelids telling me
where I came from and where I was returning.


Sunday, March 17, 2013



there is a struggle going on
in some distant land
a place where good and evil
take the final stand
the evil fight for their cause
with their dark forces
but the raven has the power
of the last flight

as the horns surface
from below hell
will they crush the good?
only the future will know
or will the raven triumph evil?
before taking up in flight
will light break through the dark?
you decide

Friday, March 15, 2013


                                                                HAVANA RUMBA

amongst the crumbling infrastructure
funky street murals and psychedelic art
where dazzling has replaced the dismal
interlocking drum patterns,  rhythmic chants
powerful enough to awaken the spirit of Orishas

moving to the pyrotechnic explosion
of music and poetry
enticing like hurricane Sandy

magic steps transformed by the spirits of Sunday rum
in Hamel's Alley
a surreal experience of raw creativity
celebrating Afro-Cuban culture
he dances barefoot unnoticed
moments of being

      Callejon de Hamel (Hamel's Alley) in Havana..every Sunday afternoon

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Miss Lonely

                                                            MISS LONELY

Today Miss Lonely comes to me,
wearing a silk blouse, lorgnettes and buttons,
and a rose in the waves of her flounces.
Today the mutable miss is friendship
and slowly strokes my heart
with her thin petal of frost.
So, today, I politely ask you to walk with me
through the garden to the flowery courtyard
of that rose the parents planted.
Today dreams are like mold on the side of the wall,
painting the chasm of love,
melancholic, faint, dim sky.

She moves towards me, she moves ever so slowly.
She moves in a bright dance, the stage.
I give over my respect and now I soar.
Hawk, it shakes the boat slow like the net,
in the soft wind, child of the blue.

Yes, melancholy, mute lover,
yesterday's faithful lover.
Yes, melancholy, blessed lover,
your enjoyment always takes me.
Yes, melancholy, woman of existence,
lips which come back like the tide.
Yes, melancholy, flower of my mouth,
speak who can love me.

Today Miss Lonely comes to me,
wearing a silk blouse, lorgnettes and buttons,
and a rose in the waves of her flounces.
Today the mutable miss is friendship
and slowly strokes my heart
with her thin petal of frost.
So, today,
yes, melancholy, lady of existence,
lips which come back like the tide.
Yes, melancholy, flower of my life,
tell me who can love me.

Thursday, February 21, 2013


                                                                   CANDY KISSES

full moon. dark sky.
french window open wide:
other barriers between us
endless, invisible.
on a threshold
as the window closes upon the night,
dreaming, striped lips, moonlight.
candy kisses.

Thursday, February 14, 2013



once beyond time in the darkness of night
lives a beauty and a beast,

to both; see beauty,
to both; see beast,

there lie many evil spirits;
between their hearts,

their thoughts shake from secrets;
of  untold silent emotion,

they see each other as their own love,
but lovers are free and tied to none,

within the silence, a soft voice shouts,
"I am your mirror but beware,
a reflection is a false belief."

an emphatic echo deep below the tree sighs,
"I am your soul, I hope for your growth,
in your sorrow I melt; in your love I lie.

within your heart; mine will beat,
in your feelings, lies my touch,
I am only a deception of your memory,
grasp on to nothing, give your soul freedom,

because I can't be either with or without;
the nature of life,

looking over you; resembling your shadow;
beyond the light of the stars and sun ,
in darkness when the moon hides behind clouds,
always there only as far as I can go."

the storms cry again, breathing silence,
until only a barrier of air remains,

the spirits perform gypsy dances,
to the  rhythmic wind;
of a sacrifice; oblivious to all.

  a poem written for Poetry Jam...prompt, Sacrifices
                                WWP...........prompt, how a fairy tale begins

Monday, February 11, 2013



Her lips, envelope points.
Sealed corners.  Emotions
folded tightly.  Softly she smiles;
yesterday hides behind her lips.

Slender tapered fingers; tugging
and holding.  Arms harmonizing with
motion, waltzing past hot air.
Vapour surrounds her in hot shadows.

Jazz music.  Lipstick;  drawing her
darkness into sin, breathing, wanting
forgiveness.  Her words wave like
lips drying.  Hair hangs
smoldering in heat.  Showers fire cold
bodies.  A saxophone plays her song.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013


                                                           HOMELESS MAN

the homeless man always arrives
with his tools
to loosen the hatreds
and tighten the loves.
the old man arrives,
always eager
with a smile  on his face
ready to fix the broken.

separating bottles from here,
garbage from there,
working hard.
always he goes
this old man
changing dirt into gold.

he arrives in the back lane
where the power
that shines the light is found.
and always there
he does his work
the fixer of dreams.

the homeless man always arrives
up to the person,
up the people,
up to the sky.
the old man arrives
and from that time
silence ends
and singing begins.

Monday, January 28, 2013


                                                         SWEET JANE

sitting on her VELVET chair
above the surreal life of a rock star
beneath the dark metallic sky
where life is an old vinyl record
hung up on Lou Reed
who groans with a grimacing tone

sitting with a symposium of ambitions
above the translation of ideas
beneath the cryptic polluted star
where the hissing vinyl scratches
the nonconforming truths of Lou
who pops sentiment with danger

sitting with her blue eyes winking
above the pain of the UNDERGROUND
beneath the apologizing clouds
where warped records skip
and repeat the same line
Sweet Jane

Thursday, January 17, 2013


I awakened one morning
forgetting the future
remembering the past
where everything was smeared

there was the dingy beer parlour
where everyone drank by themselves
wept because they forgot their memory
drank because beer replaced money

there was the misplaced priorities
mixed with bizarre value judgements
silenced by knowing the futility of all
strangled by the opportunities lost

there was the sad death of becoming a poet
dictated by drinking of the punditocracy
creating art without understanding it
cursed by the absurdity in the average drunk

sitting by a window in the corner
where words could fill my empty glass
dying for a beer
a skid road poet waiting to be published