Wednesday, December 28, 2011


the musty air is heavy
smelling of piss from an old cat
warped 45s playing music convolutions
on a DEMOLISHED turn table
a folk blues revival
Dan Hicks And His Hot Licks
Monkey And The Engineer
with Jesse Fuller and the Dead
train wheels screeming without brakes
Janis and Jefferson Airplane flying high

my room a multicoloured cherub of colors
to TRANSFORM the cracks in the wall
with the patterns of Brahms
I fill myself with empty space
separated from the musty air
my eyes are closed in RESOLUTION
seeing beyond the gloom towards beauty
the musty room not important anymore
I hear the music of myself
and paint another poem

variation of a poem of mine.."The Attic"

Tuesday, December 27, 2011


sitting on a rock above the river
a little kid sucking a lollipop
watching the roller coaster
a child looking for a place to play
passing throughout the bars of psychoanalysis
listening to Beethoven without whispers
reading Sandburg in silence
close-mouthed without ruby red lipstick

sitting on a rock above the river
no Joltin Joe to jilt her
or hungry men to stab her life
and others who assured magnificence
to justify another darling pose
where there is nothing to search for
beyond the world of awkwardness
The River of No Return

(this is a draft)

Thursday, December 22, 2011


sitting on the bench
with my back to the Rockies
high above the Columbia
I close my eyes with BELIEF
to see the FESTIVAL of Yalda

celebrating the winter solstice
the victory of light over darkness
rebirth of the sun
arrival of winter
becoming free

cultivating nothing
beyond the RUMPLE of trees
eating dried figs and apricots
sipping tea
becoming drunk

celebrating the longest night of year
decorating trees with saffron
when another breath is a victory
and friends sit in silence
reading poetry

this poem for 3Word Wednsday
with our friend Carl..aka Carl Coyote.aka Abdullah Baba Sufi
in mind

Wednesday, December 14, 2011


the old poet sat in late autumn darkness
in his wheelchair
sitting at some seniors aquatic centre
in wonderment

feeling in close PROXIMITY to dementia
waiting for the mystery of rehab
unable to swim
unable to write

IMMOBILE and restless for the next step
his mind surrounded with thoughts
that lost their language
a place to keep...until finding another use for it

tracking the interiors around it
where the mind is the secret
a transparent collision of memories
swallowed up in the cracks

transfixed with roaring sounds of silence
screaming above the truth of aging
below the pedestrians on the sidewalk
unable to take another shower before the swim

troubled by the aging cross-dressers
masquarading in search of new bodies
who prostitute their souls with charity


the curtain swings open
I look out
it's blurred out there
most likely ghosts
nothing I want to see
I see rage
the window slams shut

the luminous lift off occurs
it's full of red space
I see nothing
then I see red
the window slowly opens
then quickly closes
I see the blurred reflection

stopping and looking
a non being image appears
listless falling color bomb
standing in front of a canvas
personifying his color red
the face of Mark Rothko

Tuesday, December 13, 2011


forgetting his confused cycle of life
stuck in quiet introspection
beyond the sea beyond the boat
sinking but not defeated
in an ocean torn with rife

remembering his lost voyage
perplexed by the moment
beyond the sky beyond the shore
stuck but not ruined
on a beach without floatage

listening to poems of the sea
grounded in stillness
beyond silence beyond death
wrecked but not broken
standing with friendly sand flea

Wednesday, December 7, 2011


forever walking in a circle
hovering around wall of helplessness
hands clasped
bleached memories
discarded sounds
forgotten souls
lost dinner trays
empty echoes
painful times
wind blown problems
troubled with darkness
with reality

stopping at the mirror inside the circle
hanging above the floor of reality
eyes closed
reflecting the beginning
wondrous fantasy
revealing surprises
morning dew
rising sun
winter snowshoeing
winding pathways
endless light
with magic

Tuesday, November 29, 2011


towards the end of the trail
sat a small gathering of old poets
a gypsy photo gallery with color
whispering out of tune hymns
with golden thoughts without voice

gazing at the open oak coffin
no doubt a drunken dead poet lies
covered with his plastic membrane
celebrating his awkward funeral feast
with voiceless words with thoughts

looking towards emptiness without distress
and the hidden grace that lies ahead
the dead poet mourns his unwritten poems
conjuring his magical disappearing act
with one limb in the grave

Tuesday, November 15, 2011


moving from one DESIGNATED point to another
forming free EXPRESSIVE brushstrokes with abstract shapes

using a poets words as a path to TRAVEL
leaving an UNCOMPLETED poem for the critics to read

defining half-conditioned problems of the GHETTO
with inflammatory hooligans SEEKING refuge

referring to art galleries as morgues for DEAD paintings
displayed in harsh UNCHANGING light

looking at something beyond SYMBOLIC stop signs
TOWARDS Jesus in a wheel less carriage

SITTING with percolating words with crumbs
and ANOTHER Kerouac metaphor

Tuesday, November 8, 2011


having survived more
treatments in riverview
head rotting
mind a bust

head wired
connected and psychotic
computerized with broken
words on the floor

unsigned with blank
cheque and no cents
loyal but late
without money

lost on the street
years of youth
drowning on grey wards
crying in the corners

lying psyche doctors
secretly hiding
shiny instruments
behind pharmaceuticals

two hours forgetting it all
without memory
no cents left in bank
they have it all

part of the evil system
electrically inducing seizures
another vegetable

Wednesday, October 26, 2011


stopped by the bending willows
twisting in the wind
rustling leaves
croaking in the garden
Buddha and the toad
sit in silence

Wednesday, October 5, 2011


searching for the petrified truth of the blues
characterized by some stench of smell
I am tired of thinking
shameful of some past performance

comforted when the morning light goes on
clinging to old hunchback bones
I am tired of performing
delighted that their will be no applause

unable to exploit the corridors of sanity
exploring denial without direction
I am unable to incorporate the Virgin Mary
drowning in complex doctrines

mournful for the destitute of weakness
transcending grace and salvation
I am examining the revelations of silent glue
fearful of the universe and beyond

listening to idiotic conversations with self
incorporated into another literary discussion
I am watching the absurd pain
travel to my left

Saturday, August 6, 2011


sitting on the deck with morning tea
listening to Drag Queens in a Limousine
poets who never speak
natives who survive not weak
prissoners who remain innocent
street people strong not bent
tranvestites in high heels
blind Willie with eyes that feel
drunks with all their compassion
children that play have fun
nuns that feed the hungry
painters that paint what no others see
homeless who are still winners
priests who are not sinners
drifters out front who we follow
politicians who are real not hollow
mentally challenged who let me be
just me
family and friends
all that took me in

Sunday, July 10, 2011


thumbprint on the wind
in my rock garden
Sunday hymn

Wednesday, June 29, 2011


the thinner has evaporated
paint and words dried up
turntable has stopped playing
canvas no longer dances to the Dead
or sings with Janis
feeling blue
feeling warped
broken like my easel

I look beyond the drips of Pollock
cracked words of Kerouac
closing my eyes looking out the window
visions towards beauty without pain
closed eyes of Buddha watching the creek
gently flowing towards beauty
and landscapes of words
our creek beyond the attic

Saturday, June 25, 2011


wind on moonlight water
white sand
wild sea
with driftwood on ravens sunset

Thursday, June 23, 2011


the odourless thinner is heavy
tubes of paint mixed with dried words
warped 45s playing music convolutions
on a broken turntable
a folk blues revival
dancing on a canvas
with Garcia and the Dead
flying high on the easel with Janis

the attic a multicolored cherub of colors
cracked words splattered on the wall
visions of Kerouac drips of Pollock
separating myself from space and time
my eyes closed in divine pain
seeing beyond gloom towards beauty
I hear the music within
painting poems with landscapes

this is variation of earlier poem "The Attic"

Sunday, June 19, 2011



sitting on the charnel ground
listening to the bones bark back
drinking tea eating brownies
feeling passive to aspects of fate
unable to figure out the meaning
of the organic rectangles
beneath the canopy of rusty polyester
balanced on threshold of life

hearing dragons conversing with cyborgs
talking trash about fusion and empathy
and their physical and mental capabilities
hearing loud Moroccan music
unable to defer the chiropractic adjustments
of the disembodied words
beneath the counter of mental illness
balanced on threshold of life

dancing around the spots on the leopard
focused on peripheral events
drinking a cup of the Arabian Sea
rubbing lemon balm on aluminum foil
unable to hear the muted sounds
of the barking bones
beneath the charnel ground
balanced on threshold of life

Sunday, June 12, 2011



a single apple blossom
holds all the life
of a drop of rain

Wednesday, June 1, 2011



dancing on the frescoed tombs
where the road starts
and the sidewalk ends
shaking and shattering in confusion
to the rhythm of her broken hip
as the scent of roses die
under the transcendental churchyard
she was a dancer

dancing on the blistered feet
where the blood flows
and the hurt never ends
entrancing the strain of lost music
without feeling or pain
as the smell of death arrives
above the smoking graveyard
she was a dancer


dancing on the frescoed tombs
where the road starts
and the sidewalk ends
shaking and shattering in confusion
to the rhythm of her broken hip
as the scent of roses die
under the transcendental churchyard
she was a dancer

dancing on the blistered feet
where the blood flows
and the hurt never ends
entrancing the strain of lost music
without feeling or pain
as the smell of death arrives
above the smoking graveyard
she was a dancer

Saturday, May 28, 2011


......using the image by German surrealist Michael Maier as a prompt

at intermission we met on the shore
storm clouds churning with blue
broken by the roar of silence
without notes glowing in the sky

thoughts of emptiness deep in my soul
in time with my suffocating cello suite
choking on the music of Bach
in time with her mute lips

with denial playing my strings
treading gently before the onslaught
ignoring the incoming tide
I skipped stones across the sea

our eyes never met just wept
as her wing blew to my bow
washing and slicing my strings
squeezing down to my highest pitch

at last she glances at my bow
her face shining with suspicion
shrugging off the imbalance
we make music on the shore

Wednesday, May 25, 2011



it all started with a cosmic cloud of gas and lies
bad cheques floating imn space
junk bonds dancing on Wall Street
deserted mortgages without homes
broken bankers covered in soot and ash
suddenly losing their braggadocios tone
listening to the birds at sing sing
looking for a government fifty years in debt
printing invisible money
to pay the bankers who stalk the poor
and piss on the vegetation
rotting bodies of another war
vanishing lakes and rivers
by the flesh of greed and hunger
and another exploding Ponzi scheme

Saturday, May 21, 2011


sitting in the Cellar jazz club smoking
pouring whiskey over lost words
four poets stare at their failures
realizing hell is what they create
waiting for his return

the last time we saw him
his long fingers lingered on the ivory
with sizzling chord progressions
knowing heaven was his creation
not some faded decaying rapture

rising from beneath the stage
with drums full of suspense
the cool jazz started to sizzle and bop
Fats Waller returned to celebrate
May 21, his birthday

the four poets watched from their whiskey conference
drunk enough to find their lost words
and create more hell
not to be be judged
celebrating his return

Thursday, May 19, 2011

La Esquina Calienete.........(The Hot Corner)

that is me in orange T

it is a hot simmering place
where smouldering men gather
in sultry Parque Central
across the street from the grand dome of the Capitolio
in torrid Old Havana
assembling daily from early morning
late into the night
in-your-face, high decibel shouting
choosing sides
where the only rule is no fighting
men coming and going
moving from one discussion to another
sometimes sounding like a riot
wild hot gestures with inflamed voices
delivered with philosophical flair
baseball fans with serious debating skills
a public place reserved for serious baseball fans
why doesn't Jose Toca play more?
Ismael should be on the National team
Orlando Hernandez shouldn't have been traded
the Yankees are not the best
they should come to Havana and play the Industrales
who is the real lost son of Havana?
Minnie Minoso?
no it's Luis Tiant
they argue while I listen
without fighting

Monday, April 4, 2011


riding a bus North of San Joaquin
on a lost dry highway
somewhere near nowhere
heading towards Dos Palos
searching for words off the beaten track
on the beatnik path
always finding the lost highway
missing the hidden metaphor cafe

stopping at the Backstreet Bar in Dos Palos
strapped for cash
we leave the bus
old men in their fedoras without feathers
young ladies in long dresses without stilettos
beat poets running towards the bar
for another poetry reading
more whiskey

Sunday, April 3, 2011


many thought it was happy nothing
empty children's morning television
Mr. Dressup at Buttercup Square
leading through series of songs
stories, arts, crafts
imagination games

with the help of his friends
Casey and Finnegan
a child and dog that lived in a tree house
occasional visitors Alligator Al and Aunt Bird
Chester the Crow and Truffles
Granny and Lorenzo the Raccoon

the famous segment featured his Tickle Trunk
where the costumes were stored
costumes to dress up for skits
playing a policeman a fireman an animal
sometimes tickling the lock
when the trunk wouldn't open

then it was over
no more tree house
no more Tickle Trunk
no more costumes
no more Casey and Finnegan
his last show in 1996

Saturday, April 2, 2011


dialing five numbers on the rotary phone
party lines for all to rubber
The Shadow and baseball on radio
with static
rabbit ears on black and white TV
clicking three channels with I Love Lucy
Underwood typewriter forgiving its mistakes
with carbon copy smudging the words
Saturday matinees with Roy and Gene
cruising Columbia Street in a 51 Ford
girls who made their dresses for the dance
zuit suits and duck tails for guys
crew cuts
when apple was a jam
blackberry a jelly
dreaming of martians with computers
the cold war
a phone call to the past
science fiction


feeling the fire under the wear
flames searching a button
rolling back the shirt unzippered
without words
with mystery
showing how the skin gathers
below the neck
how it slides into the embers
towards the melting candle
beneath an aria of light
humming a blue word
showing an opus of song
the shirt falls to the floor
between poems

Friday, April 1, 2011


standing on a broken balcony on Haida Gwaii
beside moss shrouded trees
overlooking Hecate Strait
a playground for orcas and humpbacks
arching out of the water above the forest floor
blowing jazz into the wind
a rich biological and cultural area
where there are no sermons in the waves

like securing a ringside seat at the dawn of time
when the raven coaxed the first man from a clam shell
living in harmony with other sub-species
of bird fish and mammals
we come to see the sea
to learn
to feel
to share

to learn from the whales
who majestically cruise the water
to feel the ravens' flight
gliding with the wind
to share it all
the sea the sky the forest floor
there's something special in this old place
he speaks in silence

Thursday, March 31, 2011


the musty air is heavy
smelling of piss from an old cat
warped 45s playing music convolutions
on a broken turn table
a folk blues revival
Dan Hicks And His Hot Licks
Monkey And The Engineer
with Jesse Fuller and the Dead
train wheels screaming without brakes
Janis and Jefferson Airplane flying high

the attic a multicoloured cherub of colors
with cracks in the walls
reminding me of the patterns of Brahms
I fill myself with empty space
separated from the musty air
my eyes are closed in divine pain
seeing beyond the gloom towards beauty
the musty attic not important anymore
I hear the music of myself
and write another poem

Saturday, February 26, 2011



celebrating her death every July 17

I write jazz poetry

improvising my words to her burned voice

beside her mournful burnt candle

soulful in her spoon and magic needle

under siege from another lost love

a mystery lady day seeking freedom

from the trees that bear no fruit

and the blood stains on the leaves

from the black bodies hanging from trees

singing her encore Strange Fruit

Billie Holiday

Wednesday, February 23, 2011


inside a flute listening to the holes
without thinking
without knowledge
watching the quiet voices dance
listening to the silent music
playing tag with the sounds

beside two bears listening to nothing
with courage
with mindfulness
watching the sun set
listening to the silent growls within
playing no games with the mind

outside under the weeping willow
with another journey
with closed eyes
watching nothingness between the blinks
listening to the birds at the feeder
playing games with the seeds

inside myself listening to breath
without reason
without anything
watching the noisy thoughts stop
listening to the quiet monkey
playing no games inside a safe place

Wednesday, February 9, 2011


.........this is a triptych relationship poem..based on Chinese man heaven
using is my painting "SCORCHED EARTH"
our garden destroyed......leaving thumbprints....above water
baptized cracked..............burning..........................waves never reaching

Saturday, January 15, 2011


sitting listening to the snow
watching my breath
singing sweet jazz
without blues
with courage

Saturday, January 8, 2011


staring into the deep abyss
a vacant hole in the middle
of hollow openness
looking at fears secrets
and tears

listening to the messenger-spirit
exempt from apprehension
unhindered between space and time
with no place to escape the light
or the flight

beneath the broken umbrella
of lost dreams of reality
where the spilt paint
stains the art that covers me
haunting my destiny