Toronto - 60s
Poetry has been a constant part of my life. In Toronto I emceed poetry evenings with poets such as Scott Davies, Joe Rosenblatt, Gwendolyn McKoen, Milton Acorn, Margaret Atwood, Leonard Cohen.
I have now completed my ANTHOLOGY, [for the time being] and will investigate publishing possibilities. The publication title is tentatively: INCANTATIONS TO A NAKED MUSE.
I have now completed my ANTHOLOGY, [for the time being] and will investigate publishing possibilities. The publication title is tentatively: INCANTATIONS TO A NAKED MUSE.
Margaret Milligan
PROLOGUE
by Harold Dootson
The muses of Larry Ewashen do not sing of hope or peace, nor do they lull the reader into a dreamy world of complacence with idyllic notes of nonsense. The muses of Larry Ewashen are not gentle muses. They are ruthless. They cast asunder the golden glow of illusion and reveal the true discordant jazz of modern society. They scream and curse the injustice that the hierarchy of mankind permits. Still more, they condemn and point accusing fingers at the subtle and gentle ways in which the so called great and powerful members of our society slip the knife of demoralization into the backs of the simple, the ignorant, and the poor. His muses cry out resentment to the avaricious, the pompous and the hypocritical. They sob in anguish at the white-civilized snob's selfish abuse of Christ's doctrines.
What is Larry Ewashen’s philosophy of life? From his poetry one would gather that life is the constant struggle between the humanizing and dehumanizing forces in man. Until this dichotomy is overcome, man will be his own slave: inequality will reign, and there will always be the low murmur of the downtrodden echoing through the laughter of the mighty and the strong. Until that day, happiness will be a transient thing, a short respite from the agony of life. One feels by reading his poetry that Larry believes that man has gone too far and the fight for humanity is futile. Love is usually a respite whose reward is bitterness; an interlude when selfishness leaves for a time but soon creeps back to twist and destroy that which was, for an instant, beautiful. The simple and the downtrodden types, such as the consumptive old hobo characterized in FAST FREIGHT, are the ones who have retained their humanity. But it is only through death that one will find true peace.
Larry is a person who will not compromise with life as it is. He fights it and resents its injustices. He writes from experience. He was in the dirty boxcar penniless, seeking adventure. He has discovered and recovered from the bitterness of broken amours, and has slaved for the pot-bellied builders of commercial empires.
How do I know these things about Larry? We shared a boxcar once.
by Harold Dootson
The muses of Larry Ewashen do not sing of hope or peace, nor do they lull the reader into a dreamy world of complacence with idyllic notes of nonsense. The muses of Larry Ewashen are not gentle muses. They are ruthless. They cast asunder the golden glow of illusion and reveal the true discordant jazz of modern society. They scream and curse the injustice that the hierarchy of mankind permits. Still more, they condemn and point accusing fingers at the subtle and gentle ways in which the so called great and powerful members of our society slip the knife of demoralization into the backs of the simple, the ignorant, and the poor. His muses cry out resentment to the avaricious, the pompous and the hypocritical. They sob in anguish at the white-civilized snob's selfish abuse of Christ's doctrines.
What is Larry Ewashen’s philosophy of life? From his poetry one would gather that life is the constant struggle between the humanizing and dehumanizing forces in man. Until this dichotomy is overcome, man will be his own slave: inequality will reign, and there will always be the low murmur of the downtrodden echoing through the laughter of the mighty and the strong. Until that day, happiness will be a transient thing, a short respite from the agony of life. One feels by reading his poetry that Larry believes that man has gone too far and the fight for humanity is futile. Love is usually a respite whose reward is bitterness; an interlude when selfishness leaves for a time but soon creeps back to twist and destroy that which was, for an instant, beautiful. The simple and the downtrodden types, such as the consumptive old hobo characterized in FAST FREIGHT, are the ones who have retained their humanity. But it is only through death that one will find true peace.
Larry is a person who will not compromise with life as it is. He fights it and resents its injustices. He writes from experience. He was in the dirty boxcar penniless, seeking adventure. He has discovered and recovered from the bitterness of broken amours, and has slaved for the pot-bellied builders of commercial empires.
How do I know these things about Larry? We shared a boxcar once.
FAST FREIGHT
'Twas along about the middle of the night
I hit this fast freight and it treated me right
We high-balled through towns, cross prairies and plains
The cars kept on slipping through the torrents of rain
I'd caught that fast freight at Indian Head
When I grabbed the ladder I thought I was dead
But lady-luck smiled and gave me a kick
I hit that half-car, it was pulling out quick.
Now I wasn't exactly a veteran at this
And I tell you it was close to that death-dealing kiss
I was awfully damn brave or just lacked the brains
But I had to try riding those long lonesome trains . . .
I swung over the side and hit with a thud
And commenced to rolling around in the mud
Till I noticed a shape that gave me the eye
I wasn't a fighter, but I was ready to try.
But this old-timer was the friendliest sort
I sat at his feet and just sort of held court
He spoke of the time just a few years ago
When he thought he'd try riding for a few days or so
But the days turned to years and the years to a score
And after this ride, he wouldn't be riding no more
But until that time came, he'd a few words to say
If I could spare him a butt to help pass time away
He choked up somewhat, and he coughed just a bit
And I knew he was a lunger when I saw him spit
It was pieces of blood that he couldn't hide
It wouldn't be long 'till he'd had his last ride
When he'd hit his first freight it was all in fun
Till some old geezer said something about the depression
Some big crash on Wall Street in old New York town
He was soon joined by others, a rambling around
They hit down to the South when the icicles glimmered
And steel cracked in the night and the long rails shimmered
Or when they heard of a job somewhere down the line
They all lit off just to get there in time
And they made some good jobs, tho' few and far between
From working in steel to the threshing machine
And though they didn't really like it that way
Who in the hell had the choice, and what could you say?
And they worked on the fruit, and the farms and the oil
A day's honest labour, a day's honest toil
Man had to keep living, had to have something to do
Though a day's blistering work might mean a mean can of stew
And it wasn't the people, they were one and the same
But it might seem the whole country was playing some game
Something about the government and international borders
There was lots of work there, just no government orders
Something about politics, that ungodly crew
The humble man starving with nothing to do
Willing to work and willing to fight
Willing to do whatever was right
Willing to travel through quick freezing rain
Heart sore and miserable with sorrow and pain
Willing to move wife and kids if need be
Someone was making money, it sure weren't me
Someone drank a toast when the war contracts rolled in
Whilst we had a culvert in which to hole in
Someone made the money when the big bombs were sold
Was it God and our country, or did we suffer for gold?
Twas a long time ago son, his eyes lit with a grin
What's that in your pocket, whiskey or gin?
Or is it just some cheap wine, well that's more my style
And a cigarette butt would sure help this last mile
Had a wife and kid once son, just want you to know
Wasn't always I rambled this long bitter row
When I heard of some work, I just hit the track
And one of those times I just didn't come back.
Now I'm not a deserter and I tried to do good
But I tired of returning without money or food
And my best years and health they were well on their way
I'd been more of a burden if I hung on to stay
I'm not bitter, just broke son, ain't got much more to say
Learned quite a bit, honesty don't always pay
I don't know what it is cause we're the brave and the strong
But I still get the feeling, there's sure something wrong
Now it might be the man who kicks a black cur
Or it might be another who calls that man sir
Or it might be blood on a whip, or a trampled down rose
Maybe the smell of Cadillac fumes in my nose
Seems to me if you get enough of that there Cadillac smoke
Someone's bound to get poisoned and that ain't no joke
Pile up enough guns, someone will use them someday
Cause they shoot real lead bullets and they're not meant for play
It's just like my frame son, kinda rotten inside
And it keeps right on a spreading, gets so big you can't hide
And what I seen and I heard, and I think that's for sure
It's a festering sore what ain't getting no cure.
Gee whiz son, I'm sorry, I've been talking so long
Now I'm not saying I'm right but I ain't admitting I'm wrong
My stop's coming up son if you'll give me a hand
It's been my pleasure son, it sure has been grand
It was up in the mountains, and the night was pitch black
He eased himself over, and he didn't look back
It was a long, long ways down and we were moving right fast
I sat back and wondered, did he make it at last? ? ?
THE SEARCH - [A short western]
The blood slipped and gurgled,
lovely scarlet pools, disappearing,
sucked in by the greedy sand.
And the desert sun enveloped it in an iridescent radiance.
There had been a shot.
But he saw just a flash, and he was surprised, and then
he lay face down.
Three years search had ended with that shot
For three years I had trailed him
From port to port, from town to town,
Who was this notorious badman, who no-one could touch
He was like all the others, and now, like all the others,
I had found him.
Now it had ended---and it was I who turned to escape.
As I lowered my weapon, curiously
I turned to his face.
I realized then:
It was I who was wrong, and it was I who was running.
And the search had not ended.
For me, the search would not end.
It was I who was running; it was I who was trying to escape
And I would keep on running, driven on, by whatever
drives us all A goal we would never reach
And find nothing, if we did.
That relentless urge, a fool's paradise.
But now I knew it meant nothing, and then I knew
I had always known.
What was I looking for?
Where would I find it?
Was it all a mistake?
A mistake, yes, my life was a mistake,
A search for meaning, surrounded by confusion
A search for life while death was at hand.
A search........an excuse for my being---
I looked at the tranquil face again,
frozen into a peacefulness it ever would have.
I had shot my own brother.
And as he breathed his last
I knew I never would find it
This thing we all seek
But he looked so peaceful, content, as though he'd learned the secret
And with that realization, I once more raised my gun.
MOCKING THE EPIC
ON PROHIBITION
Banished - to the farthest corner of the darkest room
Where even spiders are lost amidst the gloom
And in the black pitch everlasting
Their silky strands for prey are casting
Once upon a time Bacchus had reigned supreme
And all paid court from knave to queen
The noble, peasant, overwhelmed as one
By his lascivious manner and pleasurable fun
All came to worship, shy and bold
Since the age of man his tale was told
Sweeping the decades; lustful as desire
Everlasting as the truth, sensual as fire
And each time he came; fought for his rightful place
Potent, palate pleasing, and with disalarming grace
Not seeking a seat in the world congress of events
But taking it as one deserved through just portents
And now once again the bigots rise
In the stabbing ray of truth shield their myopic eyes
They raise their battle cry of "Salvation for one and all,"
And once more contribute to mans' vainglorious downfall
How fortunate we are that there are some
Who grace the earth from kingdom come
With Holy wisdom guard us from the devil
And with loving care deliver us from evil
Even the Lord himself might quake at such a task
But we don't even have to ask
They greet the chance with open arms
Protecting us from sin, saving us from harm
Fear not; thou sainted oracle of old
Though they strive to leave you rot and mould
Time and again they frenzy in a state lunatic
For ignorance in bliss, and they are quite ecstatic
Condemned souls have turned to ashes ‘fore our eyes
And condemned thoughts have turned a truth to lies
And though on the fire of ignorance they heap their coals
Not even they may have our minds and souls
The truth shall bear this ancient, ageless waste
Just as you have with your taste
The prosecution throughout the years
Firmed our belief and brought them fears;
You shall live long since their frames devoid of soul
Have withered into a final Massey Holy Roll
And their graven images have found their graves
And pomposity and piety has freed its slaves
You shall still be there, if for no other use
Than to give free men the right to choose
To reject you if that be their desire
Or to accept you with your taste of fire
The truth shall rise from fallen temple's ashes
And the smoke of torturous burning boughs and lashes
Just as it has arisen from burning bodies at the tree
The lasting spirit of man cries to be free
As the smoke obscures the construction of the still
Flames lick each frame, the fire seeks to kill
This indeed will change into a cleansing fire
A pyre of salvation which will never tire
Then indeed there will be a final ash day
You will be free to romp and frolic on your merry way
Unrestrained and free once more
As you never have before . . .
* * *
BEATNIK ASCENDED
From the seamy, seething cauldron we call the subterraneans,
Forgotten, forlorn, forsaken, a beard crept forth in grim attire,
As he emerged to less-incumbent atmosphere
Sartre's disciples roiled in the mire.
The pouting, pusillanimous patriarchs called "Cool it,"
But, determined, away he wound, "I do not dance their jig,
No semblance of humanity, licentiousness and laxity,
Endsville and pad-life, I don't dig."
Heedless of the cries of Ferl and Jack
Heedless of the chicks he 'taned the loft
From this pinnacle he dug the quiescence of the beards
Where he himself had made the scene so oft':
Contemplative minds seething with orange thoughts
Procrastinating, segnine, somnolent followers on the make
Each and every, parroting the cats
Conforming---for non-conforming's sake,
The dean raged on, and on and on he spouted
"All that you think is worth writing down," he finally said,
And soon the enormity of gibberish waxed larger;
His own was disregarded, and that of lesser colleagues read.
Perplexity seized upon the cube,
As to the difference 'tween this life and that outside,
Incombustionable thoughts lit up his semblance
It was a momentous quandary to decide:
All of his former comrades he viewed with dismal aspect
Observed the holy hipsters as they really were:
Shorn of their pink gel of romanticism:
This mass of ignorance, how did it occur?
He saw them as they revelled in grime and dirt
Translucently ludicrous they rebelled, until
Unable to withstand mass culture, to escape
They turned to means worse still;
Pitiful, perjured, depraved pushers ruled the kob
These o'erthrown minds found life more than they could cope
Debauchery, remission, otiosity ensnared them
There was no turning back, there was no hope.
Scorched by the sensual rays of turpitude
Unwarmed by the iridescent flame of hope
Dejected, depraved and deserted they curdled,
And soon were hung upon their self-made rope,
Reared in the plastic womb of our cellophane society
They laughed and raved and dug the bop
Life was theirs! with all its frantic far-out kicks
They made the scene, a scene the bourgeois couldn't stop.
But there were some who reconsidered
What they were doing with their life
Procrastination, pandiculation, pessimism was not the answer
They cut the espresso jazz, once more joined the strife.
As they had once deserted the fashioners of this age
So they bid the collective foliage-farm adieu
And tho' they all would not place or win in their life's game,
They made an honest try---tho' just a few...
The remnants continued to decay in marijuana orgies,
The more degenerate earning the most fame.
But those who left, tho' some contend to no avail
They exploited their potential just the same.
* * *
OLD TALE
'Twas dark as a witch's cauldron
The witching hour the story goes
And a lean, forlorn and tattered figure
Crept along, o'er burdened by his woes
His face once proud was a deathlike shroud
Etched with dissipation and despair
And his shuffling gait seemed to bear the weight
Of the world and all its cares
His clothes tho' rumpled and in disarray
Spoke of an expensive shop
His eyes tormented but determined
No one could make him stop
He shuffled along to the centre bridge
And he paused there on the brink
And in his mind's eye in gory sights
He saw himself begin to sink
Down once, and twice and perhaps again
Then to rise no more
“A pity, a shame”, he mused to himself
“Life's a fickle whore
One moment you're up and then you're down
We win and then we lose
But I'll be going down to stay this time
There'll be no final ruse."
He paused then and made ready to leap
And he kissed his wife farewell
And just before he went o'er the side
A withered claw seized him from the jaws of hell
And out of the dark this hag appeared
A horror to behold
Long, stringy, matted balding hair
Eyes of greenish mould
A mould that slavered endlessly
A shape all racked and torn
He looked aghast and sought the rail
Death would be better borne
Or he thought perhaps he'd already died
And had arrived in hell
For surely on the earth never before
Had such a sight his eyes befell
But then again she clutched his sleeve
As he turned to his watery grave
"Wait up, young man; and talk to me!"
And a mirthless cackle gave
"I've no time to wait; just time to die
"Now won't you leave me please"
"But tell me your troubles, my fine young man
I'll set your heart at ease
For I’m a witch you see, in dark sorcery
As though you couldn’t tell
And to set your troubles right
Would take but a mild spell
"But not for nought would 1 do such a deed
But I'11 do it for a fee
Though such a trifle I desire
Like as not it is for free."
The desperate man turned on to her
And eyed the repulsive freak
But eager for a chance to live again
He then began to speak:
“I’ve stolen a hundred grand from work", he said
"And I put it on the nose;
Of Blueberry; an outstanding colt
But he wasn't even close
Now, the money's gone, my career is through
I'll never work no more
And if I could not raise the money and put it back
My wife would close her door
She would never speak to me again
For such a dreadful crime
And that is why I want to end it all
This once; and for all time."
With a creaking flourish the hapless bag
Cackled in her glee
"Is that all, is that all? tear not, fear not
I'll solve your problems three."
With an arthritic crack, she snapped her fingers
Once, twice, and then once more
"The money's back, your job's still there
Your wife awaits with open door
And just to show you I'm not mean
There's a grand in your bank besides
And now my friend, we've made amends
You need no longer hide
But as I said before; let's turn once more
To the matter of my fee
For the favours that I've done for you
To-night you'll sleep with me."
The young man shuddered with relief
Relaxation coursed his brow
His troubles over; he could live again
He'd get through it somehow
So they went straight through a narrow gate
Of a motel room hard near by
And with determination end the help of darkness
He laid her by and by
Twice, thrice, four times her lust held out
Her fee thrice o'er she reaped
And to the poor man now most worn to shreds
It seemed she'd never sleep
Finally in the early dawn
His loathsome task was done
Scarce had be fallen to repose
Than he woke to find the sun
And as he stepped out of the commode
He saw her on the bed
Coy toothless smile, skin like shoe leather
She looked more than half way dead
"Just by the way, bow old are you?"
The sagging hag did ask
"Why, I'm thirty-eight" the man replied
Thinking on his horrid task
"Well I've been on the earth a long, long time
I’ve gone through rags and richs
But I do believe you’re rather old
To still believe in witches."
U of A Dinner party 60s
WHEN FAIR IS FOUL
A toast, a toast, let's drink to love
With our glasses raised on high
Love gives us birth, love gives us life
Though it also makes us die
The fool in love knows what life is
For the first time since he's born
It elevates him to the most high degree
Until his locks are shorn
From the first kiss from his heavenly ‘made’
His star begins to wane
And though he doen't know it then
One plus one always makes twain
And the creeping insidious disease
Racks his body and his brain
Bereft of sense and rational
He becomes no longer sane
And though aspiring to wondrous heights
His world is but illusion
Not here, not there, but away somewhere
He welcomes the confusion
Like an addict hopelessly bemired
He turns and begs for more
No longer having reason to distinguish
Hell's and heaven's door
And his once made plans and hopeful hopes
Burn by his body’s heat
And a multitude of life left to be lived
Falls at his idol's feet
And his human powers fall by the way
The wise man turns to the fool
He lays his pen and sword aside
And begins to spin on wool
One day he finds his love is gone
Mind and soul are racked and then
Recovering from his stroke of illness
He turns to life again
But others play their folly unto the end
Which leads straightway to their tomb
And find death's door but a step away
From their mother's womb
So let's drink to love as we once had
Let's also drink to life
Let's procreate, let's fornicate
But let's never take a wife
POEMS OF PROTEST
Decorticate - An Elegy to the People
Cold grey misery, a scintillating flash
A man made meteor leaves a showery trail
So, many people - dead
So what? They’re not our people
My god, they’re all people
People who breath
People who live
Peop1e who cry
People who die
People who surge forward with the venal politician
People who cower in terror when the first bomb falls
Peop1e who dream, hope, and die
The vu1gar herd — God’s image
All the same.
But we do not know them
We must pile up bombs
We must suspect them
We mustn’t speak their tongue
We must prepare to fight
Fight what? Fight people? No; fight the enemy
Would people kill? Would peop1e torture?
Would people shoot missiles at us?
Who are they?
We gaze into the mirror
We see.
We are the people, we are the vulgar herd, we are God’s image.
We want to dream
We want to dream
We want to hope
We do not want to die
Death, and then . . .
And then, more people
Shapeless blobs of protoplasm,
Incoherent, incomprehensible
Slither and slide
blind helpless useless now, as they always will be
The great mother hides her dug, but we are not weaned
They scrape away the slimy garment, and emerge
once again as we knew them, as they were
Put one is larger
It is messier, it is fatter
It is gluttonous It is large and round
It is round, and the repulsive being decreases to a very small base
The ooze of pulchritude dribbles o'er it like a waxen candle
- - - but there is no iridescent flame of purity
It is black, ed it is filthy...
The others turn in reverence.
But wait---- a noise—a guttural grunt
The people turn, they are afraid
Fun, get your sticks they are told
Strike, strike them down
Pummel them, crush them to the earth
The earth, the soil, which cave them existence..
Bot the fall, the fall may come,
Take away their eves, they will no+ see it
Take sway their ears, they will not hear it
And the self-styled leader feeds upon the prejudice, the fear,
and he thrives on their ignorance
As a weed engluttons poison, be writhes in a pool of blood.
Again he gorges, on all this, and a11 the pettiness we encompass
And he vomits it back on us, And we slurp and gurgle,
And we struggle for more
Blood - turmoil - guts
Butchered, wrapped, and delivered
Free of charge, or if any, the charge is small
Even for such a super product.
All that is good is rendered down - to disappear into the bowels of cesspool
We accept the tenderized, and are impatient for more
Nausea engulfs us, we repel it
But we can no 1ongcr see it or find it,
It is us, we are it
The penis is small, and it is not the mirror's fault
The drum plays staccato, the banner flaunts the breeze
In days of yore, and blood and gore
We jump, it yells, and we move,
The drum sounds, we shoot . . .
There is no moment of truth
There is only a large geometric puzzle of flesh
Where a man stood, showing a photo to his "enemy.”
The giant moves, his appetite craves more,
Like a leech, he grows fatter and fatter--but does not burst
He does not suffer the pains of death, he envisions greater designs
Like a spider he paralyses his prey, then feeds it with his own poison;
The mob is useless, but he shall use them
The mob is afraid, He will direct it
The mob can hate, he will help them
The mob can kill, he will show them
The mob knows not, but he can teach;
He can teach--to hate--to fear--to kill.
The mob must needs direct its passions, its wants; its hungers
Will he take their breath to make them sing?
Will he take their hands to create colours?
Will he take their voice to read the Books?
Will he take their bodies to make them dance?
Will he look into their eyes, and see the sun?
Listen, You did not hear.
Or is your heart anaesthetized by subtle manipulation?
What will he do? I will tell you
He will teach you words to curse with
He will provide bodies--to stick with knives
He will take your hands--and teach you to pluck out your eves;
He will teach you to hate the sun, to seek darkness
And he will teach you to jump when he waves a flag
He will speak of many joys and sorrows
But you will meet only sorrows
For vou never knew what pleasure was
You shall seek, but you shall not find
And you will smother out the peoples lives
As you smother out your own
And you shall die
And you will remain steadfast,
And you will believe you are blessed
And you will renounce pleasure for fear, and sin for blindness
And you will be destroyed as you destroy yourself,
Because you did not doubt, did not think
You did react, but did not act
And so you rot,
And then, it begins again.
* * *
toronto's washrooms
NEGER GET OUT
why can't you spell whitey
i say you're ignorant
NIGRA
-
fuck off white man
WE HAVE TO KILL
you can't kill
know book vii
MORE NEGER
all of white mother
fuckers go to hell
look stupid if you haven't
ot enough brains to spell
right you must be stupid
OK professor - in french - negroe
anyway you look at it "it's still" BLACK
i turned to the black guy beside me
and said why are you reading this
and he said
I'm getting my education so I can
vote next year
I turned to the man in the white coat
who I took to be dean of toilet studies
and said why don't you get rid of this shit
oh he said we will some day
* * *
THE LAST POSITIVE ACT
Think not of life as once it was
Uselessly gazing into the distant past
Then life was for the living
And then only was it a fire
To be quenched
“ . . . though your sins be as scarlet
he shall wash them white as snow . . . “
The golden helmet you wore
Was a crown upon your noble brow
Sprinkled with the dew of precious stones
And the chains and plate of steel
You bore as lightly as a galleon bore her stately sails
Was not harder than your bones
Or your hard grained flesh
But the gold has turned to rust
And the dew once hard as ice
Melted and flushed itself away
“ . . . washed in the blood . . . “
You see the charger fall beneath you
Now how do you stand
And the armour presses you onto your hands
The pupil surpasses the master
Though you had learned
Your mainstay can no longer support you
More splendid man there wasn't
“Ech, old man, what would you be wanting with me?”
Ten thousand snakes have filled your pores
And sink into the room besides
And the blood once coursing through the temples
Clots within the skin
". . . saved by the grace . . .”
The air is a black bowel movement
Lit by purple stars
A morrasic bowl in many hues
The final madness approaches
". . . repent lest ye be late . . .”
As you lie in bed
A million wormy worms climb
From the crown which is now your head
Look up, look up, the spiders are descending
They eat the steel, both chain and plate
Horse manure unmixed with straw
Becomes your gilded, pickled bed
“. . . are you washed, washed in the blood . . .?”
A cow's stomach digested nineteen times
Becomes your banquet
From now on you'll eat just offal
No, no, I'm washed in semen and menstrual flow
And a menstrual rag becomes my bib
“What news, what news on the Rialto?”
They're playing “Jumbo” you fool . . .
The naked and the alive
Become the clothed and the dead
“ . . . there is still time; the hour is approaching . . . “
The empty wine bottle is the womb
And emits the cornucopia of dried up pubic hairs
And a Corona Corona is stuck into the anus
Paper and all . . ‘
Glasses are made to see through
But so are eyes
And rain takes dry earth
And presents a pulpy mass
The biggest toe nail in the world
Slits the jugular vein
And Spic and Span will not make it well again
Sometimes an extra treat
But there is no digesting this tape worm
No matter how hungry you are
The worm has turned
The fish is on the other end
How it flops . . .
“. . . to the mourner's bench . . . “
Cold grey misery, a scintillating flash
A man made meteor leaves a showery trail
So, many people - dead
So what? They’re not our people
My god, they’re all people
People who breath
People who live
Peop1e who cry
People who die
People who surge forward with the venal politician
People who cower in terror when the first bomb falls
Peop1e who dream, hope, and die
The vu1gar herd — God’s image
All the same.
But we do not know them
We must pile up bombs
We must suspect them
We mustn’t speak their tongue
We must prepare to fight
Fight what? Fight people? No; fight the enemy
Would people kill? Would peop1e torture?
Would people shoot missiles at us?
Who are they?
We gaze into the mirror
We see.
We are the people, we are the vulgar herd, we are God’s image.
We want to dream
We want to dream
We want to hope
We do not want to die
Death, and then . . .
And then, more people
Shapeless blobs of protoplasm,
Incoherent, incomprehensible
Slither and slide
blind helpless useless now, as they always will be
The great mother hides her dug, but we are not weaned
They scrape away the slimy garment, and emerge
once again as we knew them, as they were
Put one is larger
It is messier, it is fatter
It is gluttonous It is large and round
It is round, and the repulsive being decreases to a very small base
The ooze of pulchritude dribbles o'er it like a waxen candle
- - - but there is no iridescent flame of purity
It is black, ed it is filthy...
The others turn in reverence.
But wait---- a noise—a guttural grunt
The people turn, they are afraid
Fun, get your sticks they are told
Strike, strike them down
Pummel them, crush them to the earth
The earth, the soil, which cave them existence..
Bot the fall, the fall may come,
Take away their eves, they will no+ see it
Take sway their ears, they will not hear it
And the self-styled leader feeds upon the prejudice, the fear,
and he thrives on their ignorance
As a weed engluttons poison, be writhes in a pool of blood.
Again he gorges, on all this, and a11 the pettiness we encompass
And he vomits it back on us, And we slurp and gurgle,
And we struggle for more
Blood - turmoil - guts
Butchered, wrapped, and delivered
Free of charge, or if any, the charge is small
Even for such a super product.
All that is good is rendered down - to disappear into the bowels of cesspool
We accept the tenderized, and are impatient for more
Nausea engulfs us, we repel it
But we can no 1ongcr see it or find it,
It is us, we are it
The penis is small, and it is not the mirror's fault
The drum plays staccato, the banner flaunts the breeze
In days of yore, and blood and gore
We jump, it yells, and we move,
The drum sounds, we shoot . . .
There is no moment of truth
There is only a large geometric puzzle of flesh
Where a man stood, showing a photo to his "enemy.”
The giant moves, his appetite craves more,
Like a leech, he grows fatter and fatter--but does not burst
He does not suffer the pains of death, he envisions greater designs
Like a spider he paralyses his prey, then feeds it with his own poison;
The mob is useless, but he shall use them
The mob is afraid, He will direct it
The mob can hate, he will help them
The mob can kill, he will show them
The mob knows not, but he can teach;
He can teach--to hate--to fear--to kill.
The mob must needs direct its passions, its wants; its hungers
Will he take their breath to make them sing?
Will he take their hands to create colours?
Will he take their voice to read the Books?
Will he take their bodies to make them dance?
Will he look into their eyes, and see the sun?
Listen, You did not hear.
Or is your heart anaesthetized by subtle manipulation?
What will he do? I will tell you
He will teach you words to curse with
He will provide bodies--to stick with knives
He will take your hands--and teach you to pluck out your eves;
He will teach you to hate the sun, to seek darkness
And he will teach you to jump when he waves a flag
He will speak of many joys and sorrows
But you will meet only sorrows
For vou never knew what pleasure was
You shall seek, but you shall not find
And you will smother out the peoples lives
As you smother out your own
And you shall die
And you will remain steadfast,
And you will believe you are blessed
And you will renounce pleasure for fear, and sin for blindness
And you will be destroyed as you destroy yourself,
Because you did not doubt, did not think
You did react, but did not act
And so you rot,
And then, it begins again.
* * *
toronto's washrooms
NEGER GET OUT
why can't you spell whitey
i say you're ignorant
NIGRA
-
fuck off white man
WE HAVE TO KILL
you can't kill
know book vii
MORE NEGER
all of white mother
fuckers go to hell
look stupid if you haven't
ot enough brains to spell
right you must be stupid
OK professor - in french - negroe
anyway you look at it "it's still" BLACK
i turned to the black guy beside me
and said why are you reading this
and he said
I'm getting my education so I can
vote next year
I turned to the man in the white coat
who I took to be dean of toilet studies
and said why don't you get rid of this shit
oh he said we will some day
* * *
THE LAST POSITIVE ACT
Think not of life as once it was
Uselessly gazing into the distant past
Then life was for the living
And then only was it a fire
To be quenched
“ . . . though your sins be as scarlet
he shall wash them white as snow . . . “
The golden helmet you wore
Was a crown upon your noble brow
Sprinkled with the dew of precious stones
And the chains and plate of steel
You bore as lightly as a galleon bore her stately sails
Was not harder than your bones
Or your hard grained flesh
But the gold has turned to rust
And the dew once hard as ice
Melted and flushed itself away
“ . . . washed in the blood . . . “
You see the charger fall beneath you
Now how do you stand
And the armour presses you onto your hands
The pupil surpasses the master
Though you had learned
Your mainstay can no longer support you
More splendid man there wasn't
“Ech, old man, what would you be wanting with me?”
Ten thousand snakes have filled your pores
And sink into the room besides
And the blood once coursing through the temples
Clots within the skin
". . . saved by the grace . . .”
The air is a black bowel movement
Lit by purple stars
A morrasic bowl in many hues
The final madness approaches
". . . repent lest ye be late . . .”
As you lie in bed
A million wormy worms climb
From the crown which is now your head
Look up, look up, the spiders are descending
They eat the steel, both chain and plate
Horse manure unmixed with straw
Becomes your gilded, pickled bed
“. . . are you washed, washed in the blood . . .?”
A cow's stomach digested nineteen times
Becomes your banquet
From now on you'll eat just offal
No, no, I'm washed in semen and menstrual flow
And a menstrual rag becomes my bib
“What news, what news on the Rialto?”
They're playing “Jumbo” you fool . . .
The naked and the alive
Become the clothed and the dead
“ . . . there is still time; the hour is approaching . . . “
The empty wine bottle is the womb
And emits the cornucopia of dried up pubic hairs
And a Corona Corona is stuck into the anus
Paper and all . . ‘
Glasses are made to see through
But so are eyes
And rain takes dry earth
And presents a pulpy mass
The biggest toe nail in the world
Slits the jugular vein
And Spic and Span will not make it well again
Sometimes an extra treat
But there is no digesting this tape worm
No matter how hungry you are
The worm has turned
The fish is on the other end
How it flops . . .
“. . . to the mourner's bench . . . “
MUSINGS ON Crīstesmæs/CHRIST'S MASS/CHRISTMAS/XMAS
CHRISTMAS
The infant's face turned with sudden tears
Was this the little child that Santa forgot?
Was it a little red wagon or a mummy doll
That was a promise unfulfilled?
Was it a shining electric train
Or that whole battalion of soldiers
Equipped complete with mortars, bazookas, tanks
And even anti-aircraft missiles?
Small tears fall
And draw muddy streaks down the child’s face
In the distance
Another cry
Why this?
It was Christmas!
And children should be happy
Eagerly anticipating Christmas morn
With the spledid wonders it promised
And near,
Another sob
Producing tears far removed
From tears of happiness
And above them
A weary broken hand, emaciated bones
Lovingly broke a small crust of bread
Into equal thirds
And a leathery stitched mouth
Announced that that was all
On the other side of the world
Just hours away in
The western shrouded jet-age
Within hearing d1stance in this new marvel
And within seeing distance
In the age of instant potatoes
But removed and shie1ded
In a plastic incubator
I walked. down the street
And my hands were cold
I saw bulbous lights and brashly bands
Blaze out a strident season's greetings
I saw hordes surge for street space
Expectant and agape
And off in the distance
Coiling down for serpentine miles
Like an effulgent golden calf
Came the symbol of the rape
As an oracle of old, robe blood-red
Topped by a cap inviting ridicule
A fable - for those who did not need fables
A dream - for those who did not dream
A bombastic bellow
Amplified many times
But crackled mirthless
Echoed hollow
But shoulder high; the inebriates
Cheered and shrieked at every crackle
My other self revulsed
And sought retreat
With one who shivered in a new-found home
Saw forms strange and was unsure
But put out a tiny hand their timidity to cure
To calm them
And stayed them with his grace
And was at Peace
And promised much
* * *
XMAS
Joy to the world - - - so we are told
Santa Claus is coming - - - and we cannot get away
The bright neon-splendour blares a season's greetings,
And the fat ones beckon a cheery wish with sticky, greasy
fingers
And the cash register clarion o'er rides,
obliviates the choralers
And after night-long revelry, the drunk emerges
from the stagnant cesspool of
of booze and a misty shroud of coffin-like
cigarette butt littered bottles
He stumbles into the church, lurches majestically
into the nearest pw and assumes a dignified
decorous position long enough to reflect that he has
never missed Xmas Mass, before sinking
Into that nether world of nauseated repose
And the other pillar of society, poor over-burdened
constitution, his spiritual co-ordination had
left somewhere after his seventh drink,
Unable to crawl, walk or stumble, he sinks
behind a wheel
Glazed beady eyes transfixed and seeing nothing
- - - he feels a suicidal surge of power
beneath his lead foot - - - and soon causes a flurry of
excitement among such types as the local
constabulary, ambulance drivers, doctors, newspaper reporters
and street sweepers
He too was on his way to worship
Straight from an oriental bacchanalian type orgy involving
many communions, and weird inebriated
incantations of silent night - holy night.
But after all - - - it is Christmas - - - and various
portions of the populace must rationalize, and they
indulge themselves into a catharsis
of debauchery and depravity - - -
And now it’s over - and silent indeed
Till New Year’s eve
THE INQUISITOR
There he sat
In judgement on a resplendent scarlet throne.
No mortal man was he
But one imbued with divine powers;
The God of love, and charity, and humility
Had touched his brow with Imperial power
And he would render a stately grace to mortal man
No immortal man was he
But certainly as close as one on earth could come
Compassion, tolerance, but most of all love
These he would dispense-with generosity
The victim, the recipient, was escorted in
Gently prodded along with long sharp spikes
And eased by two disciples on either side
He was here to receive his blessing
For someone had told
He had some strange ideas
And of these he would speak
Contrary to the laws of God
Contrary to the laws of Man
Yes, he was wrong, and he must be helped back
To the pathways of righteousness and truth
Perhaps they could enlighten him
And help him save his soul
What was that?
He disagreed?
Poor Fellow!
The devil was at it again
Spreading dissension upon the land
Confusing true believers
Show him the way
So he was taken back
To a dank little hole a hundred
Feet below the earth
But the ways of God know no boundary
They penetrate the deepest darkness
And shine in the darkest dungeon
And so, down there, in the gloomy candlelight
They proceeded to illuminate the man's belief
And show, more plainly the obvious truth
First a few lashes, to scourge the devil from his skin
And then we will see
The smooth supple coil cuts into the flesh
And leaves a gory ripple in its path
Again, and then once more, 'till the flesh is
Covered with sublime, scarlet crosses.
Blood drips and mixes with the straining sweat
And Cascades down his sinewy stretched out legs and meets
His excrement below
And still the devil would not leave
Well then
Let us try the rack
Surely that should shake him loose from his very bones
And so he mounted the cadaverous beast
Who stood there, jaws of death
Expectant and agape
And inch by inch cog by cog
Ligaments and muscles stretched and strained
Until they lost their firm anchorage on the bone
And unrelenting and complaining
Loosed their hold
And blood flowed inside the man
Where there was no path for it to go
But the devil stayed
It seemed nothing could make him leave
Let us try the thumbscrew
But the thumb was screwed
Let blood ran once more
And the man could not see the light
And then a shimmering blade was placed o'er the coals
Till its colour matched that of the flame outside
And first it traced a gentle pattern on the flesh
And then it slit his mouth
And nose, and geni1tals
Sterilizing as it went
And then it was held up to his eyes
And his brows and eyelashes which were black
Turned ash brown
And his eyes which were already brown
Turned black and no longer sparkled in the cave
Their blackness matched that of the cave, and their hollowness
Finally in a desperate effort to save the man
The rat cage was brought in
Poor disappointed beastie
Eyes gone already
But the mouth, the ears
They were tasty morsels
And if the devil would leave the man
Surely he would leave now
And so with the boot, the jerkin, and the iron maiden
But none could do their job
Possessed of the devil, sure enough
God's emissary on earth held court
And his heart was touched that the devil
Should have had such strength
And that the man would not come over to God's side
Very well, he must be a heretic
And such must die
Send out the woodcutters
Pile the faggots high
The man has sinned, the man must die
There he sat
In judgement on a resplendent scarlet throne.
No mortal man was he
But one imbued with divine powers;
The God of love, and charity, and humility
Had touched his brow with Imperial power
And he would render a stately grace to mortal man
No immortal man was he
But certainly as close as one on earth could come
Compassion, tolerance, but most of all love
These he would dispense-with generosity
The victim, the recipient, was escorted in
Gently prodded along with long sharp spikes
And eased by two disciples on either side
He was here to receive his blessing
For someone had told
He had some strange ideas
And of these he would speak
Contrary to the laws of God
Contrary to the laws of Man
Yes, he was wrong, and he must be helped back
To the pathways of righteousness and truth
Perhaps they could enlighten him
And help him save his soul
What was that?
He disagreed?
Poor Fellow!
The devil was at it again
Spreading dissension upon the land
Confusing true believers
Show him the way
So he was taken back
To a dank little hole a hundred
Feet below the earth
But the ways of God know no boundary
They penetrate the deepest darkness
And shine in the darkest dungeon
And so, down there, in the gloomy candlelight
They proceeded to illuminate the man's belief
And show, more plainly the obvious truth
First a few lashes, to scourge the devil from his skin
And then we will see
The smooth supple coil cuts into the flesh
And leaves a gory ripple in its path
Again, and then once more, 'till the flesh is
Covered with sublime, scarlet crosses.
Blood drips and mixes with the straining sweat
And Cascades down his sinewy stretched out legs and meets
His excrement below
And still the devil would not leave
Well then
Let us try the rack
Surely that should shake him loose from his very bones
And so he mounted the cadaverous beast
Who stood there, jaws of death
Expectant and agape
And inch by inch cog by cog
Ligaments and muscles stretched and strained
Until they lost their firm anchorage on the bone
And unrelenting and complaining
Loosed their hold
And blood flowed inside the man
Where there was no path for it to go
But the devil stayed
It seemed nothing could make him leave
Let us try the thumbscrew
But the thumb was screwed
Let blood ran once more
And the man could not see the light
And then a shimmering blade was placed o'er the coals
Till its colour matched that of the flame outside
And first it traced a gentle pattern on the flesh
And then it slit his mouth
And nose, and geni1tals
Sterilizing as it went
And then it was held up to his eyes
And his brows and eyelashes which were black
Turned ash brown
And his eyes which were already brown
Turned black and no longer sparkled in the cave
Their blackness matched that of the cave, and their hollowness
Finally in a desperate effort to save the man
The rat cage was brought in
Poor disappointed beastie
Eyes gone already
But the mouth, the ears
They were tasty morsels
And if the devil would leave the man
Surely he would leave now
And so with the boot, the jerkin, and the iron maiden
But none could do their job
Possessed of the devil, sure enough
God's emissary on earth held court
And his heart was touched that the devil
Should have had such strength
And that the man would not come over to God's side
Very well, he must be a heretic
And such must die
Send out the woodcutters
Pile the faggots high
The man has sinned, the man must die
POEMS OF FATE
FRIENDS
For many years we've worked together
Side by side
Our beings intertwined with one another
And it's true that I barely found time to say hello
I was too busy, oh much too busy
I was signing contracts
And I was competing in this life and death struggle
Of our modern life
And there were many times
When I put you to the test
I worked hard and fast
And you were there
With me always
Never complaining and always doing your job
It's true I payed but little attention to you
And it's true you did your part
But now you knock upon my door
In a most ominous fashion
And I hear you complaining
Is it just a knock? or is it a death rattle?
But we are yet so young, you and I
Please don't do that, heart
Why do you want to kill me?
* * *
THE VISITOR
A handsome tribute layed at my feat
And temples strewn throughout the land
Wherever there are people
You will find me also
And you will find my worshippers
There also
And though they appear to worship
Their deity, it is myself
Who humbles them
And all, from first to last
Cannot ignore me
They pay me with flowers
With other handsome structures
All devoted to my being
And yet I wonder
I ask for no pay
I do not even ask for recognition
When so few on earth pay tribute to my rival
Why do they fall back in fear from my face
And pay me in their manner
With flowers and tears and moans
Surely, I do not ask for this
And so much more that I receive
I only come to do my job . . .
* * *
DEATH BE PROUD
When in deep and melancholy air
The choleric seeks my spirit, I see despair
Etched in every crevice, every crook and cranny
No form, fine, no vision fair
Provides distraction pleasant.
The night envelopes me in three-fold gloom
Insensate to all things earthly, all but murky care
It seeks my soul, and subdues evanescent hope
As a wasp strikes and ensnares his prey.
Why melancholy, why deep concern?
Question not, for the knowledge is ever there
The peer, the peasant, puissant, the passionless,
all---one moment share
Search your mind, its length and breadth
Reluctant, you shield yourself in self-evasive bliss
There is but one embrace we fear,
That is the kiss of death.
The web of life offers us but one escape
Casting us a challenge, bitter and brief
A blind man groping in the fog
A short rest before the inevitable dirge
The theme of the grim-faced highway man
Who rides the night, 'neath the moon-light
And the sunlight too, and is always happy
---Not so the pot-bellied executive,
Slimy moustache severing a face curdled in a purple leer
This greatest development of our machine age
This auto-man with the filing cabinet soul
He sips his bourbon, kisses his high-priced prostitute
And taxes his cholesterol-caked heart, and has no conscience keep clear
On these, and others, my thoughts flit
first here, then there, as does the grey-faced cowboy on the silver steed
Who casts his lasso---and he laughs
---And wonders why they willingly cling to his arch rival
---And extend their agony of uselessness and doubt
As the society lady with a soul as
crooked as her nylon seams and as
many-coloured as her hair gobbles down three
more anti-nerve pills to hold back the dark
The candle of life flickers and is guttered in the
orgasmic spasm of the artist
He too clings to the tender thread and
seeks to outrun the relentless prince
But he too will recall his curtain line
reluctantly with dragging toe
The gels will loose their rosy hue
And harsh-faced death replaces the holocaust of applause
The soul-stricken, gaunt-eyed figure,
Beggared by the possession of the secret of life
He removes his make-up for the last time;
And in the mirror of existence-par-excellence his eyes meet those
of the hollow-eyed spectre, now leaning o'er his shoulder and brandishing the crescent knife
And I think of the flushcheeked innocent virgin
The budding flower, untouched by human hands
Not easily won, an elusive prize
And my thoughts encompass the working girl-
With the seamless nylons, and bulging brassiere
She offers all with open heart
When foul is fair, 'twere folly to be wise?
They too face the scythe---all these
Some vivid, some dead but not yet buried
And my thoughts grace these supposed "all kinds"
Which make up the world's sorry lot
Perhaps we could do without them just as well, living or forgot
Both the hollowed saint, and the drunken sot
The sainted bigot, the surpliced father who art on earth
The pompous, and the pious
So positive of salvation and eternal life
All grasp out greedily for life-as it slips through
their quavering, watery thin-veined fingers
And once the sands have fallen, unlike the hourglass
There is no endless chain
It slips through the wavering fingers into the sea of time
And only time absorbs it all, and all is one again
Some hands are cupped and hold the sand
But not long, they throw it to the wind
It is the voice that screams in lust and rage
It is the hand that caresses, living with sensation,
says to hell with grasping sand
It is the man who rules his passions who becomes the sage
It is these, and but few more, who like the butterfly,
flits his few hours from bud to limb, from some to more
And breathes an ecstasy in his brief days and hours
A lifetime undiscovered in our scores.
* * *
fall out shelters
sublime men, hippie hunters
in reach of the knowledge of the ages
sit in concrete enshrouded caskets
already there
not waiting for the keening swan song
soul accepting death
absorbing video inanities
already there
waiting for the physical death
institution of learning
teaching how to die
and not let it matter
in old days
dug graves in trenches
now graves provided for
everywhere
prepared and waiting
and here they are
already there
delivering themselves
For many years we've worked together
Side by side
Our beings intertwined with one another
And it's true that I barely found time to say hello
I was too busy, oh much too busy
I was signing contracts
And I was competing in this life and death struggle
Of our modern life
And there were many times
When I put you to the test
I worked hard and fast
And you were there
With me always
Never complaining and always doing your job
It's true I payed but little attention to you
And it's true you did your part
But now you knock upon my door
In a most ominous fashion
And I hear you complaining
Is it just a knock? or is it a death rattle?
But we are yet so young, you and I
Please don't do that, heart
Why do you want to kill me?
* * *
THE VISITOR
A handsome tribute layed at my feat
And temples strewn throughout the land
Wherever there are people
You will find me also
And you will find my worshippers
There also
And though they appear to worship
Their deity, it is myself
Who humbles them
And all, from first to last
Cannot ignore me
They pay me with flowers
With other handsome structures
All devoted to my being
And yet I wonder
I ask for no pay
I do not even ask for recognition
When so few on earth pay tribute to my rival
Why do they fall back in fear from my face
And pay me in their manner
With flowers and tears and moans
Surely, I do not ask for this
And so much more that I receive
I only come to do my job . . .
* * *
DEATH BE PROUD
When in deep and melancholy air
The choleric seeks my spirit, I see despair
Etched in every crevice, every crook and cranny
No form, fine, no vision fair
Provides distraction pleasant.
The night envelopes me in three-fold gloom
Insensate to all things earthly, all but murky care
It seeks my soul, and subdues evanescent hope
As a wasp strikes and ensnares his prey.
Why melancholy, why deep concern?
Question not, for the knowledge is ever there
The peer, the peasant, puissant, the passionless,
all---one moment share
Search your mind, its length and breadth
Reluctant, you shield yourself in self-evasive bliss
There is but one embrace we fear,
That is the kiss of death.
The web of life offers us but one escape
Casting us a challenge, bitter and brief
A blind man groping in the fog
A short rest before the inevitable dirge
The theme of the grim-faced highway man
Who rides the night, 'neath the moon-light
And the sunlight too, and is always happy
---Not so the pot-bellied executive,
Slimy moustache severing a face curdled in a purple leer
This greatest development of our machine age
This auto-man with the filing cabinet soul
He sips his bourbon, kisses his high-priced prostitute
And taxes his cholesterol-caked heart, and has no conscience keep clear
On these, and others, my thoughts flit
first here, then there, as does the grey-faced cowboy on the silver steed
Who casts his lasso---and he laughs
---And wonders why they willingly cling to his arch rival
---And extend their agony of uselessness and doubt
As the society lady with a soul as
crooked as her nylon seams and as
many-coloured as her hair gobbles down three
more anti-nerve pills to hold back the dark
The candle of life flickers and is guttered in the
orgasmic spasm of the artist
He too clings to the tender thread and
seeks to outrun the relentless prince
But he too will recall his curtain line
reluctantly with dragging toe
The gels will loose their rosy hue
And harsh-faced death replaces the holocaust of applause
The soul-stricken, gaunt-eyed figure,
Beggared by the possession of the secret of life
He removes his make-up for the last time;
And in the mirror of existence-par-excellence his eyes meet those
of the hollow-eyed spectre, now leaning o'er his shoulder and brandishing the crescent knife
And I think of the flushcheeked innocent virgin
The budding flower, untouched by human hands
Not easily won, an elusive prize
And my thoughts encompass the working girl-
With the seamless nylons, and bulging brassiere
She offers all with open heart
When foul is fair, 'twere folly to be wise?
They too face the scythe---all these
Some vivid, some dead but not yet buried
And my thoughts grace these supposed "all kinds"
Which make up the world's sorry lot
Perhaps we could do without them just as well, living or forgot
Both the hollowed saint, and the drunken sot
The sainted bigot, the surpliced father who art on earth
The pompous, and the pious
So positive of salvation and eternal life
All grasp out greedily for life-as it slips through
their quavering, watery thin-veined fingers
And once the sands have fallen, unlike the hourglass
There is no endless chain
It slips through the wavering fingers into the sea of time
And only time absorbs it all, and all is one again
Some hands are cupped and hold the sand
But not long, they throw it to the wind
It is the voice that screams in lust and rage
It is the hand that caresses, living with sensation,
says to hell with grasping sand
It is the man who rules his passions who becomes the sage
It is these, and but few more, who like the butterfly,
flits his few hours from bud to limb, from some to more
And breathes an ecstasy in his brief days and hours
A lifetime undiscovered in our scores.
* * *
fall out shelters
sublime men, hippie hunters
in reach of the knowledge of the ages
sit in concrete enshrouded caskets
already there
not waiting for the keening swan song
soul accepting death
absorbing video inanities
already there
waiting for the physical death
institution of learning
teaching how to die
and not let it matter
in old days
dug graves in trenches
now graves provided for
everywhere
prepared and waiting
and here they are
already there
delivering themselves
POEMS MACABRE
OH FREEDOM
The night was dark and dreary; the moon was murky blue
The air outside it chilled my bones; the ground was frosty dew
'Twas then I heard a moaning; a sound so low and deep
And tho' it wasn't loud at all; it woke me from my sleep
And I heard the chains a-rattling; and I heard this mournful cry
And I wondered what it was come forth; across the blood-red sky
Then I saw the lonely rider; mounted on a silver steed
And I heard a mirthless chuckle; as he rode on in full speed
- And I shivered by my window -
For his face it was all bone; and his eyes were blood
And his hair was white; and his mouth was blood-flecked foam
And the chains upon him jangled; and his bones they seemed to crack
And he sang a strange unknown song; and the echo brought it back
Then he ended with a dreadful curse; which spoke for years of pain:
"And they'll curse me and they'll hound me; 'till they end this hellish game;
But there's no end to sorrow; and there's no end to pain,
And there is no bright to-morrow; for some people in life's game,"
I shuddered and I wondered; what was this living death?
And who was this unearthly creature, who couldn't breath life's breath?
* * *
POEMS OF CYNICISM
LABOUR LOST
They stand before their benches
Pathetic in their laughter
To the point of ludicrousness
Humour too pedestrian
To have meaning or soul
These men if such we were to call them
unctuous immigrants from the world of the dead
soon to return
Pensioners, perhaps, who to this world have served their use
As men, if such we are to call them
Are not turned out to pasture
But cling desperately to any point of interest
Eager to react to the slightest stimuli
They are now before their benches
Eking out a last srand in desperation
At finding a significant something in this coil
Which they can relate to
As part of humanity, more or less
Which they very well may conjure
If none is to be found
And give it life's breath
So it may give them life
before they dance the dismal dance of death
on the other side
though they began it here eons ago
They stand now, before their benches
Like prisoners at the dock touched with
The vale of the condemned, the destiny of doom
Tracing a shadow of their pedantic profiles
though not consciously retaining life like the condemned
perhaps more like the odious oxen
placidly chewing the cud of despair
before the swift spiral of thrice-tempered steel
They stand now before their benches
arthritic talons grasping greedily
wrapping parcels to be shipped
as though these very parcels were the remaining
sustance of life
rather than death
these parcels — to he shipped
to far-off places they have never seen
Occasionally one comes
Who some intelligence shows
Of places seen, past pleasures, always past
Wondrous loves
No doubt grown more magnificent
with the droll passage of time
and the constant tide-like hammering of the assurance
that it could never be again
each year adding a climax to the life in never-never land
these are not such stuff as dreams are made of
but such stuff as regrets are made of
and ignorance which is far from blissful
and more than merely disturbing
but a frightening ignorance
profound and vast as a giant timeless oak
and abysmal worm tunnels are the only seeping of
conscious thought
through this solid tomb-like density
surely it must be better to have lived and lost
than never to have lived at all
* * *
ODE TO GLUTTONY AND VARIOUS OTHER DIVERSE SUBJECTS
Sweet lethargy repose through
Millenniums of gastronomic pleasure
Satiated, signine protoplasmic blobs
Hovering in a nether world of near satisfaction . . .
Where the gut is concerned there is but little pondering
And less consideration
But merely primeval instinct hovering on gluttony
Speaking for the starving progenitors
And the starving on earth today --- still
Waiting to inherit the earth
As their forefathers had done before them
And lacking the elusive finesse which
Separates the connoisseur and the mere glutton
And lacking the ancient puritan tradition of not gorging
Oneself into nausea
But merely nourishing the temple
Of the human spirit
And what of this modern product of our society
Which feeds on the teenagers insecurity
And total lack of awareness
Not content with repetitious gibberish
Of their own making
They turn to destroy the beauty
Of that sacred cult
Which opens itself to everyone and anyone
And once again sinks into oblivion
Like a waning mourning star
Which obscured by the brightness of human ignorance
Is still there tho' only for a chosen few
The security-conscious status seeker
Encased in a shroud of immediate wants and appetites
Encloses himself in a cacoon
And emerges too late
For he is now entangled in a web
From which there is no release
And it and awaits the final thrust
Into his heart or head and stomach
The painted, dyed and tinted
(only 79 c at your corner drugstore)
Female species continuously engaged
In losing her womanhood
In the never-ending quest for masculinity
But modern science is wonderful
And it won't be long before we attain the perfect human
It will be sexless, mindless and bodyless
Evolution never ceases
And the greatest stage is still ahead
And the mass humanity
While approaching it in mind and spirit
Now
Will finally attain it physically as well
and once again
The earth will be covered by lush vegetation
They stand before their benches
Pathetic in their laughter
To the point of ludicrousness
Humour too pedestrian
To have meaning or soul
These men if such we were to call them
unctuous immigrants from the world of the dead
soon to return
Pensioners, perhaps, who to this world have served their use
As men, if such we are to call them
Are not turned out to pasture
But cling desperately to any point of interest
Eager to react to the slightest stimuli
They are now before their benches
Eking out a last srand in desperation
At finding a significant something in this coil
Which they can relate to
As part of humanity, more or less
Which they very well may conjure
If none is to be found
And give it life's breath
So it may give them life
before they dance the dismal dance of death
on the other side
though they began it here eons ago
They stand now, before their benches
Like prisoners at the dock touched with
The vale of the condemned, the destiny of doom
Tracing a shadow of their pedantic profiles
though not consciously retaining life like the condemned
perhaps more like the odious oxen
placidly chewing the cud of despair
before the swift spiral of thrice-tempered steel
They stand now before their benches
arthritic talons grasping greedily
wrapping parcels to be shipped
as though these very parcels were the remaining
sustance of life
rather than death
these parcels — to he shipped
to far-off places they have never seen
Occasionally one comes
Who some intelligence shows
Of places seen, past pleasures, always past
Wondrous loves
No doubt grown more magnificent
with the droll passage of time
and the constant tide-like hammering of the assurance
that it could never be again
each year adding a climax to the life in never-never land
these are not such stuff as dreams are made of
but such stuff as regrets are made of
and ignorance which is far from blissful
and more than merely disturbing
but a frightening ignorance
profound and vast as a giant timeless oak
and abysmal worm tunnels are the only seeping of
conscious thought
through this solid tomb-like density
surely it must be better to have lived and lost
than never to have lived at all
* * *
ODE TO GLUTTONY AND VARIOUS OTHER DIVERSE SUBJECTS
Sweet lethargy repose through
Millenniums of gastronomic pleasure
Satiated, signine protoplasmic blobs
Hovering in a nether world of near satisfaction . . .
Where the gut is concerned there is but little pondering
And less consideration
But merely primeval instinct hovering on gluttony
Speaking for the starving progenitors
And the starving on earth today --- still
Waiting to inherit the earth
As their forefathers had done before them
And lacking the elusive finesse which
Separates the connoisseur and the mere glutton
And lacking the ancient puritan tradition of not gorging
Oneself into nausea
But merely nourishing the temple
Of the human spirit
And what of this modern product of our society
Which feeds on the teenagers insecurity
And total lack of awareness
Not content with repetitious gibberish
Of their own making
They turn to destroy the beauty
Of that sacred cult
Which opens itself to everyone and anyone
And once again sinks into oblivion
Like a waning mourning star
Which obscured by the brightness of human ignorance
Is still there tho' only for a chosen few
The security-conscious status seeker
Encased in a shroud of immediate wants and appetites
Encloses himself in a cacoon
And emerges too late
For he is now entangled in a web
From which there is no release
And it and awaits the final thrust
Into his heart or head and stomach
The painted, dyed and tinted
(only 79 c at your corner drugstore)
Female species continuously engaged
In losing her womanhood
In the never-ending quest for masculinity
But modern science is wonderful
And it won't be long before we attain the perfect human
It will be sexless, mindless and bodyless
Evolution never ceases
And the greatest stage is still ahead
And the mass humanity
While approaching it in mind and spirit
Now
Will finally attain it physically as well
and once again
The earth will be covered by lush vegetation
O CANADA or THE GREAT AMERICAN WALKING SHADOW
The hot fetid clammy air reeks with stifling discomfort
For it is the lunch hour at Guaranty Trust, and
we have descended into this cubicle of discomfort
And as they sit revelling in gastronomic pleasures
I think upon their dreary, decorticate spirits
And the many forms and mysteries starvation and death enfold;
Slimy slushing o'er lies this tomb of souls
Harsh and strident nonsensical mechanical mutterings
express approval and not - - - about other carbon copies of themselves,
like idle hens scratching on a sunny farmyard or sunbathing
in manure
running hither and yon, pecking first here, then there
Oh - listen to her, she's discovered a juicy worm of gossip
And then the big bosses, babbling and bobbing
back and forth like decapitated capons or overheated baboons
They stir an insipid brew and know not that
they are sending a muddy ripple through the
mirror of their souls
A shudder chills my spine
For this our forefathers perished
For this Laura Secord braved the savage
For this Brock galloped to his rendezvous with doom
For this Wolfe flung the torch from failing hands
For this? for this. For this is it
This is endsville man
This is the ultimate product of our dynamic twentieth century
this dull, dreary, stupid, stodgy, cocoa-colonized Canadian mind.
My God . . .
Give me a breath of fresh air
Take me back to the miles of mountains
and the streams and lakes which rained down from
heaven like scattered silver
Pure, clear, uncluttered with the wastes of progress
where the wild fowl, and the furry and slimy denizens
still lived and were not strangled or lain low in
their tracks or lairs not knowing why their rapidly
beating heart had suddenly ceased only seeing the
sun blotted out and feeling a choking and a grappling
For here killing was brought out into the open
and was as natural as living
And the men walked with the beasts
and walked like them
And though lacking "civilization"
had dignity and bearing
And though animal-like, were strong and swift and sure
and they lived quickly and they died quickly
what price civilization?
Their life juices were not slowly sapped
inch by inch, lick by lick, taste by taste
Until; after a few uneventful decades
Something snapped and the 'man' collapsed
Rushed off to be pumped full of pills and artificial
hearts
Or he woke up one morning, the more wiser one
and realized he had lived an artificial life
and all that was left was a thin, crinkly exoskelton
sucked and sapped dry since his early "education"
And spiritual death awaited only his physical partner
to do his part
For here, in this most highly developed jungle of all
there is no life for man or beast
But only death.
Our mighty civilization has produced
the surest, most painless way of killing
a way that begins the death rattle long before the
infant's first cry man's cruelty to man and to all
life surpassing the most primitively developed animal
* * *
INSENSATE
A many-hued morrassic hell
Devils and imps emerging from the stomach of Baal
With especially fine needle-tined forks
pricking, piercing each and every tissue
each cell, each molecule capable of sensation
Plunging headlong from euphoria
Equally sensate but opposite in extreme
And for these moments of levity from this earth
One must pay an equal balance
But if one were to take dope
To escape from this droll, drab existence,
this orgiastic perversion
Why be content with the mundane mediocre such
as our escapist mass provides
Escape? Yes, but never for long,
And pay for it? Yes!
An equal amount of nothing.
Nothing begets nothing.
Escape? Yes! with all the accompanying horrors and tortures
Better to suffer all of this extreme
Rather than experience nothing and pay for nothing
Throughout the passionless, insensate years.
* * *
pity the poor man
dumb, ignorant, obediant
now - as when he erected pharaoh's tomb
now - exchanged a steel collar for one of white
or blue, or none at all
but still bearing the weight of chains
amiable, as a beast of burden
expecting little, receiving less
few wants, few hungers - and fewer pleasures
occasionally one comes with dreams
resplendent glory, exotica, erotica,
far distant lands
but he soon slams the gate on such reflections
his mind must be closed tomb-like
and hide the age-old secrets so the world
let alone himself; will never know,
to what avail to dream of this and that?
and suffer a knowledge of regrets
better to forget - press back
this is the greatest niche of wisdom of such men
imprisoning their souls as their bodies are imprisoned
* * *
the walk in the dark
i was at a party
and i sang and played the tale of
the poor negro convict on the chain gang for twenty-six years
and how tough it was
and a rich-bitch-witch with long hair
and a chrome plated brassiere
came over to me and said
you have sexy eyes even when you're playing
later i tried to tell her about love
and she started taking off her bloody plastic brassiere
i don't want your mink-lined crotch
i said
you've probably got wires down there
to keep it from freezing up
my god i walked into the night street
and this time i saw the moon
and i tried to reach it too
but it just stayed up there and laughed
old song: When you see me laughing I'm laughing just to keep from crying
* * *
the walk in the park
look at this he said
I've got to be a poet
I'll die if i can't be a poet
he didn't know how many times he would die
before he was a poet
I died twenty years ago
and cheated the hangman of his noose
I came to a world that was tired and sick
and deaf and dumb and dying
because it couldn't call for help
and dripping putricence
and i shouted love
but i meant their destruction
death to every member
of the fat-insulated simian whored
so the outside could match the vegetated rot on the in
I walked far into the trees
and slippery light osmatically dropped
through cellular leaves
i ran down the hill into the valley and the grass
crunching through the underbrush
wow i was free and detached and way up there
I was a mad locomotive whistling down the downgrade
and my brakes were gone
or did i just forget I had any
i jumped and leaped at the sun
but tripped and fell and smashed my ankle
and realized it would always stay up there
out of reach
REFLECTIONS:
FOR THE BORN LOSER
Once . . . I was happy
Before the lightning bolt
Followed by thunder
Followed by rain
First the soft large drops of rain
Which soaked my face and mixed with tears
Then the hard driving rain
That battered my face and mixed with tears
I was happy then
With my love
I was my love and she was me -
And we walked through pastures of plenty
And no path was hidden to our search
No stone or bough stood in our way
The whole world was ours
And our summer would not end
We'd talked of how it was going to be
But we never cared
There was no future - only the present
And there was no time - who needed time?
We had attained a timeless grace
It was forever - - - or it had never happened.
I was surprised when lightning struck
The storm came
What was it?
This shrieking note of discord
That shattered my shell so quickly
A careless word
A careless move
I knew then the end was near
What a fool I was to hope
I who had once learned not to hope again
I who still believed
Perhaps I was right; they were wrong
Perhaps it was only I who lived this wonder
I do not know and neither does it really matter
Because I am unhappy now again
But I believe it
I can believe this rneloncholy unhappiness
I know it for it is real and it will last
I am quite happy now
Not happy; but secure
* * *
When they looked at the man, the poet
they said there goes the man who has flown with the angels
and crawled with the lowest of the gutter
and when you looked into his eyes
you saw that he had traversed both time and life
and if some day I plunge to no return
and the party is over
then I want someone to look into your eyes
and say
here is the woman who was surprised by joy
not grief
and she has learned to love
and she has been in heaven - - -
and though the bereft widow's mourning
may have whipped you down
with sorrow - but equal to the joy
the tendril springs of love
must take new root
for you were made for loving
and to love and this will be my headstone
so much more than tears
for if I did not succeed in bringing you this
I have failed all
for one who lived in joy
must not become a beggar
at the thresh hold
of the past
* * *
Lately it seems
I'm drawn more to fall
melancholy - death in winter
I once loved the slimy slippery sweat of summer
when no sheets were still too much
silky slivers of madness
parenthesize unaccomplished dreams
and shadows reach for non-existent bodies
the song of those
past their prime
seems to echo
in my ears more often
and a welter of work to be done
is lost in bad-mad[e] plans
and lack of a feasibility study
you've got my number
only if you dare
cause no one else knows
Once . . . I was happy
Before the lightning bolt
Followed by thunder
Followed by rain
First the soft large drops of rain
Which soaked my face and mixed with tears
Then the hard driving rain
That battered my face and mixed with tears
I was happy then
With my love
I was my love and she was me -
And we walked through pastures of plenty
And no path was hidden to our search
No stone or bough stood in our way
The whole world was ours
And our summer would not end
We'd talked of how it was going to be
But we never cared
There was no future - only the present
And there was no time - who needed time?
We had attained a timeless grace
It was forever - - - or it had never happened.
I was surprised when lightning struck
The storm came
What was it?
This shrieking note of discord
That shattered my shell so quickly
A careless word
A careless move
I knew then the end was near
What a fool I was to hope
I who had once learned not to hope again
I who still believed
Perhaps I was right; they were wrong
Perhaps it was only I who lived this wonder
I do not know and neither does it really matter
Because I am unhappy now again
But I believe it
I can believe this rneloncholy unhappiness
I know it for it is real and it will last
I am quite happy now
Not happy; but secure
* * *
When they looked at the man, the poet
they said there goes the man who has flown with the angels
and crawled with the lowest of the gutter
and when you looked into his eyes
you saw that he had traversed both time and life
and if some day I plunge to no return
and the party is over
then I want someone to look into your eyes
and say
here is the woman who was surprised by joy
not grief
and she has learned to love
and she has been in heaven - - -
and though the bereft widow's mourning
may have whipped you down
with sorrow - but equal to the joy
the tendril springs of love
must take new root
for you were made for loving
and to love and this will be my headstone
so much more than tears
for if I did not succeed in bringing you this
I have failed all
for one who lived in joy
must not become a beggar
at the thresh hold
of the past
* * *
Lately it seems
I'm drawn more to fall
melancholy - death in winter
I once loved the slimy slippery sweat of summer
when no sheets were still too much
silky slivers of madness
parenthesize unaccomplished dreams
and shadows reach for non-existent bodies
the song of those
past their prime
seems to echo
in my ears more often
and a welter of work to be done
is lost in bad-mad[e] plans
and lack of a feasibility study
you've got my number
only if you dare
cause no one else knows
|
A Series of Love Poems Disillusioned ~
|
|
when I go to bed
on a silent morning
reeling from my fantasies
I think about my last girlfriends
and peace
and burning morning toast
along with dreams of ambitions
quietly
while I
a crazed sailor
drink my blood
to feed the thirst
of fatigue
* * *
so much to say - so little time
so many words - so little rhyme
hello eyes - long lashes shimmer
and teeth like gems
and grass turned brown
recedes with shivers
and dirt
I bash my head into sullen soggy
leaves and my fingers like
claws are flecked with blood
to hold you back and say
don't go
until dust like particles of
silence gather swiftly
and night brings me relief
from living
* * *
THE FAN LETTER
You may receive fan letters
Pregnant with old-age euphemisms, hero-worship,
Expressions of approval
Shall we let this missal rendevous with the others
In some fitting receptacle for such pratings?
I beg you, hear me out
I need an audience, and something tells me you will listen
Why I don’t know
Except that to me you mean compassion and tolerance
Yes, tolerance that is what we all need now
And I pray you will be tolerant
To say I am in desperate need of an audience does not
imply you are the last resort
It means that I, know, I know that you will listen
How do I know?
I just know
I know when I hear you speak
I know when I hear your piercing shrilly voice in song
I know when I hear the twang long after it has faded
I know that you understand
Understand what it means to be alone
In a crowd, or with your best friend, and be alone
I know when I hear the haunting stillness of your voice
That lingers in my mind long after it has gone
It echoes back, magnified a million times
And tells me that you know
And I understand; that you understand
To say I need an audience is not all true
Closer to say I need an audience like you
The empathy which existed long before time . . .
There are many who will listen
Oblivious to truth, as you are oblivious to me
And yet, somehow, across the endless waves of thought
I know you, and you know me
As an omnipotent you are aware
Aware of the voice that cries from the lower depths
And says, don't take me now
I am not ready
And you know the anguish of that voice
For you have heard a million times across the ages
Long before you were born
And somehow I think I know of you and what you have
And I envy you, that you should possess it so easily
For I have looked for it
And I have known of others who have had it too
They knew what it was, without seeing, and where it was
without hearing
And they heard the voices crying
And they answered in their own sweet song
Treat them kindly I say; they do not come our way often
And all the time I was looking; I must keep looking
And I shall keep looking, and searching; for I must find
Before I give.
* * *
THE GATHERING
I walked into the cool bar on my first hot night in town
And it was a hard road I'd come from
Squalid dusty towns had choked my nostrils
And squalid dusty people had choked my mind
And now I was sitting next to a sharply dressed drunk
A brief conversation resulted in an invitation
To his club and before long I had walked into
A dimly lit sweat and smoke enshrouded niche
With a long low bar along one side
Where drinks were cheap and strong
A small-time tired band played at one end
And writhing bodies expressed themselves
On the crowded space below
She gave me the good eye as she came around
And winked over her partner's bobbing shoulder
As he produced an ungainly shuffle
Vaguely reminiscent of a baboon in
Full flower of some fertility rite
He also produced an appropriate gibberish I noticed
The music stopped and I reached for my drink
But a hand came up with a gold band on and offered it to me
Tall, inclined to plumpness, ash blond hair
Approximately appealing figure
New in town? Care to dance?
A smoothly put-on enquiry found she was from England
Which I had already surmised
But really? I said
So am I
Yes, Yorkshire
Really? She had been in Yorkshire once
And she moved her undulating thighs closer to mine
I pressed my lips against her forehead And tasted salty sweat
Let us take the back way out she said My husband is still here
* * *
THE STAG’S HEAD
She turned around and wept a bitter tear
And cursed the day we'd ever met
I looked forlorn but thought a smile
I knew she was only too eager to forget
I knew that shortly after I would close her door
And this bitter quarrel would be resolved
And after protestations of love once more
Our rift upon the bed would be absolved
My shadow would barely die upon the stairs
Before another would take its place
And I, glad once more and free from cares
Would be unaware of that climactic race
And the sagging bed springs would swing once more
Overburdened by the battle of the sex
Complaining loudly; once, twice or more
They at night would find but little rest
But now I knew about the head of horns
Which pressed my once proud shoulders down
The bed of roses also had its thorns
She deceived with fury; I suffered without sound
Lain low by a volatile smile
Or a body which promised much more than it could provide
Believing in an innocence but cheated all the while
Her charms were in abundance to divide
But now I could sit back and laugh
And use her for my pleasure and my lust
As she sacrificed herself upon the phallic staff
Deception when twice done becomes quite just.
* * *
and when I started to wipe
away the blood
and later on, all flaky and crusty
the clots were stubborn
I thought of easy going
- and corpuscular hardness
when thoughts and aspirations
met reality
and froze
not in anticpation
but stubborness
of well-won fact
and streams of chance
passed in darkness
and disenchantment
I saw my hand
ON IMMATURITY
And so --- to greener fields and pastures new
No longer the somnelent sublime semblance --- brought fire
by my kisses
No more the seething flames which invade my form till I could
bear no longer
No more the overwhelming tide of sea salt sweil
Which obliviates me in everything and nothing
I must not search for that which was
But being once --- it can never not be
And though the joy from me you pluck like a scenty flower ---
The scent remains and does not fade
Though you sweep the sweet ecstasy of being away -
With one Alexandrian stroke - the golden solar rays
light upon ominous clouds --- pregnant with dew
And so the silent misty orbs descend ever so gently,
gently,
sweep away and hide the globe of red beyond the shrouded
bank of fog --- an infant 's face doth turn with sudden tears
And the drops of rain do not sparkle like the diamonds
But are cold, dull, lifeless, like fish eyes long ceased
seeing
So this is life . . . a mirror slowly tarnished till it
lives no more
To laugh, to cry, each day to die --- a little
Until . . .
THREE EARLY LOVE POEMS
[or: what we did before the iPhone]
THREE EARLY LOVE POEMS
[or: what we did before the iPhone]
Early friends
|
 none of them are in these poems
|
|
Our mother died when I was still in high school and I was devastated. She was my friend, confidant, and audience. Looking back, I wonder if that was why I was constantly in love and seeking female companionship. My infatuations were not always requited, but set me off on many poems. A young brain at work here, still under the classical influence . . .
SONNET TO SUSAN
Still - - - you might have loved me
You, with the scintillating eyes, the raven hair
Were I perhaps not so arrogant, perhaps to look upon more fair,
More pliant to your wish, with judgement less severe
My dreams would not be falling like the rain
Swishing, sloshing, - - - down the gutter drain,
As I, a forlorn figure, seek a lonely corner in my house of pain
- - - But no, not I, not you, the door to love we close
Harsh to level judgements, a chism, unresolved, as
two like poles, tho' powerful and similar, oppose . . .
Farewell, then, to you and dreams of bliss, I will not tarry
I find our acquaintance too great a joy to carry
Life beckons, and I do not stand and wait
I turn my back upon our friendship brief, I close the gate
Yet, tho' gone, you shall live, tho' in odd and scattered thought,
And of all my friends, you will be among the last forgot.
TO ESTHER
We sipped the sickly sweet wine of ecstatic bliss
And our nearness only aged it more
And tho' we promised then to share it only 'teen us twain
We knew, that when we met again
One of us would avoid the other's hand
So we clinked our glasses - - - and called it a one-night stand
A one-night stand . . .
Yet, what is this life of ours . . .
But a flicker, dark and dim, 'tween clinking glasses,
and the sunrise o'er the rim
A sigh of passion like a swallow's dive
Knowing for one brief moment you are alive
Knowing you wili chortle swanlike, tho' in dread
Knowing you will be a long time dead
Knowing you will no longer soar
Knowing you will rest, to rise no more
How few there are who know what passion is
How few share moments in life which are truly his
How few don't live life only with a mole's eyes
How few soar through the awesome skies.
To Acey
Aug. 10, composed on trip from Red Deer to Calgary
You told me to smile
I'm always sad you say --
And I look at you and wonder
Ten years from now, what will you say?
It's a joy to be alive, YOU say
And your cheery face lights up
And I look at you, remember,
The price I had to pay.
It's a joy to be alive, it's true
Give your life a recompense
Laugh on laugh on, your face may fall
And shadow, ten years hence.
Just as a cheery countenance
Oft masks an aching heart,
A dreamy far-off look may hide,
A joy within life’s part.
Think on this, lest you forget
Life may bring you tears
But take them all, joys and sweet sorrows,
They mellow with the years.
If you run in sunshine, walk in rain
Tho’ it makes you cry
But every time it does, be justified to say,
You made a darn good try!
SONNET TO SUSAN
Still - - - you might have loved me
You, with the scintillating eyes, the raven hair
Were I perhaps not so arrogant, perhaps to look upon more fair,
More pliant to your wish, with judgement less severe
My dreams would not be falling like the rain
Swishing, sloshing, - - - down the gutter drain,
As I, a forlorn figure, seek a lonely corner in my house of pain
- - - But no, not I, not you, the door to love we close
Harsh to level judgements, a chism, unresolved, as
two like poles, tho' powerful and similar, oppose . . .
Farewell, then, to you and dreams of bliss, I will not tarry
I find our acquaintance too great a joy to carry
Life beckons, and I do not stand and wait
I turn my back upon our friendship brief, I close the gate
Yet, tho' gone, you shall live, tho' in odd and scattered thought,
And of all my friends, you will be among the last forgot.
TO ESTHER
We sipped the sickly sweet wine of ecstatic bliss
And our nearness only aged it more
And tho' we promised then to share it only 'teen us twain
We knew, that when we met again
One of us would avoid the other's hand
So we clinked our glasses - - - and called it a one-night stand
A one-night stand . . .
Yet, what is this life of ours . . .
But a flicker, dark and dim, 'tween clinking glasses,
and the sunrise o'er the rim
A sigh of passion like a swallow's dive
Knowing for one brief moment you are alive
Knowing you wili chortle swanlike, tho' in dread
Knowing you will be a long time dead
Knowing you will no longer soar
Knowing you will rest, to rise no more
How few there are who know what passion is
How few share moments in life which are truly his
How few don't live life only with a mole's eyes
How few soar through the awesome skies.
To Acey
Aug. 10, composed on trip from Red Deer to Calgary
You told me to smile
I'm always sad you say --
And I look at you and wonder
Ten years from now, what will you say?
It's a joy to be alive, YOU say
And your cheery face lights up
And I look at you, remember,
The price I had to pay.
It's a joy to be alive, it's true
Give your life a recompense
Laugh on laugh on, your face may fall
And shadow, ten years hence.
Just as a cheery countenance
Oft masks an aching heart,
A dreamy far-off look may hide,
A joy within life’s part.
Think on this, lest you forget
Life may bring you tears
But take them all, joys and sweet sorrows,
They mellow with the years.
If you run in sunshine, walk in rain
Tho’ it makes you cry
But every time it does, be justified to say,
You made a darn good try!
SHORT POEMS?
A poem begins as a fragment, and sometimes blossoms into a complete statement. Sometimes the fragment is as far as it goes so we can call it a short poem. Here are the short ones: [or are they merely unfinished?]
* * *
love and respect yourself well
so ye may love and respect thy neighbour likewise
* * *
I wiped my mouth
in a mound of flesh
that breathes with scars
* * *
Here lies the body of coy Gretchen Fen
Boys don't bother her now and they never did then
And so at the age of three score years and ten
She gave up to worms what she denied to men
* * *
there were a hundred poems
that went through my mind
on a dangerous drive
but I kept the best for you
* * *
I am infallible
I am all powerful
I am the great
Omnipotent
of sorrow
* * *
how sad it is
when the world ends -
& we are left hanging
on the edge of
reality ~
* * *
beneath the portrait of a horse
he sits in deep remorse
and contemplates his woes
his world is full of foes
he has no friends
who needs them?
* * *
I went to church
To find salvation
That I might see
But they put one hand upon my eyes
The other in my pocket
And I didn't wait for the other member
Of The Holy Trinity
* * *
Come with me into my house of dreams
And we'll watch time seep by on lotus petals
the craggy pines will be our maypole
and we'll dance the dance of naked flesh
heedless of the bleeding eye of shame and scorn
and tears of rain will wash our eyes
and we will see again
* * *
October 26, 2005
reeling in a delirium of
surprise and wonder
I wrapped your conceit
In indifference
easy to be kicked when
You are down
the old man was right
we are such stuff as
As dreams are made of
* * *
what happened
to those times
when girls
would lift their plastic bosoms
into my face
and ask for a ride home . . .
Have I lost
the taste for plastic
and that’s why
I’m lonely - ?
* * *
GLITTERS
The sun rears its ugly head
Upon the entrails of the dead
And looks upon the world with scorn
While we rise and worship each new morn
The meaningless meanderings of man
Too scared to fall; to weak to stand
The mighty man; no will to try
Cursing himself; yet powerless to die
* * *
love
a leaf drifting
it's stream from
green to gold to
embracing nothingness
wrapped in oblivion
and infinity
the earth yawning a
crevice - a smile
unseen in the night
answering ---
* * *
november 27, 2005
You carry your
liberation like an old
sweater
To be worn or thrown aside -
depending on the weather
I carried mine like ancient
polished armour
This morning I could not find it -
& when I did - some links
were missing -
* * *
P
o
e
m
and when the humour is gone
and everything tastes like last night's
cigarette
left over in your mouth
time moves on in time to
thoughts and not words spoken
and work is unforgiving solitude
lost country ramblings
and broken music boxes
and tenderness turned cold
nighttime doesn't matter
* * *
sometimes
I see you
As a lost Fragment
From a dream on waking
Someone - something I almost knew
so well
but now
slipping away into the back of my mind
I grab at this
as it moves like water through my Fingers
and that is how
I become a captive of your memory
* * *
BRILLIANT THOUGHTS ON VISITING
BRILLIANT - A BRILLIANT DAY
VIEW OF THE KOOTENAY - COLUMBIA
SCENE OF HISTORY
CURIOUS DREAMS
LAID TO REST WITH CURIOUS ANCESTORS
I SEEK A UNION? REUNION
WITH MY PAST
THE CURIOUS STRANGER
THE CURIOUS PEOPLE
HERE WITH PURPLE FLOWERS
IF I UNITE WITH HER
I WILL BE WHOLE AGAIN
* * *
the awakening
a telephone tinkle
a start
a stale cup of coffee spilt
and a cigarette butt from more prosperous days
it's not her
she's dead
there are five
or five thousand
but
didn't she know
I answered
and my guts churned
like a frightened cur
it wasn't her
* * *
11 ~ 06 ~ 05
unexpected
your letter came
spoke of smoke & brass girdles
copper brassieres
sandals in winter
& gravel at night
I wandered thru a dusk
of weariness, fatigue & loss
Buses unseen in a snowstorm
buried in lint & disuse
somewhere missed me
I was glad to be in
your arms again
& your bed was safe
* * *
WORD ABSTRACT
Emulation orgasmic
spasmodic - - - my mind sears insensate
incarnate , fertile
inky vapid
a storm strewn drop fading into a dark pane
If someone were to know
no
smothered - absorbed by cadillac fumes
the thought of the oblivious gay blade with
foppish hair lip
choked by fall - out hysteria
No one will know no one will feel , no
one will hear
who cares . . .
* * *
Today
a poem came for you
unbidden uninvited
it crept through
a misty fold of memories
until I saw
luminous cat eyes
watching me - in the darkness
stray fingers stroked mine
first with awkward indifference
then tender curiosity
the moon came to me that night
and pierced an arrow
through my heart
* * *
I took my watch off
so I would not bruise your tender skin
and you were after all
the first woman I could kiss with passion
first thing in the morning
but all this time
I forgot to take off my mind
Talking on
In an honest, crude way
Words you didn't understand
or didn't want to
While I sang in pleasure and joy
I forgot to listen
to a silent beating heart
* * *
I saw you in my dreams
I think you were on the escalator at Eaton's
and you smiled so good and said Hi!
I didn't recognize you at first
but I said Hi! and went up the escalator
I knew you then
and I asked 'how it was going'
and you looked at me with your rosy lips
and shrunken breasts
and said it was o.k.
and I'm getting used to it
like having a baby every week
for a moment
I wondered
why we kissed so fully on the mouth
at no moment's notice
* * *
GIRL WITH A GUITAR
Her fingers gently rippled over the melodic strings of the guitar
It had become her guitar; and fingertips caressed them
With a gently love each note brought forth
And rose before me the thousand hues of longings
Long hidden and obscured by parapets of sorrow
The blank wall of indifference crumbled with each note
And tender shoots sprang forth, summoned by her music
Her arm bent in perfect poise
Embraced the shades of one long night of tenderness
A smiling mouth poured music's mellow wine
And eyes spoke in silence
Her head tilts and I follow in hypnotic daze
And sunlit tresses are a halo that only I can witness
The stale tenor of my thoughts crash and hang with her crescendo
And in the crusty thicket of' indifference
A fire is kindled and leaps where grace preserves
A subtle-fingered twang, she ends the song
But mute echoes linger
Like scent
* * *
INNOCENCE BETRAYED
And then was the time of blood-warm tears,
And of naive beauty - disseminated through a millennium of ugliness
And the fragments of each ray of sunshine
Were no longer rays of hope
But stabbing piercing shafts
Which ripped apart and tore the playful heartstrings of love
And blood lost in love in passion become dried-out gore
And then — love was no more
Love became a bitter thing
A clammy brutal thing - innocent blood was shed at its sensuous alter
Tore and ripped asunder the innocence of willing
And bore a strange design unto the and of hope
And the joyful pangs of the first discovery of flesh
Became the moans of love betrayed
And then the dark side of urgency was revealed – a quintessential spark
No longer unknown remote unreal
For primal lust had created as all born equal
EXAMPLE OF EDITING - WHEN EDITED, THE ABOVE POEM BECAME THE FOLLOWING:
BETRAYED
Came a time of blood-warm tears
Naive beauty - desecrated through a millennium
of ugliness
Fragments of each ray of sunshine
Were no longer rays of hope
But stabbing piercing shafts
Which tore and untuned the playful heartstrings of love
And then - love was no more
Love became bitter
clammy brutal - shed innocent blood at
a sensuous alter
Tore and ripped innocence of willing
Took its strange design to the end of hope
And joyful discovery of flesh
Turned to moans of love betrayed
No longer strange and unknown
For primeval need had made all equal
Came a time of blood-warm tears
Naive beauty - desecrated through a millennium
of ugliness
Fragments of each ray of sunshine
Were no longer rays of hope
But stabbing piercing shafts
Which tore and untuned the playful heartstrings of love
And then - love was no more
Love became bitter
clammy brutal - shed innocent blood at
a sensuous alter
Tore and ripped innocence of willing
Took its strange design to the end of hope
And joyful discovery of flesh
Turned to moans of love betrayed
No longer strange and unknown
For primeval need had made all equal
Outdoor Summer Picnic
This poem was written for the 1999 Centennial Celebrations of the Doukhobor migration to Canada and was read at many official events:
REMEMBERING THE SPIRIT WRESTLERS
The Spirit Wrestlers - Wrestling with the Spirit within -
And forced to wrestle with the spirit without -
Resist not evil
When ‘resist not’ became greater resistance than most could bear
Not afraid of death, the penal battalions, the scorpy acacia -
the knotted knout and metal manacles -
Not afraid of death - more important - not afraid of life -
The song of ages fashioned in a mystical a Capella
Not afraid to start again, and again, and again
Betrayed by a faceless, sinister, soulless bureaucracy -
Our ancestors played the major role
Not for the dollar - but for the spirit
They sang the song of perseverance and hardship spanning the Canadian century of the pioneer -
A century that saw people plowing, pulling wagons
Then oxen - eight horse teams - the steam engine - the tractor -
Finally - the plane and the missile and the star wars terror -
These were the pioneers that would not be beaten when they were -
Or merely consumed as captives of the soulless present -
Let us try to capture this solitary song - now a light in our memories-
The memories of the wind swept prairies -
The lonely expanse between villages -
The lonely stretches between success and failure
Scarred swollen hands that worked too hard
They heard it all - they wrote it as they went
But our memory is dimming -
Is it time to recall - to rediscover?
To reclaim what they gave so selflessly -
In the hopes of a better, peaceful life than which they found -
Is it time to resurrect as we remember?
The strangers in a strange country building a land they would no longer know
No thought of reward except the light in their childrens’ eyes
Secure as dreamers in a humble humility of a time gone by
Let us celebrate, and let us remember,
Let us listen to the echo - then - let us try to recapture and regain
These ancient songs gone by . . .
REMEMBERING THE SPIRIT WRESTLERS
The Spirit Wrestlers - Wrestling with the Spirit within -
And forced to wrestle with the spirit without -
Resist not evil
When ‘resist not’ became greater resistance than most could bear
Not afraid of death, the penal battalions, the scorpy acacia -
the knotted knout and metal manacles -
Not afraid of death - more important - not afraid of life -
The song of ages fashioned in a mystical a Capella
Not afraid to start again, and again, and again
Betrayed by a faceless, sinister, soulless bureaucracy -
Our ancestors played the major role
Not for the dollar - but for the spirit
They sang the song of perseverance and hardship spanning the Canadian century of the pioneer -
A century that saw people plowing, pulling wagons
Then oxen - eight horse teams - the steam engine - the tractor -
Finally - the plane and the missile and the star wars terror -
These were the pioneers that would not be beaten when they were -
Or merely consumed as captives of the soulless present -
Let us try to capture this solitary song - now a light in our memories-
The memories of the wind swept prairies -
The lonely expanse between villages -
The lonely stretches between success and failure
Scarred swollen hands that worked too hard
They heard it all - they wrote it as they went
But our memory is dimming -
Is it time to recall - to rediscover?
To reclaim what they gave so selflessly -
In the hopes of a better, peaceful life than which they found -
Is it time to resurrect as we remember?
The strangers in a strange country building a land they would no longer know
No thought of reward except the light in their childrens’ eyes
Secure as dreamers in a humble humility of a time gone by
Let us celebrate, and let us remember,
Let us listen to the echo - then - let us try to recapture and regain
These ancient songs gone by . . .
INTRO: Perhaps one shouldn't reinforce apocryphal stories, but like the facts, they too can have a firm hold on one's fancy and roots. Growing up on a ranch north of Lundbreck, Alberta, the ‘Pass' was always a place of excitement and mystery; the Frank Slide being a feature attraction. Years later, I remembered one of the stories I had heard about the great slide and wrote it down in this treatment of the 'legend'. Stompin' Tom Connors adapted it into a song; it can be heard on an album entitled SONGS OF TRAGEDY, there called 'My God How That Mountain Came Down'.
THE LEGEND OF THE FRANK SLIDE
On the tragic scroll of the heavenly toll
The town of Frank appears
Where a longtime ago the Blackfeet and Cree
Carried their burnished spears
PART I
The chieftain's tent heard many a rent
Of a cry sent up to the stars
And the wind gently stroked the tall aspen and pine
Like a host of a thousand guitars
And these pines reached the sky to where birds seldom fly
High up on those mountains sublime
But the gray mass of rock rose for miles and more
Far beyond that timber line
And no one could tell what up there did dwell
For no one had ventured that far
But it was said that whoever could scale that stone
Could reach and pluck out a star
And away up on high one could see the faint sky
Creeping in through the mountains so wide
And it came down for miles to the valley below
And made a pass to the other side
The sap would run loose in the jack pine and spruce
The stags put their new antlers to the test
And spring would rush in like a raven's sharp cry
In the valley of the golden Crow's Nest
But never too near would a brave man appear
To the shrine from whence came the fountain
For constantly creeping like a ponderous beast
Was this awesome Turtle Mountain
There were stories of men who never knew when
To stop pursuit of the hunter's prize
And one fatal step and a thunderous crash
Put an end to their foolhardy lives
And their captured souls played out their roles
Each night with their hideous moans
And the medicine man, the wisest of all
Warned all of the Manitou's stones
PART II
From the east one day there came to stay
White men in search of land
And they pressed into the valley unto the sacred ground
Ignoring the chieftain's command
And the buck and the doe and the buffalo
Were pushed far into the back
And the braves met their doom in their glorious paint
And died at the sound of a crack
And though at one time they all had their own line
Which no other tribesman could cross
They gathered together in a council of war
To discuss means of recovering their loss
And gathered for miles in all shapes and styles
Wigwams dotted the plain
And council fires burned far into the night
Ancient pride was suffering pain
Where a short time before they had roamed by the score
The game disappeared in the hills
And the screeching of plows and dynamite blasts
Replaced the cry of the whippoorwills
And the wan hunger etched faces that had once known the places
Of Lords of the valleys and streams
Discovered death and defeat before the white man
Bid good-bye to past glories and dreams
There were some who urged death unto the last breath
To regain freedom they once had enjoyed
But the old men shook their heads for they knew all too well
The ways that the white man employed
“But Manitou won't forget the children who let
The white man take over their land
Let us pray unto him to smile again
Perhaps then they will understand”.
The prayers were presented by cries half-demented
Until surely he must have heard
"Let us reach the village where the forked-tongued ones dwell
Let us give the white man our word".
But the wise man who was chosen found the white heart was frozen
When he presented them with his plea
With scorn and derision he was greeted and hailed
As they laughed at the crazy old Cree
"What's that redskin? Let's hear it again
You'll bring the mountain down upon us?
Hey boys, here's a laugh I ain't heard for a while
Get a load of that crazy old cuss!"
With noble heart bowed and a proud spirit cowed
He returned with a curse 'neath his breath
Hardly daring to speak in anger and shame
Called unto Manitou for the white man's death
Then there was some talk of war as there had been before
The hot bloods were bound for the trail
But the chiefs and the medicine men shook their sad heads
They were sure Manitou would not fail
And in a matter of years they were herded like steers
Led off to the butcher's block
And those born to hunt in the deep forest land
Were forced to try farming in rock
"You can hunt or fish, do as you wish”,
Said the magnanimous peace treaty man
The only problem was there were few fish and no game
On this patch of hard alkali land
But they bore the pain as they bore the rain
Which sometimes brought up a green shoot or two
And the oldest of them still sat and awaited
The mighty spirit of Gitchie Manitou
PART III
Meanwhile a white discovered one night
As he watched his camp fire licks
That one of the stones seemed to take on a flame
And burn more brightly than sticks
An idea came so he staked out a claim
For he had discovered the coal
And buried beneath and in the valleys nearby
Was enough to claim many a soul
And it wasn't so long before the miners so strong
Descended to the valley in scores
And began a mine which could run nigh on forever
Before one discovered its core
So the white man gained wealth as the red lost his health
As he mouldered out on the plain
With the badlands sucking his soul from his frame
As they greedily sucked up the rain
It wasn't so long before hundreds so strong
Came to live and mole in the pass
While casting a shadow of mockery it seemed
The mountain smiled in its sleep at the mass
Meanwhile a white discovered one night
As he watched his camp fire licks
That one of the stones seemed to take on a flame
And burn more brightly than sticks
An idea came so he staked out a claim
For he had discovered the coal
And buried beneath and in the valleys nearby
Was enough to claim many a soul
And it wasn't so long before the miners so strong
Descended to the valley in scores
And began a mine which could run nigh on forever
Before one discovered its core
So the white man gained wealth as the red lost his health
As he mouldered out on the plain
With the badlands sucking his soul from his frame
As they greedily sucked up the rain
It wasn't so long before hundreds so strong
Came to live and mole in the pass
While casting a shadow of mockery it seemed
The mountain smiled in its sleep at the mass
PART IV
And for a long time the red man toiled in the lime
As his numbers grew more few
The whites settled and prospered and sank the deep shafts
The boom towns came into view
As the dynamite would ring up more towns would spring
Along the Old Man River so wide
And the Indian story was lost in the past
And his threat of the great mountain slide
But a withered old Cree in nineteen-o-three
On April the twenty-second
Left his treaty land and came into town
Once again to the white people beckoned
They heard the story once more as they had once before
Though not with threats or demands on this day
But he wanted them to know ere the sun rose again
The rock would stir in a most mighty way
But away they turned and his message was spurned
But there was one who told them to wait
And thought there was truth in the old Indian's tale
Asked to question him 'fore twas too late
For when he had been young he had travelled along
From the mountains right to the sea
And though he knew the country for miles around
The Indians knew it far better than he
So the council was swayed and the Indian stayed
And they listened to him carefully
Decided to investigate the mountain itself
Its nature and its stability
So an engineer was sent and up the mountain he went
Returned and laughed at their fears
All was well, he reported, the mountain was safe
It will stand for hundreds of years
So the red's word was spurned, to the reservation he turned
With his head bowed low in doom
For he was sure he was right, the mountain would fall
And become the white man's tomb
And on the twenty-third day ere the sun came to stay
At three o'clock in the morn
A dog's howl echoed through the valley that night
And a moment in history was born
The night shift was weary, their eyes choked and bleary
With the coal dust and the dim miner's lamp
They were looking forward to see daylight again
Their bones ached with fatigue and the damp
But their sunlight to see was not meant to be
They found the exits barred and then
A low rumble announced the tragic approach
Of a mountain awakening again
And in the great Pass their grim fate was cast
The top of the mountain seemed to rise and then
Came hurtling down for miles and miles
Covering all it discovered therein
Rocks large as a house were like a wild beasts aroused
Crushed all life they found in their way
And when the dawn finally appeared not a house could be seen
Not a man saw daylight that day
Except for a girl that somehow missed the whirl
Of the millions of rock in the valley so wide
She was found lying among the hot stones
And they named her Frankie Slide
On the dead man's scroll of the heavenly toll
Is written the name of a town
And those who were near still shudder in fear
My God! How that mountain came down!
***** THE END *****
And for a long time the red man toiled in the lime
As his numbers grew more few
The whites settled and prospered and sank the deep shafts
The boom towns came into view
As the dynamite would ring up more towns would spring
Along the Old Man River so wide
And the Indian story was lost in the past
And his threat of the great mountain slide
But a withered old Cree in nineteen-o-three
On April the twenty-second
Left his treaty land and came into town
Once again to the white people beckoned
They heard the story once more as they had once before
Though not with threats or demands on this day
But he wanted them to know ere the sun rose again
The rock would stir in a most mighty way
But away they turned and his message was spurned
But there was one who told them to wait
And thought there was truth in the old Indian's tale
Asked to question him 'fore twas too late
For when he had been young he had travelled along
From the mountains right to the sea
And though he knew the country for miles around
The Indians knew it far better than he
So the council was swayed and the Indian stayed
And they listened to him carefully
Decided to investigate the mountain itself
Its nature and its stability
So an engineer was sent and up the mountain he went
Returned and laughed at their fears
All was well, he reported, the mountain was safe
It will stand for hundreds of years
So the red's word was spurned, to the reservation he turned
With his head bowed low in doom
For he was sure he was right, the mountain would fall
And become the white man's tomb
And on the twenty-third day ere the sun came to stay
At three o'clock in the morn
A dog's howl echoed through the valley that night
And a moment in history was born
The night shift was weary, their eyes choked and bleary
With the coal dust and the dim miner's lamp
They were looking forward to see daylight again
Their bones ached with fatigue and the damp
But their sunlight to see was not meant to be
They found the exits barred and then
A low rumble announced the tragic approach
Of a mountain awakening again
And in the great Pass their grim fate was cast
The top of the mountain seemed to rise and then
Came hurtling down for miles and miles
Covering all it discovered therein
Rocks large as a house were like a wild beasts aroused
Crushed all life they found in their way
And when the dawn finally appeared not a house could be seen
Not a man saw daylight that day
Except for a girl that somehow missed the whirl
Of the millions of rock in the valley so wide
She was found lying among the hot stones
And they named her Frankie Slide
On the dead man's scroll of the heavenly toll
Is written the name of a town
And those who were near still shudder in fear
My God! How that mountain came down!
***** THE END *****
2015 All Rights Reserved
Blue Velvet Band
Moving in Toronto
to-nite
I have ended the affair
Packed into boxes, cardboard creaking
suitcases snapping
the odd glass breaking
and the odd wilted flower crumbling
the balloons are popped
and streamers fallen to embrace the floor
the last candle sputtering for life
the last record reaching
its end
to be packed into covers
to find new friends and neighbours elsewhere
smudged walls
drift now
into the off-white
and no longer stare accusingly
but flaunt their shadows of prints, pictures
the first part is the worst
like me they are looking for new adjustments
and perhaps an ambitious coat of paint
the guitar is reluctant to move into its case
and wonders if it will like
the new wall
the harp
never finding its tune
hopes for harmony in a new place
the emptying whisky bottle smiles with only half a wink now
to-nite
I will find the end alone . . .
SHAKESPEARE AND ME
I was an early fan of Shakespeare, not only of the plays but of his poems, in particular the sonnet form. I was determined to master the tight discipline the style demanded.
Follows two of my efforts:
I was an early fan of Shakespeare, not only of the plays but of his poems, in particular the sonnet form. I was determined to master the tight discipline the style demanded.
Follows two of my efforts:
BEAUTY DISCOVERED
Her face like the golden dew-drop mist of morn
When the first golden day was born
Eyes like a silvery lace of cloud
That whispered love and breathed aloud
Lips that sighed as the gentle air
Sent down from a celestial stair;
A stair above where stars were born
And beauty blossomed; unadorned
Beauty descended in a tremulous flight
And added to the world's delight
Beauty that touched my life with grace
Made me lose touch with time and space
Beauty as the world has never known
Such beauty! to call itself mine own!
BEAUTY LIVED
Someday I'll write a poem to you
When you've gone far away into the misty blue
And I a forlorn stranger and lost once more
Shall bow my head and kiss the ocean shore
And none shall know as I kiss your laughing lips good-bye
That a lonely twisted heart within uttered a sigh
And turned once more to life and death
And missed you more with every breath
Perhaps then I can tell you Tell you
Of a wishing star that fell
And turned grey clouds to skies of blue
And showed me spring and made the buds to swell
On trees long dry with branches torn
And flowers trampled - all now reborn.
AN END, A BEGINNING
[Written with friend, Ann Barr]
You loosed my hand and left without a tear;
And the bright days changed to endless caves of fear
While I, who sang with summer turned in grief
Into the withered likeness of a leaf . . .
Seared by a sudden frost from gold to brown
And longing to be falling swiftly down
To lie unrecognized with last year's dead
As unloved children seek out an early bed.
I waited for the wind; then watched it toss
To nothingness a locust's empty shell
Yet discarded without thought of shame or loss
For insect wisdom knowing that buds will swell
Upon these twigs dry leaves are now usurping.
While he rehearses springtime with his chirping . . .
THE SEVEN STAGES OF TAX
All the world’s a page
And all the men and women merely tax payers
They have their debits and their credits
And one man in his time pays many times.
His penury lasting seven ages. First to the hospital
Gathering the last pennies for the m. s. p.
Then to the school, with a satchel
Full of shining coin, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to the tax office. And then for the tobacco
Puffing like furnace, with a woeful wisp of smoke
Encircling his eyebrow. Then an entertainment tax
Full of strange additions and padded like a cook book
Including liquor, nights on the town
And he seeking a small loophole
Even in the accountant's mouth. Then the income tax
With diagrammatic lines and undecipherable jargon
With pension and unemployment schemes
Full of health plans and penalties
And so he pays that part. The sixth stage shifts
Into the double and triple mortgaged property tax
With by-laws on yards and right-of-ways
His original home, though he tried to save it, shrunken by the world
And many children and buffeted by manly storms
Disappearing into a child's playground, pipes and
Whistles in the wind, last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history
Is death taxes and succession duties
Sans entertainment, sans health, sans property, sans everything.
Preparing the CKUA hour
now is the hour
a radio party
and i was stumbling home
with only the world at my side
and i saw a cat and picked it up
and i carried it home with me
someone met me at the bottom
and said
are you going to make it all right
was there doubt
I was the king and i had my cat
i opened my door a cot in the corner walls and a desk
but a view from my window
lifelights in a dead city
receding far into trees and hills of blackness
exultant
i viewed my domain
but lights show darkness
and i saw myself on the other side
i made bold to venture a few words
in my speech of acceptance
but my head
spun till
it met the hotcold iron of the radiator heater
below my view
serves you right you drunken fool
said the moistred face in the window
B. B. King's bar in New York
B. B. King: 1925-2015
The Reason and the Rhyme
Old reasons for keeping a rusted earring
and a decaying cork from some lost bottle
disappear
as I watch you retrieve the dying sound of spring
from a yellowed page
and make a song.
esp.
Cherry tree, Creston
S
Spring time - North Bay
this morning I was awakened by spring
and a girl in shorts with
brown legs
feeding gulls by the lake
and their discordant persistence
and a hundred yards away
still ice fighting
and on the road
early
going to school
many bicycles
early
I was awake
and wide
I thought of tennis
and dry ground
and damp earth
waiting
The sixties are regarded as a time of sexual liberation, but this came with the downside that abortions were illegal. Many women were damaged through desperate and dangerous measures. On the other side, I had a friend who contested his mate’s desire for an abortion and regarded men’s rights as included in such a decision. When she demurred I wrote the following allegorical poem in response to this quandary.
Aborted
she let it go
that baby I thought mine
I wondered
when
she let it go
filled with liberation
the baby was gone
and all the beads and sorrows
were gone down the stream
suspended in a maze of surprise
and told me
and told me[n] too
she let it sing in the allowance
and she sang with the wind
and the shadows
casting nothing to nothing
I had dreams then
dreams about the past
death and fixation
and flirtation
and consequence
because . . . . . .
and I was sick
sick with delirium of wealth
and I was sick
floating and dreaming
ah . . . the dreaming . . .
we were all dreaming together
captured in the same illusion
we thought we could dream together
there was a time . . .
we were all happy to join
and then we became precious
and we listened to those
who dreamed
and rattled
the skeletons liberated from their graves
there was a time when they dealt in souls
dealt in souls like turnips
dream on dynamite . . .
we sang on the universe unleashed
there was no limit to us
in our fantasy
who let us down . . . ?
addendum:
The children of winter
Live into spring
And they learn how to dance
And they learn how to sing . . .
Aborted
she let it go
that baby I thought mine
I wondered
when
she let it go
filled with liberation
the baby was gone
and all the beads and sorrows
were gone down the stream
suspended in a maze of surprise
and told me
and told me[n] too
she let it sing in the allowance
and she sang with the wind
and the shadows
casting nothing to nothing
I had dreams then
dreams about the past
death and fixation
and flirtation
and consequence
because . . . . . .
and I was sick
sick with delirium of wealth
and I was sick
floating and dreaming
ah . . . the dreaming . . .
we were all dreaming together
captured in the same illusion
we thought we could dream together
there was a time . . .
we were all happy to join
and then we became precious
and we listened to those
who dreamed
and rattled
the skeletons liberated from their graves
there was a time when they dealt in souls
dealt in souls like turnips
dream on dynamite . . .
we sang on the universe unleashed
there was no limit to us
in our fantasy
who let us down . . . ?
addendum:
The children of winter
Live into spring
And they learn how to dance
And they learn how to sing . . .
|
|
Jian and Joni
While listening to the much anticipated
[and slavishly unabashedly sycophantic]
interview with Joni M.
the thought occasionally but persistently crossed my mind
as she chain smoked and burbled about her ‘illness’
and occasionally slagged her peers
how wonderful it might have been
had she heeded Nancy Reagan's advice
and simply said ‘no’ ~
and how unfortunate it is when people
are occasionally given the opportunity
to trumpet their nonobjective opinions
and do so with exaggerated self esteem
and self indulged pomposity
and it made me think when working with Stompin' Tom Connors
one evening
I asked him
are you trying to tell Canadians something?
and he said:
all I have to say is in the songs
or
having a beer with Harold Pinter [Nobel Prize Laureate]
while directing one of his plays in England
and asking him for a blurb for a publicity release
and he politely said:
all I have to say is in my plays
how blessed it would have been
if we had just left it at that Joni
and yes
I heard about when a certain coffee house owner
on Yorkville Avenue
offered her a job in the kitchen
after she auditioned
because he [thought]
she didn't sing well enough [yet]
now that’s interesting . . .
JUAL AUCTION IN CRESTON
When visiting Creston, I would often help my brother Alex at his JUAL Auction business, sometimes cleaning and packing household contents for a coming auction. The following poem tells of a discovery at one such event, [Alex below].
When visiting Creston, I would often help my brother Alex at his JUAL Auction business, sometimes cleaning and packing household contents for a coming auction. The following poem tells of a discovery at one such event, [Alex below].
Alex Ewashen Auctioneer
Jual Auction 10 ~ 10 ~ 2005
treasure . . .
Cleaning out an old house,
Owner gone now
I found an iron rose the other day
somewhat like you I thought
cheekily smiling in the midst of
dust and a pile of worn
out castaways on a dreary, dirty window sill
full of history, tough and delicate
edges and leaves tarnished perhaps a bit
dull luster of a heart
not quite a diamond
the pin on the worn medallion was twisted -
too much use
or maybe it lost its way and didn't know where to belong
anymore
with surprise and wonder
I put it in my pocket
Doukhobor children, early Canadian settlement
growing up Doukhobor - not knowing - hearing -
discovery of 'dirty douk'
like the sting of a wet cloth in the morning from sleep
fresh faces jumping prairie sod
whatever happened to those sunny days?
sunny faces eating fresh watermelon
white bread and red tomatoes
melancholic songs drifting through prairie air
a stolen pop from a cool cream can
a huge stubby finger shaking reprimand?
we knew what we wanted
on that Peter’s Day long ago
a boss stockman's knife plunged deep
down the throat of a side hill gouger
after it was 'untimely ripped' from a leg hold trap
hardly christian - let alone Doukhobor
blood splattering - not oozing quietly like the time
an unseen nail penetrated your foot
sticking through the top of your shoe
untimely ripped - at age thirteen reading Shakespeare
the bounty of dad’s foraging at local auctions
a dusty amalgam of Billy Sunday, basic auto mechanics, medical encyclopedia [prurient thrill], and yes, a ‘midsummer night’s dream’
the dream of childhood regained in some future age
such was our youth -
what silent lessons crept into the doukhobor soul
what seeds sown leading to a perplexing - puzzled harvest
legacy of prairie winds, harsh hailing, confusion
the joys of song and forbidden music
pushing forth like a bursting prairie crocus
through the muddy snow . . .
GROWING UP DOUKHOBOR
The above poem and other poems, memories and reminiscences and even a borsch recipe can be found in the booklet seen below, compiled by Glynnis Ewashen. It is available on our Doukhobor store: http://doukhoborstore.ca/html/books.htm
The above poem and other poems, memories and reminiscences and even a borsch recipe can be found in the booklet seen below, compiled by Glynnis Ewashen. It is available on our Doukhobor store: http://doukhoborstore.ca/html/books.htm
Gabe, the Outlaw Hero, here w/ Greg Rogers as Buffalo Bill
[on researching and playing Gabriel Dumont]
Batoche . . .
Moving on to Batoche . . .
And looking
Remnants of rifle pits
now melding back
nearly covered grown over
mingling with turf grass
a splinter of bone emerges
buffalo? red man? brown man?
‘white man’?
prairie returning reclaiming . . .
hiding history with our short memory
buried - forgotten
turf surrendered a fleeting fleeing fragment -
bone shard
a tale almost buried
and now our turn to resurrect?
the ghosts of creaking prairie wheels ~