Tuesday, 28 April 2015

1 New Poem

Return Trips
The bonfire flicker-crinkle of
gas station roadmap in wearing passenger
seat fabric, outdated both, from 1971
before four-lane extensions and the
naming of Nunavut, fiddled with two
stain patches of nicotine yellow,
symbolized with roiling of red ink,
the fold crease of wrong turn

Echoes of ancient shores, the first
of oaken oar to tredge, the
first settler's shoeprint, ring out
in the blue hues of bridge iron,
the browning oxygen of 20s Ford,
carving walls, mythological
mirroring right back to
the heart of it.

Thursday, 23 April 2015

1 New Poem

As Ever
In those cascade washes, the coursing,
pulsing, alive with a thousand and two
of streamer-spark nights, our
country town sense of shameless
pride was given forever shape,

quite apart from our bookmark
scribbles, our half-ted knots of
teenage commitment flip-flapping
in the farmhouse breeze,
it was some grander thing,

carved of soapstone ambitions old,
left to dry bake in sterling silver
cast of engagement band expectations,
some guidepost gilding for the
open wounds of concrete, steel

we set up to stamp our names
in heaven-spent splendor over
the choral ring of ear in skipping
time, over the facade of wooden panel
faces to claim our in-born ambitions.

Wednesday, 22 April 2015

1 New Poem


I am vanishing, two dimensions
of fluttering, tissue-thin in breeze
drawn through these tendons, bones,
bits briny toothsome left from before,
when once I was some unshapely

Some ill-formed sculpting comic clay
of why these ripened, warming flesh
tones appear as salvation to mind,
appear as remedial course pens
in the study diet tables, box
restriction laws, jumping up and down.

But pedal further still the faster,
onward and onward, there is always
some newly outbroken curve to
tame, some newly tick-boxed
number to wrangle down.

1 New Poem

Whiskey Bets

In these rooms with the flickering
fixture table settings, cracks in
paint can finish to let in April's
winter chill, spaces for pill cabinets
and stone-faced stairwell scrape of patient's
steel toes as midnight companions,

I still in blank bleaching
of after hours' confidence, same
five electrified scratch signals as before
for driving out eerie peaces of
dusty walls, for keeping steady breathless
of strobing time passed in anticipation.

Counting the minutes between belches
of the bus depot's steam heat clang
and the mystic branding fire
of matured living's lastly dance
upon heath ashes; in anticipation

of the small of Johnnie Walker Red
mingling with cut turf, lotus in
your speaking tones, in the
watery shape you cut of
newspaper headline, wrapped in
Renaissance portrait models.