1 New Poem

Yoiking

Sing a song for something,
for ice and fire, moccasin shoes,
antlers and spire case tree
forms,

you make it birch bark and
wine glass flow, carry that weight,
of rolling hill years in eyelet
circles,

skip-jump over dead wooding
shorelines, ring Glace Bay bells
to tribute fashion to drinking
jags,

and, most of all, have an offering

for deathbed’s tranquil that
meant pyres glow bad Borealis
shade.

1 New Poem

At Dawn

You choose;

there are no pistols in cases
anymore, no saddle sore breaking
up the pace of peace,

there are no swords of shaped iron
you could lend yourself to
that would clang steel to breast,

there are no water colour brushes
that could be dim-lit swirled,
faded shades as dockside artisans,

there are no monied dreamscapes,
a promise ring fortune’s golden,
it isn’t that timing, not now,

there are no breaking waves
on filmic beach, turned lighting,
tequila sunshine mornings.

But, you choose, not so hard,

just waking up.

1 New Poem

Beginning of Saturdays

At the star, I take form,
from notions and air, from
tambourine timbre of Yonge Street
corners and mass brewery notes
of metro underpasses;

at the start, I let it wash.

I take glad tidings of
street sweeper cleanliness from
the McDonalds cup kind of pure
ash that Fridays always take
as tribute, only to be there
again.

I take it in a sickly sweet stride.

There isn’t some life yet there,
some memoirist’s floral print
reflection on deathly winters
that came as revelations in
retrospect.

It’s a summation, rather,
IBM adding calculator crunch,
of what are poster-printed as the greatest
years of our lives.