Poem for P

you ask me now
how you figure
in my life

and I’ll tell you this
my dear

that were they
to name
a B-rate

of my life

yours would be
the face
on the cutting room


Monday Night — Halifax

It is written
(in the large number
of fluffy ladies
out and about
in groups of twos and threes
looking very much alone

trying very bravely
to not look lonely)
the navy
has lifted anchor

The Word as Animal

All the way to me
then straight through me
threading reason’s lean and slender path
words are breaking brief as kindling lights
and vanishing more quickly than ghosts.
Retreating, regrouping
they stand ready to run again
far from this frail and fumbling pen
that, though tries, fails to hold them written.

Hide and sneakily seeking it
I give chase like the Great White Hunter
with this pen, my only blood hound
doubling as blunderbust.
I give chase like the Great Fool Poet.
Fox hunt hurrying on behind them
with my gun cocked, safety catch gone, held at the ready
to lambaste them profoundly
if ever they are found.

Words are only that, they are words
nothing more.
Shallow as puddles beside the monstrous oceans
of emotions that can neither rival the tide
nor even really define it.
But, though puddles they be
they remain
as all we have
so sounding the hunt horn
on again         head long again
I charge.

Words are only that, they are words
nothing more.
And yet these words when they fail to come
rally to conspire great frustration
which is after all, the very meat of creation.
But Damn It! a poet needs words
in the practice of his craft
and as they still will not come,

I bundle my hunting gear
and trundle clumsily along the scent
hoping vainly
for divine intervention
aligned with my cause.
And the soft padding feet
of this pen upon paper
warns loudly of my coming
such that when I arrive
find them already run.

Already run and long gone.
Retreating, regrouping,
rubbing sly hands together
scheming projected escapes
while winking and snickering
giggling quick tidbits
about this poor foolish hunter
who   listen    comes on again
still way behind.

Her left foot

Her left foot lifted and lowered
like doom

decorating the dirty dusted floor
with varied very dead bug guts

her eyes then question marked themselves
gazing about our grim faced group

as if to ask
which of us

was likely
to do her

in a like fashion.
There were

no volunteers.

Liberal Chauvinist POV

honest folks
I’m not opposed
to equal rights
for women
they act

like ladies

once they
get them.

Poem for Zephyr

There is a town
called Zephyr
somewhere in Ontario.
It has 4 cows
2 horses
a handful of
people and houses
a Maine Street
which is the main street
mainly because
it’s the only street
and one General Store
which does not
sell generals
generally speaking.

Poem for the shy girl

with the light this low
with the night so close
it hardly matters at all
whether your clothes
are altogether on
or altogether off
it hardly matters at all
the night draws
even closer

Poem for B

“nothing to lose”
says she to me
volunteering all her particulars

“too much at stake”
says I to her
returning all that was offered

The way this old lady now

The way
this old lady now
leans and looks
at one
half her age
who is blonde and lovely

the way
this old lady now
leans and smiles
a mirror found
she forty years


Of All Tall Things

Money is the root of all
Money is
Money is the root
of all tall things.
There is none so tall
as that which is taller still
when there is none of it
can be seen.

the road not taken

nothing’s seen ‘til passed
it is so hard to know which road
is the best to take
so, we’ll try all roads within our
limit, even if
it will only serve to attest
the road not taken
was the one we shouldn’t have missed.

Lady, did you know

Lady, did you know
that your leaving like that
would make my bed
so empty
that only the dead
would care to
rest there
and they only

with a cold and anxious

Old Friend

an old friend
to find him changed is
like reading a book
the second time only
to discover you didn’t
understand it
the first.

Reflections Through a Jaundiced Eye

I sometimes think
I’d like
to shape myself
a Christ figure
and then
with magic words
and musty robes
I’d rush to
a worldly pulpit
and try
to preach
of love

I wonder what type of cross
they will fashion
for me


poor yapping mongrel
barking up my leg
I feel sorry for you

I just realized

you really are
a son of a bitch