A day so quiet,you can hear the rustleof Frieda’s leashin fallen leaves,or children playingin the parkthree blocks away. These are days to remember,not the big promotionor the long commuteor what the price offurnace filters areat Walmartor Canadian Tire. These are the dayswhen fresh brewed coffeeand bagelstaste so much sweeterwhen shared
Poetry
I have been writing poetry since the 2nd grade. Why stop now?
Poetry
We Lose Sight
We lose sight of the horizonnavigatingthe crests and troughs of an angry seathat is our lifefrom first coffee to pajama time. We lose sight of the big pictureattendingto the details of little imagesthat at the end of daysmean nothing to our legacy. We lose sight of what’s importantstrivingto be one
Poetry
I’m Terrible With Names
I’m terriblewith namescuz they are labelsfrom someone elsewhile facesare homegrownwith youas you travel. Names define usin other peoples termsbefore we were wevenerating Uncle ‘Bud’or maybe a movie starmama watched on TVwhile she ironedor cooked dinner. Faces are storiestold in linesand smilesperhaps with mascaraor a smudge of mustardfrom a hot dogat
Poetry
Lost Friends & Two Dollar Boxes
it hits you funny,sometimes, death,like a sledgehammermade out of puttywielded by a midgetwith spasticityas a surgeonwould wield a knife I was at an auctionrural typelots of weldersand big implementsfor fixing combinesor tractorsmixed inwith delicate china I love the smellsof old leatherand musty booksfrench fries and donutswith coffeefrom the canteen in
Poetry
While Cicadas Sang
Thirteen yearsburied ‘neath the loamin my backyardsilent diggingfar from watchful eyeswaitingfor a tender morselof fresh larvae. Thirteen years agoI was writinga special soliloquoyfor a special nightjust ‘An Ordinary Man‘in an ordinary townchanneling Leacockor at least trying. Tonight I satdeep in shadowsfrom the porchlighta quiet momentwith a gentle dogleaning against my
Poetry
Summer’s End
The news this morningcame with the tollof Tubular Bellsflying up my news feedlike a teleportationto my youthCanada – Russia ’72Paul HendersonThe Golden Goaland the tall manleaning on his stickgame face onbeloved sonof a countrylooking for a signof what is goodin a timewhen the marginsblurred like the blue linebeneath Lafleur’s skatesthoughtful,