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Behind the mirror
I stare at them And they stare back As if they know me; It is a mirror After all, So I suppose they do. But sometimes, Sometimes They look puzzled, Disappointed At my curiosity. We are friends, They seem to say, No need to look away; I cannot read Your thoughts; I am your thoughts.…
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Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
I was married once; it was okay; I might even describe it as fulfilling at times -although mostly the filling full of rooms, and often with furniture. Or rugs. Or appliances. Or, well, gadgets: time-savers. But now that I’m retired, Time is only a nuisance -something I am destined to have instead of money; something…
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Time
DaysHalf awake,Immobile as old men leaning,HoursStacked in untidy pilesAround the room,MinutesStretched along the wallsLike arms unlinked,Immune to the pale blue infectionOn the window’s breath-They lounge,Cow-eyedIn the tedious drag of shadowsAcross the floor.And me?Forced to spendWhat seem like yearsFinding patternsIn the ceiling tiles,I watch the slow danceOf dustSettleOn the unhurried tongueOf sunDrying on the carpet.With each…
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Wind Phones
There are times when I wonder how much of it I need: Time, I mean. It’s not that I wish to shorten it unduly, just that there are times when it gathers as a storm approaching on the horizon like I used to see as a child living on the prairies. Now, of course, I…
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Colours
I do not knowWhat colours are;They are beyondRich;Too thickTo frameIn the usualWords.They are more likeTexturesI suppose,ButMore tightlyWoven;So dense,That to see themIs to feel themIn yourMind.I don’t haveNamesFor touchLike that.
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Art thou not sensible to feeling as to sight?
I had an extraordinary experience the other day: one that I’ve had several times before, but never so… profound. Never so personal. I’m not one to deny epiphanies, but it wasn’t anything like the one that the Christian apostle Paul was said to have experienced on the road to Damascus: no voices accusing me of…
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The Fallen Bench
I saw itIn the park,LyingOn its backLikeAn old manSleepingOn the grass.PerhapsIt faintedIn the sunBecauseIts wooden ribsWere paleAnd warped-So wracked withTimeThey hardly fitThe painted frame.I remember it,Though,From better daysWhen I would shareMy eveningsIn its lap. I wonder,Did it finallyToppleOn its ownBeneathTired birdsSingingIn the treesAt the end ofDay,OrWas itThe silentVictimOf a needlessCrime:A senselessMuggingIn a parkGone grey? IDo…
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I am the best of them that speak this speech, were I but where ’tis spoken
It happened again! Every so often one arrives like a silent telegram in the night: a word. The first one I remember came to me about a year ago: anabaptists. But instead of the usual meaning of adults being baptized, in my dream it meant enslaved shipboard children… Then came tenebrous a few months later.…
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Sitting on a cloudy porch
SittingOn a cloudy porchI pressWhat wordsI still rememberAgainstMy skin, Although They no longer Keep meWarm;There is no sunNow… butI rememberThe tanThat used to wrapAround my faceIf I satToo longOutsideWith friends.I rememberWhenWe’d talkAnd laughTogether,Not on a screenButWatching each otherTrembleWhenA breezeChuckledIn our hair,And shadows,RealAnd solid,Chased us throughThe door.The worldWas filledWith dimensionsThen.NowIt flickersOn a phoneI dare notTouch,For fearOf…
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