POETRY

This poem was published in Pandemic Poems an anthology of poems edited by Kevin B Solez. This was my first and only poem published.

herd of elephants

An open door beckons me forward, fearful steps into the unknown.

A ringing echo bellows retreat, but the path behind is gone.

With each step, solid ground gives way to shifting sand, the clear path now just memories, if only minutes ago.

All around me masses of gray, wrinkled, weathered, withered with time move. Insensate and incremental herds lock-stepped beckoned by the piper and his timeless tune.

Collective memories forgotten, perhaps never known. The path crushed before the herd, well-trodden, worn, familiar and, until recently, remembered.

The piper cries “safety, security!” only follow me. The final step lies just beyond the rise.

The herd quickens its pace, thunder echoes, dust swirls, the horizon melts. Only the piper’s tune resounds above the din.

Sacrifice, Solitude, Serenity, Survival,

all here at once.

Collective consent, uninformed, prods the herd onwards into the fog, the piper’s tune resounds above the din.

Myopic tears stream down dusty aged creases, only tails in sight. The final step lies just beyond the rise.

the valley of the gods

I am camped at the confluence of the gods. Their ancient feet crumbling around me, despite their towering majestic presence.

I journey’d up out of the valley to commune with Odin - approachable splendour, veiled in mystery, swirling like mist around his crown.

Gazing upwards Frigg’s white gown beaded with sapphire sprawls above me, her train drapes across the valley floor, sparkling and roaring, moss campiom woven into its hem.

A pool at her feet reflects her majesty, kneeling I place a crystal offering upon a metamorphic alter, and whisper a silent prayer.

Standing guard on each side of her - Hugin and Munin - Odin’s faithful ravens report back to him all that transpires in the world below. Perched on his right shoulder they wait patiently for his command.

As for me, I stand in the shadow of Munin, forty years fall away, broken memories of a former self bubble up into my consciousness. 

Pressing upwards, fresh memories inspired by swift ascent seep into cracks of long since scar tissue, perhaps to bring healing?

Bound by a tether of trust, brothers navigate a precarious traverse into Hugin’s nest with mischievous intent - stealing baubles of insight. 

The quest complete, body bruised but not broken, descending once more into the valley of the gods. Departure is inevitable, but not without transformation.

the world burns

The world burns, 

flames lick hungrily at barred doors, and still,

the bride cowers in stoic certainty, her attendants overwhelmed by deafening silence.

Defiant she braces against the tide, pugnacious, she feigns hospitality.

Self proclaimed heraldess of truth, she secretly harbours judgment and disdain for all those who dare question her.

All hail the word, lifted above the heads of the throng, to be worshipped above all else; idolatry tolerated.

The world burns, 

flames lick hungrily at barred doors, 

the wedding guests panic in the heat, their cries for sanctuary go unheeded.

Shameless and silent, she sits, confident, upon a crumbling throne.

desert canyon

I chanced upon a path, today, born of weather and time.

Painted walls all around me stand at attention. A thousand years beneath my feet, ten thousand and more uncoil with each step.

Unexpected arid gardens bare their bounty of colour and pain, only to meet Joshua around the next bend.

Emerging from earth’s entrails, into warming rays and zephyr. Revealing waves of ancient stone as far as the eye can see, tides of time hold them, for now. 

As for me, I am but a drop in this sea, a single grain of sand in the barren scape, rough edges still, nonetheless named, preconceived, and fashioned perhaps only to marvel and bear witness.

the rink

Unwelcome light streams through the windows of our house late at night. Spilling across the growing sheets of ice, then onto the street, and into our front yard.

My son, both impatient and annoyed, longs for the rush of cold steel gliding - stick in hand, all the while pulling down blinds in every room before bed.

Makers of ice (diligent and certainly tired) labour deep into the night, wrestling a sleepy red snake, with only shadows and creeping pools for company. 

More recently, their efforts daunted by warmer days, despite the sun’s trajectory, low on the horizon, their toil of late nights seeps back into the ground.

Secret desires for colder nights (and days too) permeate our dwelling - we long for the crack of hard rubber on boards, laced with the cackle of a thankful community bound together in the nation’s game,

and 

for the flood lights across the street to go dark at eleven.

mother’s day BUTTRESS

A sleepless night, onion paper walls defend my minds keep; while goblins, dragons, monsters untold, bash at the gate.

A ready footed guide wakes with first light, beckoning adventure.

Dolfins at play, dancing in unwanted anticipation, churn the sea of tranquility. Doubt filled breath, now wasted, evaporates in the cool morning breeze.

The giant, once slumbering stirs, its dented armour gleams with dawns first rays; dauntless we approach, feigning courage with each step.

An Intrepid duo embark, following upwards, quashed fear lies crumpled at the base, frayed into a messy pile. Strands of safety lead upward like webs in the beanstalk. Our guide lights our path, nimble like so many sheep watching from the crags.

Now Ascending, hold to hold, feet nervously, desperately, search for confidence. Pitch upon pitch, lofty goals now achieved, sharing sacred space with the eagles, father and son silently celebrate the triumph.

Exhausted and satisfied, sleep evades no longer, onion paper walls freshly torn, relent, welcome rest invades the keep. Another giant, silently, patiently awaits our approach.

takakkaw falls

Worn rubber smeared atop a narrow edge, the slab’s subtle imperfection a welcome yet perilous refuge.

My mind now alive to a torrent attempting escape from within my chest.

Satisfied fingertips awake with pain. Clinging in quiet desperation to the Devine. A rift in the cosmos, seemingly torn for this moment.

Ascending, rough rock above bellows a dare. Crags alive with power beckon me to a dual of wit. 

At rest on a narrow ledge, a glint of the morning sun tickles at my feet. A league above the firmament, stallions gallop and roar down the face, their spray dissipates angrily into morning mist.

Sojourners, together, bound by woven strands, ascending ancient rungs, cut from stone, Jacobs faded footprints mark the way.

giants

Precariously balanced on a slack line strung up by doubt on one end and anticipation on the other.

Regaled with the good intentions and adventures of others who have gone before me.

Conversation and the journey distract, momentarily. Then suddenly disembarking from my metal steed, uncertainty jumps up from its hiding place to once again stare me down.

This journey into adventure seems oddly, to not be my own. Is it mere folly? Following blindly the aspiration and enthusiasm of younger legs?

And then we are off, a ragtag band of brothers, sons, strangers, on a quest to conquer rock, iron, fear, and doubt. 

Tangled awkwardly together at first, the ascent begins, slow, deliberate steps silently lay before me, with only the ring of metal snapping to remind me of potential danger.

Then gathering, for a moment, the shackles are removed and with them, the fear and doubt. The journey upward continues, transcendent, silent screams of wonder ring in my ears. 

Perched upon the rock, I now understand the falcon, and it’s domain. A whispered prayer of thanks offered, the rock, freshly anointed with the sweat of my brow, fond thoughts towards those who conquered it before me. 

Above the final crux, I sacrifice the uncertainty and doubt, dawning fresh garments laced together with joy and anticipation. My gaze now directed longingly to the horizon, I catch sight of another giant, it’s dented armour glinting in the light, beckoning, my heart leaps.

open hands

Hands lie open upon my lap, receptacles for the unknown. An ancient stool shudders under my weight.

A step forward, giving much needed rest to clenched fists raised upwards.

Peaceful resignation. Perhaps even clarity. Whatever should come to rest must also be held lightly.

Naked at the start. Naked too, whenever I depart. My need to control, tempered, shackled, dull iron wrapped around my ambitions.

Wayfarers smirk at my effort, silent in their observance, my own form shrouded, a clouded mirror refusing my reflection. 

Dusty beams stream through cracked panes, remembrance offers faltering hope. 

fifty

It happened,

on a clear blue sky day, light spring breeze, mostly green grass beneath crazy coloured spiked shoes.

Twain’s infamous walk interrupted, many times in fact, alongside progeny and comrades, welcoming me newly into the club, ubiquitous in its slack membership.

A day to remember, perhaps, although unremarkable, the rich brew landing familiar on my tongue, eyes squinting into the light for the thousand time, habits long since learned, still remembered. 

An unusual midweek gathering of friends, embracing, mourning, celebrating a rich table, and those around it inclined.

Familiar and novel, a ribbon dangling in the middle, two sides pulling hard, with no apparent victor. Evidence of change, in the air, carried along on well worn shoes.

A white cross on red, a top every pole in the little land, marks the occasion, although not for me, but for her Majesty, I am just along for the ride.

Stepping over the threshold, adorned in all that is familiar, known, wrinkled and shaped with time, the blue sky beckons, each day now shorter, more precious in my mind.

the bench

Bent sticks propel me beyond the crest.

Atop, the horizon in the distance. A well worn path snakes down the other side, back and forth, like a rope tossed from above, by some drunken architect.

To one side, a bench with a dissecting view, beckons me to linger. Creaky knees relinquish their burden. To my right the past, and the unknown over the other shoulder. 

An intersection in time. Glinting sun dogs obscure the view both ways, warping both memories and dreams. Unlike Jacob, there is no ladder; no opponent to wrestle, no wrenched hip for a souvenir.

And yet, there is blessing, found upon that bench. 

A tattered map unfolds before me, no clear direction indicated other than perspective. Perhaps enough.

Wooden slats gnaw at my back, protesting knees once again bare a familiar burden. Onwards I journey while there is still light.

the boy

Crisp azure sky, sun hovering above unbending horizon.

Ribbons of concrete stretch out long in both directions.

An unexpected call shatters the welcome silence, unrestrained news!

My watch stopped, unbroken, the wind holds fast at the intersection of time, yielding to my passing by.Salty swollen eyes, gaze into the future. A child, a miracle. It was not meant to be, despite Abraham’s abundant seed!

Now we wait, anxious anticipation, fortnights, seven, strewn about, thirteen more cue up like soldiers ready for inspection.

Even then you traveled, warm inside your windowless carriage, destined to see the world. Wallace, Stirling, even a Saint in your name. Chasing Highland sheep, heather underfoot, land of scorched thistles, wilting in hot sun.

A Fall of uncertainty, stained with a father’s defiant shame. Faltering steps, tilting, bracing against the tide, not yet ready to be your OLD MAN.

Resting easy under a patchwork quilt sown of a mother’s love. Deaf to the doomed proclamation of a dragon, concerned more with her hoards of gold, you slept confidently, quietly, unconcerned with what lie ahead.

A new year breaks through frozen sheets of time. A winter etched in our hearts, brittle, and brimming with hope. Silent screams of welcome pain, time now bending its knee, as we wait.

Undeterred, you arrive in your time, unkempt, adorned in a chalky gown. Not a cry to announce your arrival, peace in hand, beauty in the other. A new Old Man weeps tears of joy, a mother’s tired eyes smile down at you.

The Boy, author of welcome interruption, snatching up my pen with pink hands, a predictable story disrupted, tossed aside, forever altered. A new story unfolds, adventure, challenge, a path of unbridled joy now visible. We march lockstep, brave into the unknown. 

the gathering

Repast conceived, invitations dispatched and embraced.

Deliberation, computation, acquisition; pungent ingredients accumulate into messy piles in anticipation. 

Brightly coloured pots, extend their welcome, embracing ingredients offering promise of titillating pleasure and satisfaction.

Grapes pressed years prior, bleeding sugar, acid, tannins, giving up life, resurrection like, a promise of transformation with time and rest. Opened vessels spew forth their bequests of joy.

A table, in any other age, set only for kings, yet still bathed in warm yellow light. Altered too, the larder, the kitchen, the feasting hall, empty of help save but one.

fatherhood

Tears of joy, tears of trepidation, announced with rasping cries, cracking like thunder, disruptive, rapturous first breaths.

A tsunami of possibility, decades flash across my vision, blinking then gone.

Crushing love spills from the jigger, a dash of hope, a twist of fear, shaken and poured, a cocktail of what might be.

I drink, parched cracked lips never satisfied. Dependant and now powerless to resist, forever blinded by your beauty.

Stammering now, years fleeing, hounds at bay, your innocence evaporates in the heat of my gaze. Too soon you are my rival. Too soon will my conversation fail to hold your ear.

Knees now creek with joy, your vigour relentless, all that I hoped. Now exhausted I lag behind, soon satisfied to only watch from a distance. 

A chair at the end of the lane now bears my weight, heavy eyelids straining to see a shadow on the horizon, beckoning your presence, craving a momentary embrace. Until then, memories will suffice! 

stirrings

Unfamiliar stirrings, unwelcome, yet ironically full of promise, declared the spectators.

Dubious silent lament, accompany my journey, heavy upon my shoulders. A broken compass in one hand, a snuffed lantern in the other. 

Uneven the path extends before me, shrouded in fog and relentless chill. Stiff with uncertainty I move forward, possessed only with awkward trust.

Cruel memories of fellowship haunt me. Flashes of warm conversation and laughter weigh down my garments, as if heavy with rain.

Fleeting whispers of hope echo off the barren landscape, dragging me forward, ignoring parched lips. 

Far off, a dim light flickers just above the horizon, doubt floods in, is it only a mirage in this frozen desert? Taunts of something more emanate and beckon me forward on weary limbs. 

A crumpled and faded map leads me onward, a promised oasis of wisdom and contentment. Heavy footsteps crunch and break the silence beneath me. A gnawing pang drags me along, mocking the looming urge to succumb to the surrounding wilderness.

Ritual interupted

Ritual interrupted. Under the bridge, 

a ribbon of glass beneath my feet. Disorienting reflection, limbs and needles extending downwards as into the earth. 

The clouds shimmer in the gentle flow.   Something breaks the surface. White billows move north across the bank, and disappear into the bending hey.

Nature’s mirror captures my gaze, the light below more compelling than above. Her canvas soon to be dulled with ice, but this afternoon, a chance gift of repose.

sacred space

A carpet of decay beneath my feet, gnawed and toppled stumps mark my way.

Leafless limbs reach upwards, grasping at the last of the summer skies.

The birch throws off ringed paper garments as if suffering from too many days of warmth.

A sea of grey hibernation shares space with spires of deep green, now rid of their offspring, piled at their feet.

A duckless stream idle, murky remnants of rain eak lazily over a growing damn. flat-tailed gnawers hunker down.

As I walk, four legs at my side, hunting critters, if only in her mind, chaffing at her restraint momentarily, then smiling.

How many have walked these paths before me? How many generations have sought refuge in this valley of peace and have found meaning in the loud silence?

Tales of past journeys echo off the banks, trees gossip, whispering secrets to those who would listen.

I am almost certain those before me have left sacred space behind so that I may partake, drink deep, and look up.

atop pkols

I sat atop a hill,

no on the coast a mount.

Brow wet with the sweat of the climb,

south face trail, steep, craggy incline with borders of lichen and crooked barren trees.

Some would say the occasion misaligned with a view. Mt. Doug wrapped in fog, echoes of same horns ring from the cool mist, with their haunting cries.

In the company of a curious wren, darting, throaty chirps, it’s empty belly on its mind. I listen and see so many more.

Alone in a cloud, my thoughts, and birds for company. Thinking of old men who have sat here before me, an old man recently past. Life lived well, full of words, love, and friendship. Gifts bestowed to all with hands outstretched, we sucked marrow from the bone! 

Will I enter the mist with such abandon?

ALONE

Sitting on Sandcut beach.

In the distance dogs barking

drowned out by the the 

crashing waves.

Water drenched in sunlight,

Glistening,

the ocean on fire.

Lapping up smooth oval dark rocks.

Crest and foam nip at my shoes. A beached whale of a rock not far from shore.

A squadron of gnats fly by my nose, in tight formation.

Old trees lean in, adorned in hanging moss, whispering and laughing at my insignificance.

Not alone.

bullshit

Mutual affection, gazing in unison, fixated on common objects demanding attention.

Two or three gather, perhaps more, common presence declares a community, fellowship. Hearts laid bare, hopes and dreams foretold, revealed, caressed, dashed, restored.

BULLSHIT

Emotions reigned tight, hearts walled in stone. Words laid down carefully in manicured patios proudly for all to see. Polished patios constructed with words, carefully tended, ringed with high walls of busyness, self-made obligation. Polished patios carefully adorned with welcoming chairs of gleaming coals.

BULLSHIT

A bounty of nourishment, food, drink, conversation, prayer, and concern. Empathy, thick as onion paper flows freely, suffocating sympathy fills the room. Hearts laid bare, seized, too long only pumping air.

BULLSHIT

Deluded dreams, laced with angst and disdain. Bitter wine poured out in brimming goblets of hospitality. Ripe platters of loneliness distributed with cheerless smiles. Sisyphus holds court in the corner with yarns of adventure gone cold.

BULLSHIT

But did not our hearts burn, yearn, crave more? Buoyed hope carried upon inauthentic waves, shallow pools stretched wide with the promise of care and meaning.

BULLSHIT

Haggard young man

Haggard young man, alive, aware, full of regrets. Half a century at his back, a life walled up with stones of silence. Decades of duplicity, the jester, the priest, the duke of anywhere. Feigned recklessness and bravery adorn his armour, glistening, velvet cape draped round.

Knowledge for currency, stacked neatly in a vault. Riches beyond measure, burn brightly, fuelled with poverty poured out, drenched brands burn cold and blue with fury.

The drunk king demands more wine, the warrior’s sword shattered. A mage alone in the corner doubts visions now clouded in haze.

A whale not in the distance stalks the boat. The tempest rages, waves crash hard on oiled hewn boards, and still the sailers whisper, afraid to act. Alone, afraid the man awaits his due, black waters beckon, the path marked, bones, straws, signs, announce rejected instructions. 

His face set like flint against the task, trust just out of grasp. The night fades into orange, and dim light brings delusions, fragile dreams offered up, smouldering ash filled bowls.

Haggard young man, alive, aware, alone, without home. Half a century at his back, nowhere to call his own. His glass filled with soft tannins, brick red rimmed, once fresh, now fit for tired tongue.

Visions of a new journey, flit around the edges, gates open wide, a king and his subjects sit in ashes. A hot wind blows, pulling the plant up from the cracked ground. Refuge, anger, pain, alive in its shade. The haggard young man, for now, waits impatiently in uneasy rest.