Business

Candles are for weekends

The evenings then are special

Video is for nights before sleep-ins

And sometimes time for lemon cake

Listen to the rain while you can

Before the storm windows pin down

Leave the dried flowers on the stem

And in two hundred days

Colour

Lights off so you can walk in secret

Room to room

Windows open to the moon

Deafen to the squeaks of the steno chair

The rattle of the corning

When the fridge cuts in

And thankfully, no drips

When an enthusiastic puppy

Sprints

In small space

Rugs slide, and we laugh together.

Equinox 23/09/19

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Your Fenders

Oh! The times we witness!  I feel joy when I come across a like-minded soul.  Our mutual silence stems from fear, from embarrassment, from reluctance to threaten our social equity.  These are really weak reasons, but we harbour them. Nurture your courage and your belief in humanity.

Green Day

It is doubtful that October 17 will become a national holiday, but there is no doubt that it will be marked as a special day for many years to come.  People no longer have to live two lives, the secret love and sharing of social pot, and the pretentious silence of denial.  Now cannabis users and non users can walk openly, side by side.  And yes, just as there are those that have disdain for sugar, or meat, or coffee, or alcohol, or fossil fuels, there will always be some who turn up their nose and tell their children to run away.  But mostly, now the police don't have to hassle non-violent folks for no good reason.  Congratulations to us.  Happy Green Day.  #oct17 #OhCanada #GreenDay  (click on the image to better-read the poem).  Share the love.

Away Away

It seems that April has become poetry month!  Whew Knew?  I shared this one on my FB feed, and said there, "I have always liked this one, from before the turn of the century.  It gallops."  And that is what I like most about it, it is an active poem, especially if read aloud.  I still feel the intensity, the speed and purpose of the message.

WBY in the Faery Dust

This morning, a BBC Radio 4 post acknowledging the passing of William Butler Yeats 78 years ago today, came across my twitter feed.

It reminded me of my reaction to his death.  No.  I do not actually remember it, but back in the early oughts,  I read W.B.Yeats: A Life by biographer, Stephen Coote.  Upon closing, after the final pages, I sat in my chilly Duck Mountain cabin, crying liberally. tears and sobs alike.  Of course, I knew this story would have death the end, but The Life absolutely grabbed me with its imperfection.

As a poet, Yeats' life made sense to me, and Coote's biography, which minimized the literary and emphasized day-to-day activity, grounded me as a poet.  His life, somehow, put mine into context.

So here is my poem to Yeats. I wondered, as I glanced back the sixteen years, if maybe it had been a poem to Coote, but no, it was indeed for William's life. (Click on the poem to get full size.)

As an aside, Stephen Coote, though a prolific biographer is an enigma.  He has no wiki profile. There are no photos of him, through any newspapers in the ethernet.  This small search elevated my respect for him.  I would love to hear him speak.  I will chose another of his biographies.

Goddess Queen Siracusa

My poems snap me out of it.  A piece of scrap paper, flipped over in a tidying whim, and here it is.  One of my favourites.  Time to post one.  So many.  So many.

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