Haiku
dust gathers
at the corners of her eyes
autumn leaves
dark figures
cart wheeling across the sky
maple seeds
Free Verse
clouds on the
horizon
a cat licks at
feathers
curling at my feet
as I read about the time
of the Shah
the dark days afterwards
when hatred ran red
hot coals searing silence
leaving black sockets
it rings in my ears
blotting thought
bending time
I hear my son's angry words
how foreigners ruined the country
turf out the immigrants!
grinding up history
spewing it out
whichever way sounds best
red-winged back birds
cling to the tips of tall grass
their song sweet and long
the coming dawn
—the rage of culture
or Ottawa Hears a Who
small voices alone
rise out of the
quiet
their tongues filled with colour
their song filled
with fire
strong
hands reaching out
against a mounting tide
finds its rhythm
building
through waves like a knife
within
in the darkest cave
a
beacon can be seen
the heaviest burden
will take flight in dreams
soaring over the madding
piercing silence with ease
lifting
eyes
to the wonder
of possibilities
every day
shadows
we sat and
watched the sunset
the boardwalk creaking
beneath our feet
I set up the tripod
picked the right setting
letting my eye wander
looking for the right composition
the skies so very blue
heat waves shoot glass
out windowed maws
the steady thump of it
like the impact of giants
mouths framed by hands
eyes wide in horror
people cart wheeling in blue
a rushing train
of debris clouds chugging
through each street
people turned to statues
as the dust continued
to settle
once home
I went through the routine
of dumping pictures
onto my computer
images flashing by
water made golden
by the setting sun
sea reflecting dainty cloud
sailing overhead
dragon boats bathed brilliant
my ears only heard the shutter
each photo taken
while my mind whirred
endlessly elsewhere
"..the fall
will probably kill you."
for Paul
Newman
pencil lines
crawl
across the paper
wending two dimensions
from a flat surface
preserved beneath
decades old art fixative
distinctive blue eyes
stare out at me
crinkling at the corners
the full bellow of the man
echoing in my ears
taking me to a time
when I measured
a good relationship
by silver screen standards
the enduring example of my parents
too close to be of value
then
I sit back with astonishment
he was my age then
my father two years his junior
piling three dimensions
into a dizzy height
close at hand
my father's eyes look out at me
transposed grey over Paul's blue
catching my heart in my throat
pulling ever closer
Death's good carapace
from Spirit
Harvest
watcher
when the sands of
time
come falling though their passage
be restrained I know my strengths
shall dwindle only ancient
flesh remains
and yet shall
passion bubble colours seen bold
within my eyes as dreams float
clear before me my heart held
between your sighs
these aged hands
held tightly as the dawn turns
into day my heart filled
with the knowledge love's sweet sounds
of disarray
would still be heard
at nightfall could these ancient
bones arise but I am trapped within
the sand and can love but with
my eyes
Read about
Spirit Harvest in the Book Fair
