cul de sac

lights flick on

first the nurse

a dialysis veteran

she greets her firefighter husband

coming off a long...and busy shift

one quick kitchen kiss

then away

more lights 

construction worker

knotting up his boots quick

rushing out the door

helmet, tools, coffee

off with an F150 rumble

then a burst 

light after light pops on

teachers, government workers, 

moms dads school bus kids

dog walkers hustle

a few retirees zip out

newspaper under their arms

7am coffee waits

the sun pops up over

the split ranch house

as the last car leaves 

the cul de sac

School

school

a cigarette bookmark

marking my place 

in some used Tolkien tome

lit up by a campfire

reading it again

under patio lanterns

school

flipping the cassette tape over

reading Salinger, Hemingway,

Kerouac

Guns and Roses 

low in the background

school

filling moleskin

after moleskin

with poems, sketches,

lists of backyard creatures

school

the one or two...(maybe a few)

beautiful authentic teachers

school

from dropout, to teacher,

to old tired monk

a classroom

first it was the former Yugoslavians

like Marko running with his family

to Canada

bullets ripping through his house

right over the dinner table

then Somalian teens

who'd never been to school

seeped in violence

bristling with anger

followed by Syrian girls

falling in boot sticking mud

and more zinging bullets

landing months later

in a gang riddled neighbourhood

new city - more guns

now a Ukrainian girl

she can speak three languages

but not English

she sits quietly in the back

sinking deeply into her desk

a sprinkling of Libyans, Lebanese, 

West Africans, and Haitians...

for 75 minutes

we sit, laugh...even learn

binding us together bit by bit

in unconditional hospitality

lakeside path

walking stick swings in steady rhythm

the tired monk walks the path

up and over gnarled pine roots

and broken bedrock

heeding the mossy patches

just a bit further up the high bluff

stops

pours tea

breathes in woodland air

takes in lakes, a creek, a beaver pond

one lone island

a red fox wanders

out of the junipers

looks for a moment

smells the air

turns back 

the way she came

two kits follow

the monk sips 

one more taste of green tea

pick up his walking stick

jogs down the hill

laughing

 

the abbess appears

the old monk sheds his sandals

wades into the mucky ditch

swinging his sickle

mowing thick swamp grass

just ahead of torrential rains

pulling heaps of vetch

stuck in choking muck

rakes, shovels, loads

three heavy barrows full

the water runs free at last

down through the culvert

into the low valley stream

the abbess appears

smiles

offers a dark rich

French press coffee

Ranching

my first job: was on a ranch

creates cowboy visions

of mountains, cold creeks, 

patting the neck of a beautiful horse

oh the romance

more so

shoveling horse shit...the literal kind

flecks of creosote paint

burning my hands

rich girls in clean new jeans

laughing as I wheelbarrow by

Sierra Nevada "1957"

Townes is playing

he's fingerpicking a Martin

under a sequoia tree 

he yells out:  "this one's called red wine blues"

Jack laughs 

hoists up two jugs 

and takes a healthy slug

and passes it to his young wife

more people arrive

walking up the winding path

Gord, Stephen, John, Benjamin...

and many more

some are holding cases of Labbatt 

over their heads

then dumping them into

troughs of ice

Gary wanders down

from his mountain shack

he'd been up there cooking

all afternoon

huge pots of chili

we start to spoon it out

two California girls 

top the bowls

with shredded cheese

everything shimmers...fades

a robin starts to sing out

into the dawn

a crow joins in

a final ethereal glimpse

of Gary smiling

 

On the Road

On the Road 

beautiful Penguin edition

photo of Jack, and Neal

looking out over the library...

(learning commons)

up high yes

just like a fire watch tower

on Desolation Peak

below

students sit

staring into chromebooks

and the occasional Manga

the Kerouac paperback

sits unstamped since 2007

yellowing under 

fluorescent lights

a new song

slow steady climb

up the rocky ridge

scouts used to clear this path

now it is rock strewn

overgrown

blocked by a fallen tree

up over the shattered pine

then down into the small 

creek cut valley

drop my pack

by the door

little camp hatchet 

snaps through dry wood

flint sparks fly

warmth spreads

across the cabin floor

in the corner

an old Fender acoustic sits

six rusty strings hang loose

soon it is fitted up 

with a new heavy gauge set

low lonesome chords ring

up over the mountain top

a new song echoes

four more years

four more years...and 39 days

I'll walk out of here

dropping plaques

and ink wet cards

in my wake

stepping over

deflated yellow balloons

spinning slow

against the stairs

like Lot

like that prisoner

walking out 

that jail in Edmonton

but I won't be breaking

a store window

to get back in

I'll keep walking

out to my 4x4 ride

then drive

into the wild

deep into the wild.

silence

music carries me

up over back country road short cuts

Neil Young and Crazy Horse

blasting hard fast distorted buzz

clicked off in my parking lot spot

a day of unrelenting cacophony

a stream of non-sequitur "facts"

questions and questions 

and questions about questions

head spins

exhausted monk

out to the car

silence

all the way home

just a slight tire hum

The Monastic Heart: Bells

a bell rings

attention is called

to this moment

a thin slice of a slice 

of the never ending present

in this micro moment

I think of you

and pray

haiku 60

poems are out there

waiting

to be collected

in my case written 

and numbered

in little blue books

59 haiku poems so far

the tired monk wanders

to the forest edge

past a little patch

of crocus flowers

haiku 60...

Ditching School in '88

got to school early

started looking for my buddy French

the smoking area?    empty

only Cliff...there as usual

selling loose American cigarettes

from a zip lock bag

he hadn't seen him

he wasn't in math

one of his best girl friends 

said he might be ditching

so I ditched too

I found him at home

out by the shed

sitting on a discarded kitchen chair

he'd found last garbage day

nursing a tumbler of Canadian Club

his cassette player was on

a low hum of Pink Floyd the Wall

filled the air

mingling with cigarette smoke

he looked up from his book

a beautiful hardcover edition:

Catcher in the Rye 

French poured me a glass of whisky

passed me his beat up school copy

the white cover torn and battered

he handed me a smoke 

lit it and said:

"this fuckin' Salinger guy...

man...he knows what's up."

date night

work ran a bit late

the "urgent" email said: "water emergency"

not such a big deal

ever heard of a shut-off valve? lol

quick stop for gas station bouquet

she just loves flowers

box of wine from the cooler

couple six-packs of pilsner

medium pizza from her favourite place

it is a warm April back deck night

a blanket over her legs

to ward off a slight cool breeze

sun sets in oranges...pinks

a refill of her glass

she says "to the brim" and laughs

one more slice

one more beer

as the first stars appear

 

soup poem

the maples fell two years ago in twisted splinters

today they are dry and gathered

chopped up neat with a camp hatchet

fed into the wood stove

heat grows

early spring snow flies

hambone, water, yellow peas simmer

remnants of an Easter feast

a good man

no one stopped

to ask this guy

why he was standing

unmoving

looking up into the grey sky

every now and then a tear

spilled

rippling down 

staining his light blue shirt

you okay? you okay man?

he kept his gaze to the sky

answered 

slow and measured:

I'm good

real good

blessed

full of gratitude

I lost someone

a friend of 60 years

almost a surrogate father

a good man

he stepped in

with love

yeah I'm good

I'm just taking it in

taking in the beauty

thank you

two pauses

i)

pausing 

on the way to work

a few steps off the path

into a clearing

looking up

into beauty

seeing

trees

their branches

embracing the buildings

embracing the sky

ii)

pausing

soaking in an outdoor ofuro tub

a crow flies past

a junco lands on the fence

spring snow falls

melts in the hot cedar bath

evening breeze

shifting evening breeze

sugar bush smoke blows in

curling through pine

followed by

backyard barbeque steak

car drives by slow

leaving a faint waft

of marijuana and KFC

fading light

cigarette butts pile

spill from the lip

of a rusty coffee can

beside milkcrate seats

orange dusk clouds flow

drifting east

then south over New York

moon rises slow

over boy scout trees

crossroad traffic slows

motel lights dim 

click 

off

a pub moment

The pub is warm

windows thrown open

salty sea air on the ocean breeze

pre-dusk clouds glow 

with reds, a tinge of orange

the barkeep laughs

as he cuts a steaming soda bread

the joke:  he's poured a full pint

of Guinness into the batter

the result is a brown moist delight

washed down with another stout

and a shot of Jameson

sauna prayers

sauna door clicks shut

birch water ladled

over volcanic rocks

heat rises

edging on unbearable

the tired monk

thinks of poems

as he soaps his head

razor slicks foam

slides on sweat

smooth and renewed

steam and prayers escape

via the tiny door crack

up through barren branches

and white pine needles

one road over

the road is straight

just off a divided highway

past suburbs

butted up against

working farms

through a little village

down past a cemetery

a horse farm or two

then some open 

wind swept fields

the road narrows

the pavement stops

gravel and rutted dirt

right up to

a rusted dead end sign

keep going

the road dwindles

to a winding path

almost overgrown

under a tarp

by a cedar fence

a small red canoe

I push it out 

into the creek

paddle a few strokes

drift with the mallards

secrets from the deep

secrets

sure I got 'em

a little spell ago

I pulled them up 

from the deep morass

slathered in canal muck

I hosed them off 

took a look

poked them with a barge pole

watched as they dripped

black guck, and slime

on the boardwalk

and slowly dried

I kicked them 

hard 

back into the murk

sinking down

past bicycles

knives, guns, empty bags

and litter

...so much litter

to rest 

still

on the bottom

forever

 - for the record:

I'm very much pro surprise and very anti secret. 

church

nursing a slight hangover

in the back pew

boozy spirits waft

amidst some mumbled

yet earnest prayers

only one mid-sermon nip

from a battered flask

last hymn fades

jacket, scarf, and Irish cap

on quick

  a quicker exit out a side door

a short brisk lonely walk home

too Christian for the world

too worldly for the Christians

hearthside

my obituary burns

torn into tendrils

tinder to light the hearth

the flames move

consuming kindling

birch logs ignite

this old ghost sits

warm in the fire glow

gotta be the shoes

old monk knocking down jumpers

in the high school gym

his handles are tight

ball is on a string

quick crossover 

a flash

step back fade away

hitting all day

on his feet

well worn Jordan 1s

Closing Time at the Russel Hotel

stubby bottles cover the tables...
along with tall quarts and pitchers of draft

thick cigarette smoke plumes the air

Toronto power trio hits the stage

plugs in oversized (for the room) amps

buzzing barre chords wail

thundering bass and drums

they rip through some originals

gets the crowd cheering 

when they swing into some Zeppelin

in the corner by the bar

the manager cringes - too loud!

the girls can't hear the orders

he snaps  - rushes the stage

flicks off the breaker

Geddy and Alex laugh

and promise to turn it down

...a notch or two

the settle back in

wrap up the gig

with Working Man

the manager grabs the mic:

"Hustle Bustle - closing time in the Russel.  

This is a Hotel, not a motel.  

Drink up and get the hell out!"

monk's bridge

spare wood pulled out

from behind the shed

remnants of an ill built deck

carried piece by piece

down by the deep ditch

rusty hand saw

my grandfather's hammer

pocket full of nails

12 foot spans 

crossbeams banged into place

ugly but solid

new path

over this weedy watercourse

don't let 'em

a custodian mopping

in a dim basement corridor

beckons me over

usually he has a joke, 

or a wild story from the job

today a word of wisdom

"hey man 

don't let 'em steal your peace".

he looks at me real serious

and says "ok?"

I nod

respond "ok"

we shake on it

I hear him shout

"don't let 'em"

as I turn the corner

morning routine

hot water

over a old monk's head

steaming sandalwood suds

razor slicks

cuts away the grey hair

braced 

by a generous splash

of Brut

silence

hours upon hours of radio

couple "bad" tunes in a row

search the dial 

bantering bitter talk shows

call in complaining

quick click

silence

takes a while

to get used to the quiet

just a faint

whirring 18 wheel hum

Father and Son

met my father

once

ran into him 

by chance

at a funeral

we shook hands

beside a coffin

he spoke seven words

I wrote them that night 

in a black book

three kings day

pea soup is simmering 

on the wood stove

snow coming in heavy

pine boughs bend

the tired monks sits

reads by Christmas tree light

one more day

one more feast

for the three wise kings

2 million miles

jacket says 2 million miles

in gold embroidery (just slightly frayed)

right over his heart

he'd driven more than a few thousand

more long haul miles

before the jacket was delivered

bureaucracy...

25 years on the road

so much more than miles

every state

every province

...pretty much

thousands upon thousands of radio songs

and parking lot nights

missed birthdays, holidays, and days

with family

blizzards, construction, highway delays

of every sort - even a tornado or two

today the last delivery is done

heading back north

up and over Pennsylvania hills 

temperature drops

the cold snatches moisture

from the evening air

delicate snowflakes fall

lit by rig headlights

My First Albums

buried

shoved into a dusty dark corner

battered boxes of canning jars

obscure a red milk crate

a few vinyl gems plucked:

Cosmo's Factory

Abbey Road

Through the Past Darkly

these were played 

flipped

and played again

41 more wait below

each one pulled out 

and played 

oh that stereo summer

Note: Woodstock, The Band, Rumors, Chubby Checker, CSNY, After the Goldrush, Elvis, Arlo Guthrie, Bob Dylan...and so many more.  It was a beautiful and life changing find - I was about 7 when I starting listening to these albums.

2024

laptop clicks open

blue light cuts 

through morning dark

emails have stacked up

over the holidays

first one: The World Should Fear 2024

an essay of doom

the tired monk leaves it unread

puts on steel toes, a thick scarf, 

and new Christmas toque

tackles the big Aspen rounds

axe cracks through cold seasoned wood

a fresh cord split by noon