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