New poem: "The Happy Poet"

 The Happy Poet

 

“I am, and life is merely something that I do,”

said the Happy Poet, on the occasion of his lover’s

mother death, revealing the deepest mystery

of his life, the journey to his true self; —

 

Not in entire forgetfulness did he come from God,

who is our Home, but with the divine imperative

to be whole and complete; and from life to life,

he returned to grow into his true self; —

 

An “I” of God, whole and complete unto himself,

as choreographed by the divine imperative of the way

of what is to come; and the Happy Poet can now sit

on his front deck and sip on his glass of sherry,

because he is what he longed to be.

 

Composed in Georgian Bay,

Tuesday, August 22, 2023

New poem: "The Sucide"

  

The Suicide

 

Mark was standing on the street corner in front

of the St. Jude Café one day in the pouring rain when

I drove by on my way to give an estimate for a new

job, and an hour later he was still standing there; so, I

stopped and asked him to get into the car; —

 

We drove around town for a while, he not saying

a word out loud, when to his complete surprise I asked

him why he talked to himself. He looked at me like

a kid who had just been caught stealing, and he

fearfully said, “How can you tell?”

 

By the look in his eyes, I knew what he suspected;

and I said, “I’ve been where you are, Mark; and I can

tell.” But this was not enough to convince him that

I did not have psychic powers; and to allay his fears,

I clarified, “I know the symptoms.”

 

Then I drove out of town, to the Five Mile Lookout

overlooking Lake St. Jude that empties into Lake

Superior, and I tried to talk Mark into going for help;

but he insisted he was alright, and all he needed

was a job to keep his mind preoccupied; —

 

I told him it did not matter what he did, his demons

would destroy him if he did not know how to transform

them; and within a month of our conversation that

rainy day, they found Mark’s OD’d body decomposing

in the bedroom of his apartment.

 

Composed in Nipigon, Ontario

Date unknown: 1990-2000

 

 

New poem: "The 83-Year -Old Wind Surfer"

 

The 83-Year-Old Wind Surfer

 

He’s a very strange man, everyone says;

but not because he believes in UFOs,

he’s just eccentric. He’s 83, and still wind

surfs in Florida where he has his winter

home, and because he’s such a scrooge

and treats his wife so miserly. They called

him “Sweet Daddy” at the hydro plant in

Pine Falls where he worked in the machine

shop, because he was so miserable; but

he’s likeable enough once you get to know

him, despite his peculiar habits which are

impossible to overlook, like straining hot

water through the same coffee grounds,

using the same tea bag two and three times,

eating off coffee tables because he’s always

working his “investments” on the kitchen

table, vaunting his ability to cure migraines

by the touch of his hands (the women tell him

they’re cured because he creeps them out),

wearing the same “lucky shirt” that should be

in the rag bag, having his house painted for

the first time in nearly forty years, drawing a

line in the sand when he believes he’s morally

right, mistaking normal decent behavior for

altruism, complaining with paranoid suspicion

about being overcharged for bananas, and

not bat an eye when he loses 300 grand

playing the stock market.

 

Composed in Nipigon, Ontario

Date unknown: 1990-2000

 

 

 

New poem: "What We Take for Granted"

 

What We Take for Granted

 

We abuse what we take for granted,

not intentionally, but simply because

we grow accustomed to what we have,

forgetting the long journey it took

to get to the promised land; and love

loses its precious virtue, and it’s

a struggle to get it back.

 

Monday, July 31, 2023

Georgian Bay, Ontario