the end

the end always catches me by surprise

i thought i had one more day

we always think we have one more day

perhaps living as if we had one more day

is the problem 

                        “one more day”?

*

i’ve been told the end is supposed to be full of joy—

too often the end is marked with pain

i take no pleasure in the ending of any thing:

stories; songs. love; hope. the flight of birds

the flowering of flowers, the cycle of seasons

*

i declare to you: the only good ending is a kiss.

the beginning of a promise: a shared breath

a way to intimate: our unfinishedness is a a gift.

silence

here are my arms

                             my mouth open

full of words

                     full of air

my mouth open

                          with silence

like a wound

                     my mouth open

my empty hands

                            here are my arms

highway

we hadn’t see any wildlife

along the highway the entire

time we were on holidays.

halfway home, it was still

all trees, pines and firs,

fireweed covered foothills,

fog enshrouded mountains

and cascading waterfalls—

beautiful, yes, but not

what we had hoped for.

we decided we’d ask God

to make it happen, and why not?

not long after we saw

a bear trudging along tall grasses,

a moose standing calmly on the shoulder,

a bald eagle circling over a small lake,

mountain sheep traversing

a sheer cliff face, one slipping

and recovering juvenile

causing us to catch our breath.

we all felt such joy and wonder

at those moments, nature

presented to us in bite-sized chunks

of glory, an answer to prayer

and the gift of coming home.

even without pictures,

that shared experience still

reminds us that seeing

something together

makes every journey full.

gaps

in the middle of the conversation

there was a gap in the middle

of the meal there was a gap

in the middle of the day

there was a gap in the middle

of our lovemaking there was a gap

in the middle of the book

there was a gap in the middle

of the poem there was a gap

in the middle of the family

there was a gap in the middle

of the night there is a gap

in the middle of my memories

there is a gap in the middle

of the only story i know there is a gap

in the middle of my desire

there is a gap that i want to fill

stones

today we spoke of tradition;

how it is both the river

and the river’s shore,

how we hold it in our hands

like water, but we hold it.

we all start from somewhere:

an action that finds its home in our body,

heart folding around that action

through the discipline of repetition,

desired or not desired,

as we labour with hands or knees

courting the divine,

or some approximation of it

that allows us some certainty,

convinced we are not entirely wrong.

we launch ourselves into the argument

of first and last things;

how language shapes our journey,

the edges of every thing we know

and how we can know each piece

as if existence is a puzzle

we can solve now and forever,

but not our own hearts.

we deceive ourselves.

we look for a place to anchor,

end up a stone’s throw

from where we started:

still unsatisfied.

bait

i did not mean to seduce her

with words. they were never spoken.

just on the page, each serif

a hook in the eye.

when i did speak, words

billowed out like clouds,

flowed over my lips

like smoke from a fog machine,

each phrase carefully posed

for maximum theatrical effect.

those words were a stain

on your skin, your body

a parchment on which i wrote

songs in your favourite key,

over and over and over,

fading like an echo or with wear.

now there is only the memory

of words, poorly captured.

they escaped the net

like butterflies, or fish

that swallow the bait

then spew it from their mouth.

now those words are ghosts,

ripples on the surface.

the wind carries them away.

this

this is a wall.

make a choice.

this is a window.

make a choice.

this is a door.

make a choice.

this is a roof.

make a choice.

this is a room.

make a choice.

this is a bed.

make a choice.

this is the morning.

make a choice.

this is the night.

make a choice.

this is a heart.

make a choice.

when was the last time

you touched the sky?

no small thing

this one small thing

that bears such weight

whispers in my ear

without ceasing

i hold this secret

beneath my tongue

afraid to speak

its truth a knife

i place each word

with great care

precious and sharpened edges

set in rows like teeth

not every smile is

a smile, a warm embrace

a thin comfort

while laying in wait

i can count the moments

as blessings; they hold me

against the sorrow—

i wonder what they’re worth?

monsters

it is monstrous—

the indignities we impose

upon each other.

we have so many tools

we can use to bruise

the soul; the instrument

of our destruction

is our indifference.

the headlines

tell us of bombings

and shootings

but it is the way

we ignore the pain

that marks us

beneath the skin.

there are so many ways

to use your hands;

choose wisely

which seeds you plant,

how deeply you dig,

what you cultivate.

we wait once more

they said there would be joy

everyone is full of stories to share

there were celebrations and everyone was invited

we shared meals together

we sang all the songs that mattered

we spoke of all the promises

as if we understood them

as if they were a mystery

they said he would come back soon

we continue to watch the skies

we wait still

they said there would be joy

everyone is sitting in silence

we have covered all the windows

someone mentions sackcloth and ashes

they talk of resurrection

wonder what it all means

afraid to believe

they hold their breath     and wait

if we wait long enough

all will be revealed

we wait

they said there would be joy

everyone at the gathering is wearing black

so we wait

we wait in silence

we turn off the lights

we listen to the pain

then we join each other

in a song     we tell the story

as if it were true

as if every tear will be wiped away

getting older

so many broken

bones     so many

bumps and bruises

so many twists

and strains across

the body     a history

of striving     forward

motion interrupted

how far one travels

measured by intention

what one dares

each endeavour

a promise

the gift of work

the discipline

of desire     wrapping

hands around you

each tool

full of potential

each task

a seed     each

completion a gift

i keep getting

older     i still feel

young     it is both

true and not true

perception thin

like onion skin

daybreak

there is only this weight

hollowing out my belly

there is no strength in my hands

sleep is a fugitive thing

i wake with skin vibrating

and breathing shallow

how many times will i turn

sheets wrapped around me like a shroud

the intermittent flicker of the clock

insistent and implacable

steel yourself for the day, the week

fold forward and set your feet

this is all you have left to do:

step into the light

simple things

simplicity is not a light thing.

it is an act of brutality.

an imposition of the will

stamped on the skin,

the bruise of humility blooming

in the muscles, the bones

bearing the weight of each decision.

it is a brave thing

to let truth smack you in the face.

do not turn away;

concern yourself with discipline,

cutting off the accumulation

of indifference and distraction,

the delicate removal of the veil,

the insertion of new lenses

with which to view the world.

you must learn to use new tools,

or the old tools in new ways,

or maybe you only need your hands,

capable of both gentleness and violence,

every small act larger than you ever imagined.

fish

They used to call me fish.

I have no idea why.

I only know I couldn’t breathe

in my small town;

I wasn’t the only one.

It’s been 35 years since I lived there.

The only thing I really miss

is the fried chicken from Uncle Nicky’s.

I try not to indulge in nostalgia.

I have few illusions.

There was one gathering

a few years after graduation.

It was tragic.

I won’t go into details.

For some people,

high school never ends.

I’ve seen one old classmate since then,

one of my closest friends,

working on campus—

a tradesman who used to be an artist.

Perhaps he is still.

Somehow I’ve heard the occasional rumour.

I know he was married

to one of the most beautiful girls in town,

that he got divorced a few years later,

that he still skateboards.

I know who he was.

I have no idea how.

Perhaps we all stay the same

in all the important ways:

the seeds of our flowering

the wounds that once seemed so deep.

I still have no idea why they called me fish.

mist

sometimes what you don’t say

hangs in the air

                          like a mist

that coats everything

like dew

              like frost

i would like us to speak

more directly

not drawing large figures

that lurk in shadow

we need to discover

a new language

the old one isn’t working

we keep moving

past one another

                            like mist

mornings

i wish to live a life of more simplicity

a life in which yes means yes and no no

though i admit to more disappointment than success

i am far too easily distracted too often

amused by activities that don’t bring joy

it’s not the same as evenings filled with reading

rubbing the stories into my skin like lotion

trying to keep everything soft inside

i find myself wake late at night

watching the light creep across the walls

the minutes slowly advancing to the morning

my hands empty with yearning