Dirty Cigar Martini Kisses (Part 1)

How can you capture one day of

dancing moments

the heart interpreting queues

from a scribbled playwright

with feelings too real to be real 

the scene not imagined

felt with the warmth of a touch

with emotions that cannot be separated

from the attraction of a pounding chest.


Early Morning (Drive Me To Work)

Frost bitten nose and rosy cheeks

are all I have after an early morning snow.

Crusty eyes, family ties, I know . . . .

I despise the way I feel, you know.

Teasing doesn’t help and neither do you

but then you smile, crack a joke and pause for awhile.

Soon tempers subside and I find your eyes

that’s a good thing - I didn’t want to make you sad after-all -

when you ask me to drive you to work,

I want to be glad 





Much Like A Cigarette

Ink, pen and paper,

a cigarette a moment later.

A slim cute cloud of smoke

drifts through the room,

much like a beggar.

A romantic notion I admit,

much like the cigarette,

that hits your mouth a moment later.


Our Place

A wicked wind blows wildly at our front

windowsill facing the street.

Closing my eyes, I desperately try to catch

a glimpse of a time past 

and all that last, for nothing seems to feel like it used too.

Remembering the galleries of Montreal and

our restaurants in Winnipeg where we can always find a table.

How sweet the days had,

the full sleeps - deep and endless rests -

when bedtime was 10 pm, not a minute more or past.

Now our room is cold and this house

not feeling quite like ours,

never warms or tastes familiar.

The streets of downtown are closer 

than this North End homestead

we now try to take solace in.

Building a life in these icy walls is tricky,

taking foreseeable strength to make our own, our own.

Can there be any other way?

Commitment and time stride

hand-in-hand, skipping hop-scotch

together - not a number missed -

cradling our hearts and childhood memories, 

while rowing a melody of ripples

with ores of life.

Are we not like a dingy left behind

at sea, in dark waters with crushing waves,

emotions crashing and rising,

with good and bad times.

How could I have ever misplaced our place,

the one that lies in-between the spaces

of our tumultuous relationship,

our place.


I Think You Are (For Heath)

I think you are sleepy

I think you are

I think you are sleepy

Yes you are

I think you want to go to sleep

I think you want to count sheep

I think you want to go to sleep

I think you are sleepy

yes you are


Community Effort

They crawl on the ground

carry all they need on their backs,

all their food and membrane stacks

Busy building together

a mound - a family

unit, a forever bound

In a flood the workers form a circular raft

and put the young and the larva safe on-top with the queen, 

sacrificing themselves on the bottom

so the colony

can live on

If only we could emulate the ant

together creating a system of

co-operation - less manipulation -

families with formidable foundations built on sacrifice

and commitment


(added middle paragraph 2014)

It Whistles Through

It whistles through the willows of a borough,

and floats on the water of a pond,

and roarers down the falls of a river,

inverted in a glassy refection of a sea,

foaming on the shores of a beach,

and crackling in the clouds of a storm, 

the likes of which we haven’t seen before.

It soars on the strings of a past,

and flutters through memories too far too grasp,

catching a tide of a sorrow retreating,

and flutters the feathers of a bird fleeting,

falling from a kingdom of a king,

to mere mortals made of a clay,

crafted by the Father, in a race made of colourful hues.

It speaks through the voice of a mute,

and brings justice from the heart of a widow,

and wells up strength in the quite and meek,

bubbling up the blood in the veins of a martyr,

crashing on the rocks of a stoney shore,

illuminating the ocean with a crystal lining,

stretching over a never-ending horizon,

resides a sacred space,

idling in the hearts of everyone.


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