Behind the headlines

 

The phone rings

Ignored on the table

 

The house jumps to the rhythm

Of incoming mortar fire

 

The vacant swings are caught

In the squalling blast wave

 

The volleyball net shimmers

With cushions of concrete and glass

 

The hammock billows

With ghost weight

 

Sirens blare warning

To absent residents

Another unanswered call

To the dead and displaced

 

The door hangs moodily on the frame

Like a mother before morning coffee

Head hungover from incessant shelling

 

The child who

drank milk

ate breakfast

and blew out birthday candles

At this table, in this chair, behind that door

Now sits with a blanket, wearing donated clothes

Surrounded by unfamiliar walls and floors

Safe but uncertain their luck will last

I wrote the beginning of this poem at a Writers Room evening hosted by the Mulgrave Road Theatre with guest author Andre Fenton. Revised this morning during LWS Writers' Hour. Grateful for the time and space to get back on track.  

Capital gains

Nothing survives capitalism

Even my consumer driven

Advertising influenced

Teenager

Bemoans this fact

As news spreads

About the sale

Our daily respite

From the COVID

World

Subsumed by the amoeba

Of market forces

 

I cannot blame

Mr. Wardle

Who could refuse

Unexpected millions

But

I do blame

The Times

We live in

Where everything

Must be monetized

Capitalized

Owned

 

Happy New Year

It’s the same

As the old

Exchanging an Ox

For a Tiger

Has done little

To assuage

The machine of greed

That consumes the world

One

word

at

a

time

Mother's Morning

By the time I get to it

My tea tastes of nothing

 

It started

As I swam back to 

Consciousness

In the hour before dawn

 

Discipling the dogs as I came downstairs

Starting a pot of coffee

Mixing spices for the chicken I’m roasting

At 6:30 in the morning

For the evening meal

 

Next, it’s shoes, cleats actually

Wet from yesterday’s game in the rain

 

‘Put them in the drier,’ I said sagely

Thirty minutes later my Sweeper

Or is it Centre Back

Exposes unglued souls

Panic ensues

 

There’s a game today

The nearest store is an hour away

My schedule is packed

 

She finds the gorilla glue

I turn to social media

Confident other soccer moms

Have cupboards full of cleats

In various sizes

As do I

 

Cleats are offered

The glue has stuck

And I think this child

Won’t become known

In the annals of soccer

As Shoeless Suki K

 

Work – some work must be done

On deadline

Before 9 this morning

 

After the kids leave for school

And return for

Forgotten things

I sit, copy and paste

Write a few abstracts

Distracted by the doctor directed

Reduction in coffee consumption

 

The dogs suddenly

Need to go out 

I can’t ignore the barking

At the door

I have less than 10 minutes

To deadline

 

They’re out, then in

I answer an email

Post to the website

Check social media 

Searching for replies 

To interview requests

I sent out before 7 am

 

Inappropriately early appeals

To parents

Of school-aged children

We are a cadre of early risers

Whether we want to be

Or not

 

9:05 the chicken is cooked

The dogs are pooped

I turn the ringer on the phone off

Close all the curtains

Lock the doors

And sit down to write

 

Taking a moment to

Reflect

Regroup

Relax

 

Listening

To the sound of running water

In the fish tank

The white noise overhead

From the heat pump

 

Too soon

The hour I carved

For creative preservation

Is over

 

There’s an email from a teacher

Homework hasn’t been handed in

The chicken needs to be dissected

Bones and skin for broth

Dogs need to be walked

again

 

I don’t want to think of what’s next

My jaw clenches as I review my schedule

 

I miss the early days of the pandemic

When all we had to do was stay home

Thankful for the exemption from the world

 

But right now

Now

I must remember

 

To eat

Brush my teeth

Wash my face

Apply deodorant

Leave the house

And drink my tea

If this house were a woman

If this house were a woman,

She’d be told,

She looks good for her age,
Not really old.

Heading into her second century,

She’s got a few wrinkles,

A few joints that creak.

She suffers from incontinence,

Under the kitchen sink.

The plaster carries scars,

From a ladder of years,

Evidence of movement and growth,

The legacy of child-sized mountaineers.

She’s got good bones,

And a strong foundation.

But neglect and patchwork fixes,

Detract from her reputation.

If this house were a woman,

She’d fetch few winning offers,

For nothing depreciates more than a woman,

When time's an unwelcome stalker.

Thoughts of an older gentleman

I see,

Newly formed breasts,

A well-developed flank,

And the deliciously plump backside.

The glow of ripening fruit.

But I mustn’t.

Distinguished gentlemen such as myself,

Mustn’t see these things.

We must play our role in the charade,

Appear blind to the allure of youth.

The absurdity of age,

Leaves you wanting when,

You’re no longer wanted.

The neighbour’s daughter,

Feels the whisper of my attention,

Dismisses it with the flick of a finger.

It’s not for me that she prances,

Although she’s accustomed to my gaze,

Just one more unwanted witness.

Dirty old man.

I admit it freely,

That I am.

Age classifies me as such,

But for the wrack of time,

A would-be admirer.

In truth,

We never stop seeing.

We live closeted,

In our forbidden sight.

God,

Strike me blind,

That would be a kindness;

Because I can’t stop seeing.

An undated era

We are of a certain age
Where hair thins and greys,
Skin wrinkles and sags,
Waistlines are lost to time.

We find attraction in conversation, companionship;
Aligned beliefs and politics.

Your preference in Sunday morning radio hosts and non-fiction authors,
Lure women to bed now.

A night on the town in your 20s;
A few drinks, some well-chosen lines,
Were enough to pull the ladies,
And replenish a little black book full of-
Potential late-night companions.

Years pass, the pages of that book wrinkle and fray,
A reflection of your own metamorphosis.

Until finally, there's no book;
Only the occasional line tossed out,
On the sea of virtual romance,
Where one word stands for a night's worth of banter.

isthisevenworthit81

"Hi"

It's the least you can do ---really.

Respite in the kitchen

-->

Yesterday's breakfast lay hard and flat on the plate,

symbol of plenty or waste,

depending on the frame.

Snow drifts on the verge of the road,

the floured discs are thrown to the wind.

Sharp eyes find the offerings,

the frocked, iridescent ecclesiastics

dive to gather the holy rite in their sharp beaks

while Sunday's flock of gulls

circle in their wake.

Banal

I saw the devil today,

he looked benign,

as he always does.

He didn't wear a mask,

or sign,

He might serve you tea,

make small talk.

You can't see his truth,

until

you do.

And then you can't,

stop your ears and eyes,

from knowing.

The devil was outside my window today,

and I couldn't erase him,

nor his deeds in the world.

I can only hope,

that there is a hell,

and it is so unpleasant,

that the devil needed a vacation.

-->

How very dull

Last night I walked with you,
through the mirror of imagination.
A second self that arrived fully formed,
not stunted and disfigured.
You never knew pain, hardship, or loss.
Nothing caused you discomfort.
How very dull you were.

Universal kitchen

The clock on the wall,
keeps time for another planet.
Fast in the summer, slow in the winter,
under the influence of a different star.
I lack the essential astrological knowledge,
to determine its provenance.
But one day,
I'll step over the threshold for a glass of milk,
and find an unfamiliar universe.

That is an oldie but a goodie-- going through some old files today. Written on March 10/2006