Ashes and grief

Where I’m living these days is
like a second tour of duty in the Nam,
doing a house to house, clearing
the streets, search and destroy,
every place you go, every day you do it,
winning their hearts and minds.
Lots of those boys, then, was lame honky
motherfuckers but they had my ass
and I, sure as shit, had theirs.
Got so tight over there we breathed
the same air, bled the same blood
and anyone who says any different don’t
know squat. Last time I felt anything
remotely like pain was seeing one of those
suckers get dusted catching a mortar
round, waist high and moving fast.
Shit, when the smoke cleared there
was nothing left but a pair of boots
full of blood, two leg stumps still inside.
Like the man said when it’s over,” it’s
all ash and grief.” Only difference now,
The Man catches your ass, he gonna
lock your ass up. Man coming after me
better had been good and dedicated cause
I’m playing hard to get and planning on
staying that way.

The Eagle

 
The day was like a poem—
 
clouds, fluffy and lyrical, the sun
blinked on and off like a strophe.

An eagle had nested, we’d heard,
in Mill Pond, about a mile from
our place on Walloon Lake.

Our kayak skimmed the water like a swan
about to fly.

Water lilies carpeted our way into the pond—
ash and oak witnessed our paddle strokes,
aspen trembled their greetings.

From the sky, she scudded wing-over, under a canopy
of care, constructed for her brown fledgling— 

a canopy invisible to us, but clear
            as sun-gleamed talons to her. 

The beasts below in their slim conveyance radiate
danger, malevolence, power. 

            Once they were nowhere,
            these invaders,
            now they are everywhere. 

Low over us her yellow beak shredded
the air we breathed. Her flight mapped

domains of opportunity and oblivion.

Our hearts pulsed in primitive rhythms—
a cadence of grace, awe, and fear
in this world we share.

 

My Grandma


My mom’s mom
had bound feet
When I watched her
washing them daily
I was awed with disbelief 
The cruelly twisted bones
broke all my imagination
as a five-year-old
who normally could imagine
much easily the entire
Milky Way

To See a Sunset
 

Here’s what I’ve learned:

You have to be facing west, not east.

Trees get in the way. Buildings, too.

There can’t be too many clouds
or too few.

You have to be there at the right time. 

You can’t wait till that recorded episode
of NCIS is over.

You must get in your car and drive
to the appointed spot early.

And once you get there,
you can’t be looking at your phone,
reading that long article in The Atlantic.

You must look up. Give your full attention
to the dreamy colors spreading across the sky,
pink streaks deepening to red,
layers of orange blending between.

And when the sun has finished
its stunning show, you can go home
knowing exactly why
you haven’t seen
more sunsets before.

          

where all the happy thoughts go


in ten years,
all my dreams
are supposed to
come true

a fortune teller
advised me not
to have a countdown

you'll end up
in disappointment

so, i have tucked
it away in the back
of my mind

where all the happy
thoughts go, i guess

all the pain and misery
stays up front

not the easiest way
to live

but, as most people
that know me know

easy was never
a fucking option

A Scar Once Born

When a scar is born  
it reminds us of the pain we once felt.
Etched into our skin.
It starts sore and painful.
Slowly healing
aching day and day.
Time passes and the scar will soon fade. 
Leaving only a story of resilience
to the pain we once felt.
So wear a scar with pride,
for the journey you traveled of healing.
A testament to the strength within.

            Monkey, And Pigface


I remember the day
my Dad died.

Of course I do,
I'll never forget it.

He was already in
a coma, but he was
really, struggling to
breathe.

My mum said " Talk to
him, Ian. "
As she went to call an
ambulance.

" I don't know what to say. "

I'm sad to have to admit to
that, but it's true.

My mum said " You'll think
of something, some good
time. "

And, so I told him about how
much I'd enjoyed working
with him.

We both worked as engineers
in a toolmaking workshop.

I was his apprentice.

We worked together for
ten years,we had some
great laughs, and some
bad arguments.

So, as my poor, poor Dad
was passing away, I was
reminding, trying to remind
him, of the names we used
to use to take the piss out
ot the other workers.

" Dad, remember Dave, the
monkey, and Pigface ?
Bungle, and Blakey ? "

I hope he understood me ,
he would've laughed if he
could, I'm sure of it.

Pacquiao


Was lethal
In the ring
until he
found Jesus
then everyone
said he
lost his
edge his
killer instinct

but the
real truth
is when
a fighter
believes
in anything
more than
he believes
in himself

he is done.

Before the Relapse

 
a heart-prolapse, insignia of hour
graciously galloping in cyclone of gore.

every leap, every mile, a recalcitrant shower:
is every earth not an ore of the onerous?

breath, a dissonant swing, fluctuating
like a restless wind seeking where to nest.

are we not all wings seeking where to perch?
but this suffering, a persistent plough, a pinnacle

tirelessly rowing itself to unsatisfactory shores.
a spine-prolapse, an interminable hammering of life’s

tarnishing tides, tinctured into a threshold of damnable
trailblazings: are we not all farmers of futility

furnishing death’s furrow with our sweats? a larynx
of leaves, a sway of scythes—songs quartered,

quashed to rotten brown reminiscent of recurring droughts
stationed at doorposts of new beginnings, the reopening

of recycled ash. here, it’s either you grow or you burn.
it’s either you sing or you become a song ferried

by mythical birds meandering in restless winds.
euthanasia is a prayer, a fervid hope of things

to sprout in the afterlife—maybe there, mercy awaits us
like hungry loam awaits a lectern of raindrops.