O’ Alive

O’ Alive

if Alice hadn’t come to a stop somewhere

the bricks that built this house would not

have been possible

I would not have

in a pilled cardigan

and a black sundress

been able to stand up & eulogize my father

in a sharply lit room with dank eyes gawking

arriving in a heat-wave

departing in a deep freeze

stretching toward something new & different

                so

I muse on it all lowering myself into a hot bath

the pockets of my bathrobe stuffed with notes

like the Carver poem I read aloud at the archives

rubbles of estimations & notions & wailings

    the ache of sore muscles

                pangs of extreme isolation         

                surreptitious determinations

in this the blackest of twilights  

if Alice hadn’t come to a stop somewhere

the wilderness might

have eaten me alive

**

I needed to spin my writing wheels a little bit today; I’m very out of sorts. I pecked at this little piece between crunching numbers and ringing telephones. I took my time and found a great deal of hidden profundity in the lines that appeared.

The sun is out. That’s a bonus. Looking forward to comfy clothes, tea and maybe some time outside, even outside of my head.

In propinquity,

Nic

Twenty-fourth May, Two Thousand Sixteen

Twenty-fourth May, Two Thousand Sixteen

tin angel troubadour ages

intrepid bar-stool bard weakens

tambourine tackle

                dolefully downcast

this the news

twenty-fourth may, two thousand sixteen

**

Bleary-eyed, I took my work station this morning, booted up my PC, logged into my email, and then promptly tuned into Tom Power on CBC Radio 2. It’s my morning ritual. No deviating unless I’ve got something to pop in the toaster or I need to set the kettle to boil for tea. It was a few minutes before 7am, the news was on when I heard in two separate breaths, today was Bob Dylan’s 75^th birthday (I smiled as I put myself to work) and Gord Downie had brain cancer (I stopped smiling).  It took a second for me to absorb what had just blasted me through my rutty speakers. I burst into tears and sent a text to my best bud, in shock, in horror, gut-wrenching heartsickness spreading all through me. It has lasted all day. It will last forever. My poet love, my literary comrade, my rock ‘n’ roll sweetheart: brain cancer. Incurable. Unbelievable.

The Hip are set to tour this summer, for Gord, for themselves, for us. It was hard to keep the tears in listening to their music peppered through Power’s show this morning, a show is going to be both extremely joyful and painful all at once; knowing it will likely be the very last time any of us will encounter he and his microphone.

A beautiful mind is being taken from us. Not today, not tomorrow, not even next month: but when they say incurable, well … it is an injustice to the world. I can’t understand in these instances, what kind of God robs the world of a person who delights with their talents and doesn’t steal the evil-doers.

It is difficult to imagine a world without him in it and for now we don’t have to. We give him our love, our prayers, our courage, our voices. For as long as we are able.

Courage, for Gord.

In propinquity,

Nic

back/flash

back/flash

leaning into a

heart-hammering embrace

feel good hit of the summer

tickling an eager ear from lips   

                like sugar

a girl puts on a record    

                to remember

**

You know how now and then you catch a face in a crowd and the sight causes your memory to rewind, flash-back to the most obscure long-gone moments? And so, this poem.

The May long weekend, for me, begins at 4pm. I took an extra day off, tomorrow (Friday), to get in extra quality time with Chelsey and Ayla Grace before the pack up and head west. There is a plan for a quiet adventure and outdoor activity with my best bud and her kiddies on Saturday and then the rest of the weekend I plan to read, write, relax, hang with my Mama and my cat. In jams. For days. Well, two! I welcome the break from my routine to regroup and start afresh.

In other news, I submitted more work to a magazine today. Pluggin' away at my craft.

However you spend yours, I hope it’s marvelous!

In propinquity,

Nic

This Is A Perfect Moment

This Is A Perfect Moment

compared to

a year spent reading Proust

writing poems for the end

                of the world

rivaling Muses incinerating

                ballads

wondering if failing matters

embracing the other I Am

this is a perfect moment

**

I am thinking deeply today of things that bring me joy to alleviate some of my hidden stresses and those bare to the surface. Tonight’s agenda inspired this little poem. After work I will be spending some quality time with someone I love very much. That, time spent with loved ones, is the best antidote for all sour notes.

In propinquity,

Nic

Always A Story Told

Always A Story Told

it seeps into your bones

when Spring is still grey

or when a silky sun sets

that solitary endeavour

for the burdened            

                and the starved

the most Canadian of authors

forego purported

folk-art pretenses

decisive tastes

heavy handedness

big green tent parties

laissez-faire

robust tea-leaves

red rusted Volvos

ankle-length caftans

snowy patriarchal beards

for undisclosed faddish frills

to be laugh-out-loud funny

for several pages at a time

stars in up-scale hair salons

belly up for a cheesy burger

                just to be able to play

it settles in your stomach

like morning sky’s indifference

or when winter winds screech

presumptive parables of fear

for the designated

                and the encumbered

under-songs for storytellers

firmaments for the fictive

                always a story told

a wound opened

it is also poetry

**

On the days when the world around me stinks, the people simply suck, and the weather is still unfairly unseasonable: I write. It makes me feel better, helps me to be forgiving, forgetful, fortunate. Brings me back to the earth where all of the good things are.

Grateful for words and my ability to use them.

In propinquity,

Nic

               

A Square of Chocolate

A Square of Chocolate

you must take your time

my dear friend with the

irrepressible sweet tooth

confides

chocolate is an experience

concentrated and intricate

sumptuous and intimate

o’ that crescendo

she offers me a section

urging me to gaze upon it

muse on its polish, its luster

the arresting milky mahogany

hue

I do as I’m told

smell your brunette treat

breathe deeply take it in

inhale to fill yourself up

with its intoxicating essence

I begin to suspend

I do as I’m told

break the chocolate apart

you will hear a crisp snap

o’ the snap of tempered              

                chocolate

I do as I’m told

gently bite into the square

close your eyes let it melt

on your tongue and savor

palatable flavours, aromas

its consistency

I do as I’m told

                I lose myself

and whisper

I must take my time

** 

I had a hankering for chocolate this afternoon. My best friend is a choco-holic. I write poetry. I put all three of those things together and came up with the above.

In propinquity,

Nic

Bad Old Days

Bad Old Days

bumbling striver

heavily accessorized

seldom attentive

navigates life

rearward

notes to ambitious

                correspondents

reviews to highfalutin   

                formalists  

all briskly written

lumbering coveter

less apologetic 

pens a full-throated

melodrama

squanders it all

for innocents & others

the price you pay            

for exuberance

& heart

those

the bad old days

**

Nothing like a brain teaser for a Monday. 

Monday: a bad old day?

Nah. 

Be grateful you have today.

In propinquity,

Nic