The Esoterics

The Esoterics

regard them

brusk quittance

biting bark

stark gaze

harsh play

blood flesh

the

esoterics

blanketed laps

vast breathing

rousing a low grade

                controversy

raising Poets from the

                dead

pressing you to choke

inside a mottled gulch   

                of despair’s

tragic pitch

under rucked

night-glint

their eyes narrow in

suspicion

while we wade

through

budding fog       

                at the void’s edge

a banquet of grate

and sand

to guzzle

                all contingent on

 which of the poets choose

                to lie still

**

This poem materialized from the ether today, out of the wide blue. I was busily champing figures, evaluating, altering; all things to do with numbers, when the Esoterics prodded me. Who am I to deny them their poetic fifteen?

 I am moody, grey and restless today, all in the sunshine. I admit, pecking helped but then it always does.

In propinquity,

Nic

Two Poets

Two Poets

two poets rave

in downtown Halifax

his stride matchers her pace

both knocked by hurly-burly

poems

with all their words missing

our eyes

monitor their molten movements

how he lures verses out from under

                her lovely dress

how she forgets how to swim to him

& the explosion

of stars in each willowy hand

they are all we refuse to ignore

                unrestrained inheritance

two poets rant

in a dingy basement bar

still downtown Halifax

                in their limited light

opening sentences taste the same

as the shiny elastic prayers hidden

in the luxury of our worry

he is an action not taken

& she a simple twist of fate

                perfect bodies

                purple hearts

                parallel pains

two poets

                who unbutton the night

leave everything bare

skip town before dawn

                & we all take the blame

for everything they left behind

**

Vacation has been nice. A good break from the 9 to 5. I intended to devour books, write my face off, and do a ton of creative stuff: if daydreaming counts … I did spend a good chunk of time on my own, breathing and thinking, musing and scheming but I failed to follow through on the ‘plan’ and instead went with the flow. Isn’t that more of what a vacation should be? I do regret not taking more time to write though. I have to get my head back in the game but until this week is over I won’t shove myself too hard for it.

Today’s pecking was fun. I set up a ‘best of’ Matt Mays playlist (to get my soul prepared for my Hubbards get away next weekend), poured myself a ice cold cider purchased from a road trip I took on Thursday with my best bud, and just dug in.  I mentioned twice today how I hadn’t written enough on vacation to two different people so it was time.

Drinks and laughs tonight with friends and then my last day of vacation tomorrow before returning to the work desk but burning through the days so my weekend in Hubbards with friends comes quickly.

Happy Saturday!

In propinquity,

Nic

Anniversary

Anniversary

you

crossed my mind this morning

the time you grazed my shoulder

in the garden

with your dazzling wings

they shimmered in the sunbeams

yellow & burnt orange framed in

                black

graceful transmitters of messages

                of courage

                of conviction

                of patience

you confided the simplest truths

                the

universe surely is made of music

& that God’s capacity is so much

greater than man’s understanding

these moments

these small ceremonies

granted visions from the beyond

quantify the joys you left behind

& like

the wind in the weeping willows

my heart dangles in the open air

                I remember

our meeting as sweetly as our

                parting

**

A year ago today an extraordinary woman was taken far too soon. I remember her today, with love, sitting next to a sunny open window, the birds chirping and the breeze warm. This poem is my pause, to evoke her, her life, her heart and those she left behind to carry on her memory.

Miss you, Mama June Jackson.

In propinquity,

Nic