Behind Lush Oaks

Behind Lush Oaks

pages

they turn

back gently

to when I was

rather frail

blinded by a

frowzy mop

an ancillary

oddity behind

the lush oaks

bold enough

to write poems

in pen yet too

loath to dance

always on the

brink of being

swallowed

whole by sharp

plot maneuvers

            pages

they turn and

I read

them

nowadays

in a way that

betrays an old

sadness

in the same way

a wedding toast

always launches

with

a

joke

and

still

those lush oaks

are my sanctuary

***

Today’s early morning peck of poem. No prompt, it wrote itself after I consumed caffeine.

In propinquity,

Nic

Muddler

Muddler

favored

pursuits

include

(& are not

limited to)

appearing

abstruse and perspicuous

plummeting to turbid depths

& resurfacing gregarious

            also enjoyed

befogging

stupefying

&

while they try to decipher

            my muddle

            my bungle

gamboling

headfirst

into

the subsequent swindle

***

My writer pal threw a little writing prompt at me the other day but I wasn’t able to get around to it until early this morning. I forgot my book on my morning commute so I plucked away at it to keep myself busy after fussing over the crossword in the daily paper. I needed to use the word ‘turbid’ in a poem.

The above is the result. It. Was. Fun.

In propinquity,

 Nic

Reminiscence

Reminiscence

just off of the

cavernous lobby

there are suave

claret leather seats

teak-wood walls &

soft blonde light

I had hoped for a

gaudy chandelier

but the dimness

would have to do

I ordered myself a

nice Vieux Carre´

rye whiskey, cognac

sweet vermouth

Benedictine liqueur

bitters & ice – it came

in a generous goblet

dense lustrous crystal

& thick stemmed

each sip conjured a

thirst for a Sazerac

back at Carousel Bar

nothing quite compares

to a blend that begins

by sluicing an erstwhile

tumbler with a bath of

absinthe

in this lounge with its

smatter of rich patrons

I am awash with memory

of the French Quarter &

an old love long missed

            oh, those ghosts

***

Another fun writing exercise completed. My friend’s prompt this time, the French Quarter. A small mention but it eventually got around to it.

In propinquity,

Nic

Equidistant

Equidistant

Point A

coffee-stained

handwritten pages

w/ terse crossings out

& prickly margin notes

Point B

wilted flowers atop a

fifty pound dictionary

w/ its pages dog-eared

& perused voraciously

we

work quietly together at

opposite ends of the desk

& still make time to meet

in the kitchen where we

both prefer to cut the crust

off of cucumber sandwiches

yours just with butter

&

mine with cream cheese

at least

we agree

on

black coffee

***

My bud challenged me to a wee writing exercise, to write a poem using the word ‘equidistant’ as the title.

The above poem was the result.

In propinquity,

Nic

           

           

           

Uber Ostentatious

Uber Ostentatious

a smirk

of sheer folly

attire as satire

if you should

catch a blatantly

boyishly slender

blue-eyed fellow

in an impeccable

creamy bespoke

three pieced suit

pinstriped shirt

high starched collar

sheeny hankie

peeping out of

a valiant breast

pocket

two-toned shoes

& note-book open

a

shameless       

contrarian

 bona-fide

dandy

ardent to lacerate

your affectations

push the envelope

with his practiced

artful eye

if you should see

such a character

please tell him I

too have vanities

            for sale

I wish to be at the

meticulous mercy

of his flapping

exaggerations

***

Tom Wolfe died. This is for him.

In propinquity,

Nic

Things Could Be Worse

Things Could Be Worse

I am

akin to

a poem

in

short

jagged

lines

lagging

all

the

way

down

an

edgy

page

I’ll

be

tailed

by

an

undue

post -

script

noted

in

haste

that

will

surely

leave

you

mining

for

meaning

things

could

be

worse

***

Quickie and fun writing exercise. Poem from a subversive sweet photograph.

That is all.

In propinquity,

Nic

My Prosperous Solitude

My Prosperous Solitude

cross-legged

on the chesterfield cradling a mug of tea

reading Hugh MacLennan’s ‘Barometer Rising’

I determine that the salve for suffering is art

I stop just short of the right margin in reverence

it is in my prosperous solitude I promote him as

a big, brave lead – thinking of him in 1917 in his

house on 197 South Park Street a ten year old

Hugh MacLennan washing his knees for school

when at 9:05am two vessels laden with explosives

collided in the narrows of the Halifax Harbour

the North end of the city razed yet the two-storey

Victorian dwelling Hugh lived in stood a lonely 

tomb in the rubble of a shattered city aflame

            twenty-four years later

he penned his primary novel – a conclusive illusory

account of the catastrophe – its alleged truth glowers

among the yellowed pages of the tattered copy I

acquired from a miles long yard sale that wound

its way along the Eastern Shore – a welcome find

although I’m not prone to reading war stories his

account woven with romance and intrigue caught me

            after supper

dressed in a warm coat pulled up above my chin

I took a brisk walk for a drink downtown and on

the way back home found myself atop Citadel Hill

surveying the modern skyscape of the very city

obliterated by the 2nd largest man-made explosion

after the atomic bomb – it is astounding to me that

Halifax was once small enough that Parade Square

barely big enough to house the Women’s March

was the town center – upon the Citadel with the

company of my headphones Gord Downie croons

the last line of ‘Courage (For Hugh MacLennan)’

it streams into my ears and makes everything feel

tentative in full circle fashion to know that just

across the once ravaged harbour there is a bar

fatefully called ‘The Watch That Ends The Night’

I should make a point of buying that book next

***

Just a little something I wrote on my travels in the sun yesterday. I actually stood atop the Citadel for a minute and marveled at our city and its history. We are lucky to live here.

In propinquity,

Nic