Thursday, May 24, 2018

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


Wednesday, May 23, 2018

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




Thursday, May 17, 2018

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


Wednesday, May 16, 2018

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

           
           
           



Tuesday, May 15, 2018

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





Friday, May 11, 2018

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

Thursday, May 10, 2018

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