He Looks Busy for a Living

He Looks Busy for a Living

nevermind the permanent slump

the raspy ol’ fella in the bright red

sweatpants & gravy stained t-shirt

is the first to tell you that he looks

busy for a living – Earl of Oldtown

can afford the luxury for all those

golden years of the finger pickin’  

storytellin’ & vodka ginger sippin’

that first blue archtop guitar he got

straight outta the Sears Christmas

catalog was the instrument that led

him to write the kind of songs folks

would hang themselves over railings

& jump out of lazy row boats for a

closer listen, for a nip of devious wit

& hefty pragmatism only he could

deliver – all it took was a songbook

full of few chord songs with vivid

human tales to make you weep, to

make you laugh, to make you sing

nevermind the permanent slump

the croaky ol’ troubadour who

invited you onto his front porch

just to remind you that he is just

a regular Joe who sometimes sang

about things people don’t talk about

& when you reveal your accolades

he’ll just grin and say, “Aw shucks”

& direct your attention to a cold

glass of lemonade on a wobbly rail

***

I was terribly sad when I saw the news online that John Prine had been hospitalized due to Covid-19. And then, hopeful, when they said he was out of the woods, what relief! And then, I woke to the news he’d succumbed. My heart goes out to his family, his friends, his fellow musicians, music lovers all over the world. I put a few words together. It’s taken this long but sometimes that’s how it goes.

These are surreal times. I was looking forward to babies being born that I now can’t snuggle any time soon, live shows I may not be able to attend. I miss my friends and my family and coworkers in close proximity. I miss my life. I’m grateful I can still do my job from home, stationed at the kitchen table with a pesky cat friend and a snoring Mama. I’ve been home a month now and as far as the news tells us, it’ll be weeks more. I’m lonely but appreciative. And, I pray every single day my loved ones stay safe and healthy. And, we don’t lose any other treasures like we lost in John Prine.

In propinquity,

Nic

If I Were Brautigan

Brautigan, San Franciso 1965

If I Were Brautigan

            if I were

Richard Brautigan

I’d be penniless &

drunk on watermelon

                        sugar

in some warm giddy

bar w/ optimistically

wrecked poets

            if he had been

me

he’d admire some man &

the casual way he tipped

back a can of Coca Cola

before moseying toward

December

through an

impenetrable paisley fog

           

if I were

Richard Brautigan

I’d be published &

contented to succumb

in a haphazard bodega

dying of thirst

            & a ripe peach

in plain sight

***

A poem, my first in 2020, from a writing prompt. 

Here goes nothing, a new year. New words.

In propinquity,

Nic

My Most Judgmental

My Most Judgmental

for the briefest of moments

my most Judgmental reared

her swollen head to purport

my beloved night-singing

has gone out of fashion so I

ought to go on & give it up

this from a would-be stargazer

whose stagy bark never quite

matches that of her

aggrandized bite

there is something so off-key

about my most Judgmental of

late … off-putting even, callous

enough to secretly bid her to

float upward just so she might

fall (for once), wicked a wish

I know … dangerously akin to

the desires that twist inside her

            I shall endeavor to be

unlike those like her who are

scattered & lost, destined for

ruins … not for merit but for

the shrill music that plays in

& around their blindest eyes

whose smile loses shape for

every wound doled out on a

loving heart who loves to sing

just to be closer to Heaven

            I shall endeavor to be

better … she believes I am so

easy to abolish, my most

                        Judgmental

but I’ll still sing high above

her scarred mountaintops in

direct light of the sun, every

word finessed to ease … ease

whatever & whomever may

require calm … even my most

Judgmental – who may be made

warm enough by the melody’s

sweet persuasion to take pause

& weep for all the things stated

that cannot be taken back

***

I overheard a conversation on my commute this morning that inspired this poem, with a little real life thrown in for good measure. The sentiment is universal, and you can take it any which way you like. It isn’t so much about a person but rather a feeling. Perhaps it’d be different for the person whose conversation I stole to create it, I’m certain it’d be someone very specific. It isn’t exactly the most optimistic poem to end out a year of scattered writing, devout reading, and a gaggle of ups and downs. And then there was Elizabeth Gilbert. Workshopping with her saved me in more ways than I can express. It’s why the poem above still sings despite it all. I’ve learned a great deal of what it means to be your most avid supporter. And in that, there’s no more chasing people, only dreams. I’m cool with being on the fringe of circles I no longer belong. I’m cool with aloneness. I’m cool with my own company. I’m cool with my fears and my enchantments. I’m cool with how to face it all, and that’s with my head held high, a smile in my heart, and contentment on my face. I will never pretend the bruises don’t hurt. I am just more equipped, for reals, for how to deal with them. It was the greatest gift of my life. You always think you know and then you realize you don’t. Until you do. And, when you do. There’s no other way, but You. Your way. And, how you put love and goodness into the world.

That’s all I’ve got going into a new year. No resolutions except to say I welcome whatever it is that comes my way. I’ve got the tools and I ain’t afraid to use ‘em!

Wishing you a happy and prosperous 2020!

In propinquity,

Nic

We Live Dismayed

We Live Dismayed

dear lazy cliché,

            according to you

            someone higher brow than I

            someone who commonly

            refers to my ilk as assorted lowlifes

measly footnotes or failed punchlines

            is of the belief

half-hearted

duty-bound consoling messages

            matter

            carry on with your cocktail party tête-à-têtes

            while those of us delegated to the trash heap

            see you for the schmaltzy relic that you are

            we hope you understand when we laugh at

            the inordinate amount of slavish devotion

            idiot stick figures with no souls heap on you

                        it is unearned &

                        we live dismayed

            in the face of the imbalance of power your ilk

believe sets you apart from diminutive peons

we the undersigned know better

we know you’re full of shit

yours,

the dismayed

***

A wee poem to blow off a little steam. With a nod to Sex and the City.

Happy Friday!

In propinquity,

Nic

                       

           

           

Making Up Is Hard To Do

Making Up Is Hard To Do

the last time I saw her

she was in the kitchen

making sauerkraut soup

in a pressure cooker

in the time it took her to

brown the bacon, onion

and garlic in oil she was

done with my excuses

the curt nod of her head

and the flick of her hand

was my clear dismissal

I obeyed her direct order

            I’d rather have

found a way back into

her good graces – to be

able to sit across from her

with a bowl of that soup

a slice of warm country

bread smothered in butter

a grilled sausage

and her sitting across the

table from me, laughing

if she only knew

how truly sorry I am

***

The smallest detail of a recipe in newsprint inspired this poem. The second after I saw it, I jotted the whole poem down in the margins of my crossword puzzle. It’s two parts outward spark, and two parts truth. The regretful feeling in this piece is very real. For me, it’s healthy and helpful to work it all out on the page, keeping the drama where it belongs. In art and outside of myself.

In propinquity,

Nic

Permanent Moonlight

Permanent Moonlight

I wish for it

an enduring nighttime

like that one we spent

at a high-rise party in

  1996

slow-dancing

across a herringbone

parquet floor

the act

upstaged

the anticipated

                        arrival of

Comet Hyakutake

other roisterers took the

stairs two at a time to

the roof to bear witness

& we just kept dancing

            I wish for it

insist for it – permanent

moonlight

            & a decent pen

with which to write it all

down

            to preserve time

to remember the steps we

took together  

            unaware

***

I am pretty sure I’m going to drink heavily tonight. Or, at the very least, open wine and drink a good quarter of it straight from the bottle. I’m mulling it over as I type. Whirlwind workday. In addition, gale force winds and accompanying rain on the commute home. An umbrella just wasn’t cutting it.

Happy to be home with a steamy bowl of Cream of Wheat for dinner. Something comforting and dependable after a rousing day of unpredictability. Happy to have penned this poem on the way home to my securities. My cat. And, my Mom who is dining quietly with me doing a crossword from the paper I brought home for her.

Is it Friday yet?!3

PS – Dusklight. Then a poem about permanent moonlight?! I’m sensing a theme here.

In propinquity,

Nic

Dusklight

Dusklight

            how sweet it is

Mercy’s sound at dusklight

paired with the taste of plum

brandy on my lips

all night I traversed

guided by a broken star map

with an armful of forgiving

wildflowers

            how kind they are

the red-wing blackbirds who

muted midnight, a riveting act

so we might

            dismantle the sun

***

It’s election day in Canada. I value the right to vote and never waste an opportunity to exercise it. I am feeling uneasy about the potential direction our country will be going in when I wake up tomorrow. I’ll be devastated if dirty campaigning and rhetoric puts Andrew Scheer in power. It’ll be like Harper 2.0 with a Trump twist and it’s not something I want for myself, my loved ones, and my country. I want my right and those of all Canadians intact. Even more than I want the budget balanced. My hope is Canadians are thoughtful with their votes today. Strategic. And, they aren’t just voting one way because they don’t like the other. It’s irresponsible to not think critically at the polls. I wish more people understood the magnitude of their actions. Or inaction.

I am sick to death of American politics ala Trump. I can’t hear that noise across this country too. If that happens, I might lose complete and utter faith in my fellow man.

Come on, Canada.

Until then, a sweet little poem.

In propinquity,

Nic

We Talk

We Talk

            hunched & huddled together

we talk rock ‘n’ roll in battered leather jackets

& weathered boots over strong cups of coffee

            in covert agreement

we talk Los Angeles & the New York sound

but mostly we just shoot the shit about nothing

opulence to squalor

            in unspooled metaphors

            for countless hours

we talk between bites of day-old stale confections

two rapid minds hatching conspiracies strange &

verbose in detail, what some might dare refer to as  

            grievous triumphs

            combined wounds bound & sacred

we talk about traveling through twisted mountains

to reach bright lights & big cities & small towns to

loud crowded gigs

            spit, smoke & spurs – an unfettered blur       

a wild flood of accrued backseat/stage memories

we talk

            with ease, mapping out the trajectory of

                        collective electrified blues

***

Just a poem. Written on a Friday morning commute when I wanted to read my book, the Universe thought better and that I should be writing. So, I did.

I’m hitting up a rock show at The Marquee tomorrow night. Perhaps that’s where it was culled from. Wherever the particles materialized from, I was just happy, as always, to write something down.

Getting closer to the date too I get to workshop Big Magic with Elizabeth Gilbert. Counting sleeps. I am grateful the workshop is coming at the same time I’m working on the creative non-fiction pieces for Family Ties. I think it’s going to be an asset in that regard in addition to a salve for my soul.

Happy Friday, peeps!

In propinquity,

Nic

           

                                     

           

Whiz/Bang

Whiz/Bang

blindsided

by his one-line rebuke

me

who is

always irrepressibly

cheerful

is now reduced to

a character in conflict

watching him drive away

w/o sufficient explanation

the dust kicking up a cloud

under the threadbare tires of 

his clattering camper van

                        whiz/bang

***

I know, I know. Another small poem. I couldn’t help myself!

In propinquity,

Nic

In The Wreckage

In the Wreckage

in

the wreckage

 of poetry

heeding music made

too loud

too lurid

sentences me to ruinous

tumult

***

Been a little obsessed with tiny poems of late. I appreciate their punch, the brevity, and their form. So much fun.

In propinquity,

Nic

He Knows

He Knows

on a slate grey morning in winter

I sat at the kitchen nook with him

listening to the sound of rustling

paper & the cool intonation of his

bitter insights – I can only offer a

series of rueful laughs

            he knows that he is adored

***

Scribbled a little something down while eating my breakfast today. It’s one of those stolen moments where I pecked without remembering I even did it. I love the feeling of coming out of those little creative hazes to discover a verse or a paragraph or a story before me. Nothing like it.

In propinquity,

Nic

Some Nights

Some Nights

some

nights

you dance

w/ tears in your

eyes

***

My bud came around with a little prompt for me. A one-lined poem. I got fancy and formed it like a poem but it’s basically one little line, standing alone, like the Cheese. A small but mighty writing exercise and outcome. At least it was for me.

In propinquity,

Nic

forgot, forgotten.

forgot, forgotten.

as soon as  

I realized you were lost (to me)

it was too late to fill the blazing void

that dun-colored morning you arranged a

quick departure across a soft sea of clouds

to the home of neon avenues & rolling hills

my eyes brimmed with tears

my heart mourned

as soon as

I found myself looking in from the outside

barred by a great wall of shielding shadows

grievous fair-haired obstacles posing as stern

substitutes for inspiration

            ingenious social butterflies who know

better than you or I (supposedly) – I understood

light no longer inhabits the stone &   

                                                from such darkness

I must survive the sun alone

***

My bud who sends me excellent writing prompts was on an internet hiatus. They went off the grid to travel and write and live and breathe. What a miraculous thing, yes?! I can’t say I’m not envious. That said, I woke this morning to this imagine in my email, a photo prompt. The words came fast. You should have seen the typos in my phone!

Another poem written always makes me feel good, especially since I’ve hit a brick wall with my project. I finished a creative non-fiction piece the other day and quickly started another, true to form with this ‘Family Ties’ project – but when I attempted to work on it. My head was empty. I don’t know what happened. Just suddenly, stuck. And with so much today. This prompt was timely. I likely won’t see another for awhile again but today I made something so yay me.

In propinquity,

Nic

Taste of Peace

Taste of Peace

bracelets

coiled tightly

‘round her slim wrist

her hand trembles

a little

            speaking only

in verse

looking for names in

the crowd

to argue with about

the dead

            instead she

is challenged on the

impotence of

God

going cool in her skin

she recalls

            once having

friends who believed

in                     Heaven

those bound

            by the conceits of

instinct and agony

            she wades later

in a laurel patch

            cadenced somehow

by a theatrical night

                        spent

hunting

for a taste of peace

calls on her      yearnings

in the vast wild

of moon-flooded night

to                     stitch

the motif

she is plain

            and good-hearted

despite the rain

            on the other side

of her chest

***

Purposely, I left my book at home today, so I didn’t have to lug it around after work en-route to the Memorial Cup Street Fest. My iPod also needed charging, so I scribbled on my morning commute. This poem was the result. I was just glad to find scrap paper in the bottom of my bag so I could write. No matter what it is, it’s always good to put pen to paper. I know what imagery this conjured for me, I hope for those who read it, can see her similarly.

Heading to see Ria Mae this evening. Then home to my bed. I wish it would warm up. I think I’ll have to wear my hoodie and my jacket tonight. Where is the sun!? At least it isn’t raining (knock wood).

Happy Wednesday!

In propinquity,

Nic