Wednesday, May 25, 2016

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

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

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 75th 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

Thursday, May 19, 2016

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

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

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

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

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
               


Wednesday, May 11, 2016

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

Monday, May 2, 2016

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