Category: poems (page 1 of 2)

New Water

Truth be told I knew this in winter
on a snowshoe trail in Skir Dhu the woman who can name every apple tree on the mountain pushed pieces of puzzle (a picture of our planet), by a large glass double-pane under the ceiling of months more snow to melt.
she told me about your structure
and the heat
and water

the endless dreams you have for us, if only we’ll have you.

you have something we lack
great gorgeous dreams set back in growth
a large open concept style room with 3 solid wood timber walls and high glass roof,
infinitely vaulted and precious and unspeakable

You’re scent – watering the woods and burning branches,
Pining by the ocean for us and
coaxing us to come,
if only we’ll have you

And if it’s not for us we’ll know by first ceremony
~Hot and dry is always Church for the Cold and damp~

I can worship the bodily memory of smoking my complex mothers ice cold cigarettes
in an abandoned cathedral with 3 red sandstone walls and high glass ceiling – My First Crush
a structure I’m at home in now
where it’s possible to see unobstructed through entry, past personal spaces, to wholly absent West wall laid down for a view of endless horizon and an always good-morning

It either evokes a gift or it doesn’t!
It’s got no power over you and you’re no bruja
There is no magic, only the less glamorous truth of daily life lived out.
so if you’re lucky and you’ve found love, do us a favor and let that island have you

Hobby Crotch







Logos of Good Boys grow dowdy on cold months of polygymy
hobby crotch on cocky wolf:
worlds worst wormy symptom

Brock knows lots of jocks.
Cocky clowns.
boys of swords, of slots:
old symbols of worldly wrong
Nosy knobs who plot to kybosh strong womyn or only knock boots to log rocks off
(not to stop moon clocks)

worthy Trophy womyn worn bold growl or troll or flock to horny dorms.

No swords,  only words…


For my WaterBorne Sister



A good journey is necessarily

to the edge of known territory –

Familiar Feelings saying: ‘Go No Further’,

but feats compel me ‘Walk on Water’


On Water, it’s regular to see my Water Borne sister…

… She’s come ‘cross territory, too

“I have these mirrors – I think one’s for you!

If you don’t take it from me I’ll  smash it in the fire under the teepee!”


She’s never trusted mirrors completely – Oh, she’s looked into them plenty –

they just never seem to say everything.


A well polished mirror gives accurate reflection,

and the extra keen can read wherein they’ve been.

I mean,



? Have you seen the faces of folks riddled with habitual regret?



This man’s hands got made leathern in the Will of his Work –

His unavoidable and obvious trademark

evaluating every other hand by their standard:

“This Is The Grip”



Where he’s been and where he art, reflect perfect in them.

What’s a man like that gonna do with high polished perception?

Her mirror can’t tell him coming Season- even that there are Season.





that’s ok, neither can we.



(on the other hand)

Can read the signs blind,



‘Give me your Ascending,

your Descending,

the House of your Rising…

Quote me your element?

Your animal Totem is relevant, too.’


And I do,

and it’s all true.


She 2 hand holds several smoky mirrors up in front of a man peering habitually through inverted black prisms :


“Let’s try limits on unlimited systems!” :



See how fast your sun sign comes around when she pulls prophetic cards in the shade


Crossed Patterns get sacrificed ten ways

in circles and at challenging angles, like this:



fuels the Fire

which begat Earth

which begat Metal

which begat Water

which begat Wood


Now Water

douses Fire

which melts Metal

which cuts Wood

which uproots Earth

which muddies Water



Observe some track of land and understand it to be true

See it for what it is, what it could be.


She’s remapped the territory and lays it out on top of me

She’s moving across that water again and re-reminding me 

that we


Are One Water


and Water into water



How are you this morning?

What about now?


hughI spotted Hugh on the side of the road 10:30 Friday morning. His back was turned to me
and to the sun. He hadn’t yet stuck out his thumb but I knew he was looking for a ride. Once
he got inside it took me a moment to catch his name. A lot of Newfie accents sound the same,
but his was Labrador West Coast – coarse and hoarse even to my ears. I’ve practiced
listening Newfanese for years, spending time in North Sydney talking shit over beers.

He’s 82, Hugh.
Scallop Dragger.
Gypsum Miner.
Long time Logger.
Knows the backlands.

I notice his hands arthritic and tanned. His sunken cheeks and a mouth that barely moves
when it speaks. He’s got family in the Craignish Hills and hikes the cleaves between the
peaks. As we’re rolling along and shooting the breeze he’s pointing out roads tucked into the
trees. Places I’ve seen and never considered go in very far, and even if they did I don’t
imagine taking the car. The kind of road you think goes nowhere, leads you back the way
you came there.

It’s news to me that a 200 year old church stands partway to Judique, on a logging road
that starts outside River Deny’s. He says a Minister comes in even mid February to give
service for snowmobilers keen on communion. These roads I’ve never considered now seem
important to wander on.

He’s happy when I show him my favorite fountain just at the turn to Orangedale. It’s a
popular spot to fill a jug or pail with clean water all year round. We wait a minute and listen
to the sound of water through green undergrowth – Green even now under all last years
death. Driving on we talk about water and he shows me 2 more spots to fill. It’s pleasant
conversation with my new pal.

He’s solid, reliable.
Totally himself – undeniable.
A man thumbing his own roads,
Carrying his own load.

I drop him off at another roadside dirt track, telling him if he’s lucky he can catch up with
the Grader carving down the flatpack. He seems unconcerned about catching a ride,
hearing my witty and letting it slide. He’s taking his time. In my mind, that Grader is his
only hope in Hell.

He steps out on the gravel,
He knows it well.


My older sister took step dance and fiddle lessons
during the last half of the 1990’sThe classes happened after school hours
at a modest, well kept home on Alder Point Road.
I’d walk with my mother to the end of the road
where lobster and scallop boats rested ‘gainst the pier after days work.

One warm evening with the sun still high
we reached the pier early, then turned around and ambled the opposite
direction to kill time, waiting.

We talked about nothing in particular, maybe
what we’d have for dinner or yardworks that need doing, nothing in particular.

I smelled what I thought was brushfire as we stepped into an area with many houses.
Rounding a high hedge I saw it was in fact an entire clothesline full of clothes, on fire.

There was no one around. It’s strange to be the first to a scene.

I saw an outdoor faucet with hose attached, the hose was on fire.
My mother was knocking on the side door of the home but getting no response so
she pushed the door wide open. A woman in her early forties stood
casually washing dishes at the kitchen sink.

‘Your back yard is on fire’ I think I said, and we all went to look.
Some of the clothes hung, burning.
Most of them were on the ground, burning.
The shed stood – burning.

A neighbor had already called the fire department who were showing up now.
They tried their best to save other out-buildings while the woman searched for her son.

She found him in the basement with a friend of his from the neighborhood.
They had been playing with solvents in the shed, lighting them up in styrofoam containers.
One boy’s arms no longer had skin below his t-shirts sleeves;
the woman’s son had burned three layers of skin from his face, head and neck

they sat in the basement and burned together
afraid to confess what they had done

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