In the Cave
(514-520 BC)
one goes on a journey
knows where one’s been
reality returning
one tells what one’s seen
shadows dancing
on night’s silver screen
verbal sketches
from where one’s been
speaking other languages
heard not seen
the more one speaks
the more others think
‘dream’
a dream for those
who’ve never been
where one’s been
After the Floods
(2004 BC)
as the crow flies
so the pigeon
holding straws
within its beak
time to rebuild
not so easy
mud walls fallen flat
rubble and rubbish
litter river banks
warped wooden planks
water-swollen
so much stolen
by wind and wave
who now knows
the unknown
perceives the abyss
beneath egg-frail
cockle-shell hulls
waters recede
islands re-emerge
bald skulls of hillocks
stripped of grass and trees
water-logged fields
old bones dug up
displayed in the ditch
Murals
Painting a mural,
inside, interior
wall, knowing it will
stand time’s test.
Viaduct broken,
a tumbled engine,
Canadian workers,
railwaymen all,
some from Macadam,
pebbled the floor,
handrail, radiator
camouflaged for war,
part of the painting.
Depart from the station.
Turn right. Straight ahead,
flaked peeling paint.
So sad, this outside
mural, exposed to winter’s
snow, frost, winds, and ice.
So vulnerable
and so ephemeral.
Butterfly on a rock.
Such a short-lived
summer, over in a day.
Comment:
My friend, Geoff Slater, inventor of line painting and a renowned muralist, is painting a mural at Macadam Railway Station celebrating the role of Canadian railway engineers in WWI. Here are two fragments from his unfinished mural. The poem above is based on his lamentation that his outdoor murals, subject to the slings and arrows of outrageous Canadian winter weather, are ephemeral, like butterflies, and cannot endure.
Crows
one day
whirled off my feet
next day
toes set
in concrete
a single black feather
floats down from the sky
meaning?
a bone to a dog
sun-flower seeds
strewn before squirrels
red and grey
the occasional chipmunk
only crows
black-winged marauders
monarchs destined to wear
a weighty crown,
cry out their anguish
mobbing the hawk
longing for the day
when they’ll rule again
Anything
a desire
to be different
slightly different
anything
dyed hair
piggy-wig ring
thrust through nose
or lip or ear
or anywhere
a tat
tattooed on a tit
a buttock
go for a mullet
an afro
skinhead
anything
to tip the scales
to turn you
from mediocrity
to celebrity
with a wave
of a magic wand.
in the snap
of arthritic fingers
Jack Pine at Tara Manor
(1770 & 1834 & 1917 & 1977 & 2018 AD)
Tara Manor jack pine
arm-waving Maritimer
long-past sea-faring
cult-haired declamation
poem to a wilderness
cultured
cultivated now
you radiate disorder
flustered
clicking needles
clustered
knitting the wind
lop-sided
radical forest church
spired with birds
crows’ nest crowned
growing out extravagant
salted the air
old man’s beard
sprouting fresh bristles
old salt sea salt
always a helping branch
to point the time of day
each rough-barked limb
a friendly hand extended
every night
your black bristling branches
haul down the sun
Purple
I pen poems
in emerald ink
but I prefer
the violence of evening’s
bruised violets
wind-beaten clouds
add dark depths
to a rainbow
a glow of satisfaction
flutters northern lights
the setting sun
hums low notes
to cello
and double bass
Comment: I like this, but I prefer the re-write. If you wish to express your preference, I would be glad to receive it. This is the third revision. Click here to read the first posted version of Purple. Any comments on the evolution of the poem would also be welcomed.
Purple
violent
evening’s
bruised violets
wind-beaten clouds
move through dark depths
a rainbow arcs
an iris curve
northern lights
flicker organ music
fugues of color
sound into light
low notes hum
bring tears to the eye
cello and double bass
serenade a setting sun
Memorial Service
In the funeral home we meet, crack jokes, exchange
greetings and pleasantries, renew friendships,
shake hands, avoid eye contact. Family members
greet us, recall our names, mention us in the same
breath as the dearly departed. Musical chairs:
we shuffle from hand to hand. Discomfort is both
mental and muscular. We tighten our faces
into skeletal smiles, peeling lips from teeth.
We search for washrooms, step inside, recover
breath and balance. Outside, empty chairs await.
We shun reserved seats, drift to the back of the room,
close to the exit. A polished pianist plays
Beethoven, some Bach, music that softens the soul
for the family’s sucker punch of intimate loss.
A sister stands up and speaks: growing up together,
so close. Sibling comforts extract a tear. All sigh.
She breaks down. Packets of Kleenex, strategically
placed, spring into action. Someone sobs. Like the common
cold, it affects us all. Service over, we pay tribute with known
family members. One after another, we offer our last
respects, and leave. Someone says “Follow us home.
We’ll celebrate.” Another discovers a flat tire
and calls the CAA. A man phones a Chinese take-out.
I hobble to the door, locate my car, and drive
the long way home, sitting in the car, all by myself.
Age of Spillage 2
Fingers turn to butter, permit cups to slip,
flying saucers to take off, to stall and crash,
their broken bodies resting in peace and pieces
on kitchen floor, waiting to be picked up and buried.
Worse: bottle tops screwed up tight refuse to open.
Plastic wrapping, flagrant in its defiance,
wages its guerrilla war against ageing,
uncoordinated, arthritic fingers.
Tongue-twisters twist tongue, tones, and speech,
filling mouths with glottal stops and threadbare words.
The ribcage is a cupboard barren and bare.
So many slips between palate, teeth, and lips.
So many precious things dropping to the floor.
I cannot always bend and pick them up,
not even with my new mechanical claw.
Commentary:
A slight set of revisions to the earlier version. Any and all comments welcome.
https://rogermoorepoet.com/2018/07/23/age-of-spillage/
Migrants
Think natural disasters. Think famine,
wars, violence, plague. How our world changes
when refugees arrive, blend, contribute,
offer so much, their languages, cultures.
Yet we still exploit them, stealing subtle
things, their identities, their energy,
their ability to adapt, to give
so much and really to take so little.
Who would want to build a wall,
to reject them, to deny entry?
Maybe a million Indigenous people
can actually claim the right
to belong here. Most are immigrants,
late-comers in one way or another.
To accept, to grow together in peace,
to establish a nation where people
need not fear imminent expulsion
for the color of their skin, their language,
their religion, their political thoughts,
the fact they may not even vote for us.
rogermoorepoet 