Troy Cafe

I see but cannot hear
         sky washers
         tossing sun like
         shimmering dice.

No, it is twang of cornet
         leaking loons of clarinet
         manwoman tune
         baby's yelp
         fan's wide wedge:

         these dance across brick walls of red.

Chords of light
         go happening
         phosphorize mind's silver slate
         and, traceless,
         vanish in renewal.

Springtime in Nova Scotia

Soggy bones, bleached grey,
                       resting thin fingers
                       on pale beam of May
                       while lions guild moist
                       red brick lawns

                       (my fog of salted
                        pea nuts gnawing on the noon.)

Rambling round Dartmouth, I've
                       seen bright cords,
                       pink, orange, lemon green
                       knotted to remember,
                       as freely, they wander
                       round tree whose tips
                       reveal flesh of Spring
                       beneath brass cross
                       above the funeral hall.

"Pass a few so swiftly fleeting years

and all that now in bodies live

Shall quit like me the vale of years

Then righteous sentence to receive."

Tombstone of Edward DeWolf

who died March 7th 1836, 

in the 34th year of his age.

                     

Things Undone

40 rooks of cheddar melting
               in an errant soup, best
               not spooned.
Like it were best not
               hitching with Trinity
               cross shattered
               Salt Lake streets
               stripped naked by poker.
Ill advised.

Those oats long since cloistered
               within the polished oaken casket, locked
               within the lost chamber
               the lock of which has frozen
               from crevice corrosion.

Rather, my steps loft, softly
               falling, warm bed of snow
               melting into pit of knee
               soaking denim threads
               tossed by mother many years since.

The moon of frost, draped upon black pines
               still sings to me in tongues
               I can't recall.

April Fools

Stubborn man booked,
                        blew some cash.
     Chasing rainbows round the
     planet. Gone 'gainst all
     words and wishes and
     best intentions of my love.

Seeker sought pure patient path,
     a true footing
     thread between sharp
                         blackberry claws
                                           brown
                         glue mud slick.

Fools of April
     swept in from four winds
     ten directions,
     filling hall full song,
                         supplications on nine hundred lips.

Teacher taught, uncloaked a
     brilliant milk of light
     scattered richly heaped
     galaxies, as so many
                         grains of saffron rice,
                         tumbling petals of the sacred flower.

Now all disbanded,
     flown again to
     fifty homelands of their mother tongues.
     Puzzling how to square
                         the Guru's ask
     against so many
                         sticky fingered
                         circumstances
                         slowly crushing their
                         wind pipe of intent.

So too, I now idly pluck loose
     lashes from my eye.
     As we rocket over Black Aleutia,
                          bound for heavy home.

Loss for Words

Grey Delhi dawn

Soft smog drapes heaven.

Bones of morning
         recline beneath
         white duvet.

Words struggle,
         shy to surface.

Just want to breathe
         the breath
         of golden peace.

10th Floor Voyeur

Dilapidated festival waivers
          on the morning breeze.
          Gone are the magenta floods
          the flags, streamers.
          Yowling echoes of amplified praise
                    linger on my fading
                    ear of mind

The chance was offered, but I
          cowered on floor 10
          crammed my ears full    wax.
          Dared not.

Content in this cocoon, I merely
          watch the orange-eyed pigeons preen
          and scatter from
          brown wheels of kite.

While down on the dirt patch,
          cricket boys have marked
          their boundaries
          in day-glo cones.

Holder of the White Diamond

Calm    slow    clear    deliberate:
          this path of steps.

Clean, pure scent of saffron discipline
          impels carousel coloured cotton:
                      maroon, green, orange, pink
          white pearl syllables, sparkling
                      hues of violet, ruby, turquoise
                      vibrant milk crystal
                      pouring liquid light in all
                                              directions,
                       revolving upon its etched
                                              gear discs
                      buzzing murmur echoes
                      the full throated song,
                      the golden diamond wisdom
                      that eradicates every
                                              vestige of stuck.