Laika

I wonder how Laika felt,
The dog the Russians blasted
into space in the 50s.

Did she pee with terror
in her dog-sized pressure
suit upon lift-off?

Or did she sit there stoicly,
the capsule transformed into
a shaking high-gravity kennel?

Did she whine with wonder
at the blue-green planet revolving
slowly beneath her?

Or did she think it was all
a particularly strange dream
and vow to avoid dumpster caviar?

Back on Earth, a stamp in her honour--
imagine that! A stamp!--did the adulation
go to her head? Did she refuse

to behave or sit still for the camera
unless she was called
by her real name: Kudryavka?

Hourglass

you're walking down the street
whistling that happy tune
stuck in your suboncious
for the last week

sun shines on your smile
wind propells you along gently
you go to cross the road
and get run over by a bus

the wind changes suddenly
time-lapse clouds approach
and you're eating gravel
and drinking rainwater

and you think, this is more like it
nobody likes a happy ending

Your best buddy on the other hand
is on death row for a murder

committed by a pimp who shoved
the gun in your pal's hand and ran
of course the cops thought he did it
standing there like a dumbass

the legal-aid newbie out of lawschool
didn't help his case
of course they threw the book
but now years later they get the pimp

on another charge and he fesses
up and your friend is free
And the first thing he does
is comes to see you in the hospital

In a hundred years...

...nobody will know that you or I ever existed.

My grandfather is fading away
like ink on a page left out in the sun,
the once crisp lines of his memory
becoming harder to read every day.
When he finally goes, his pages
in my book will eventually turn white,
and I will unwittingly write something
over them, until he is nothing more
than a name and an image my own
son has written, and after I die,
even that will be gone.

Absense of light

an absence of light signals
another day is gone
Sunday is over
didn't get much done

no writing, much reading
two hours wasted on TV
my head is flooded
with thoughts of humanity

Who is my Adam
the first human born
an ape-man walking
on the savannah forelorn

it's not possible to hold
six million years in your mind
all the births and deaths
the past has left behind

small sparks of awareness
never truly opened
and not so far from now
mine too will end

but gosh this is bad
such a terrible song
my Sunday's still wasted
and this is just WRONG

Quilliams Creek

Quilliams creek was high
for the end of July
high for April even
we paddled upstream

to the bridge
had lunch in the shade
of an ancient maple
listening to yesterday's

rainwater rush below
the fields were flooded
hayrolls soaked and leaning
like sleeping elephants

the scene flowed
like a movie pan
the only sound track
our laughter as we avoided

Low hanging branches
heaved the canoe around
oxbow turns
leaning out of opposite

sides perfectly
balancing each other

Graffiti

Lost in a crowd
I feel the secret thrill
of the middle aged
walking through in the bad
end of town in daylight

"Don't be scared
it's only street art"
scrawled on a wall
bikers and hookers
smiling at me

I'm not scared, oh no
just getting old
so I start a blog
maybe go to a rave tonight
drop some E

(or does "drop" apply only to acid?)
A better and cheaper solution
than buying a Ferrari
maybe buy a can of spraypaint
spray this on a wall

maybe need some editing though
I know I won't anyway
nor drop the E
but starting a blog
harmless fun, no?