Tag

Hidden in the Oort cloud
panther among rushes
Comet feels the hand of Neptune
nudge him out of orbit

At the same moment, over a gumbo
lunch, we discuss--darting and feinting
like fencers--the pros and cons
of evolution as a provable theory.

Overhead, fans blow humidity
into heavy air, softness filtering
from the skylight, moisture dripping
down stone walls. If we ignore the young
sparrows playing tag among them, hanging
ferns complete a Devonian atmosphere.

During that single hour,
mutations occur the planet over,
glacial change creeping through murky
gene pools, predator and prey
locked an eternal game of run-and-chase.

When Comet arrives, he will lay
a gentle hand on every living thing
and say, "You're it."

Continuum

In response to Rebecca's prodding, here's a first, incomplete draft of something. We'll see where it goes.

controlled exhalation
connects me to a continuum
millennia of musicians pulsating
down a quantum river that flows
from measure one to some theoretical
double bar line at the end of the page

they swarm
           condensing into
           movement of lips and hands

as I draw inspiration
           their yellowed song
           my oxygen
they spiral from the horn
brought to life for a flash of ecstasy
                      nameless but beheld resurrection

Bushy-tailed Menace

Heavy sunflower heads bow,
hang-out of upside-down,
trapeze-jaded rodents.

Corn planted on a lark
never has a chance to ripen,
husks hastily ripped open.

Neighbours offer peanuts,
but this side of the fence,
slingshots inhabit autumn dreams.

The True Meaning of Winter

Wind is blowing the leaves around,
air that smells like sleep.
Yet this is when the true Canuck awakens:
When we hear that familiar tune on the tube,
Dah-dat dah-dahh dahh daaaahhhh!
Tingles course the spine like rivulets
of ice racing across a pond on a cold night.
What sight could be more joyous than the white
gleam of a fresh, unscarred sheet?

So what if the powers that be determine the big
boys won't come out to play this year,
the rest of us—true lovers of the game—
will skate on 3 a.m. ice, skate until we puke,
alternate swigs of beer and coffee for breakfast
bitch about whining millionaires, then drive
the kids to practice. Because if you let winter
clamp down on your heart, you slowly wither
among four walls, in front of a TV reality.