Words used to fall
From this mind of mine,
Flowing, gushing,
Waterfalls of inspiration.

Gardens used to bloom
From the ink that anointed
Many pages.
Like April showers bringing May flowers.

But lately I'm more like October
Bringing death and decay
Slowly fermenting to cold December.

Section 17 Row H seats 11 and 12
Almost every home game does he see
A grey haired man with a clip board sits
Two seats over and one down from me
He's a scout for the bigs, Comes most games to watch
Can't watch as a fan anymore
They know he made it, was up with the Bruins
Played defence with Old Number Four
He watches intently for five minutes or so
Just enough to watch each kid skate twice
Then he drinks down his coffee all in one gulp
and then he returns his eyes to the ice
The Scout, we will call him, for lack of a name
Has seen kids who've got game disappear
They find out he's watching, they get all uptight
And they can't play 'cause they're all tense with fear

I watched for four games, got his routine down pat
Watched him arrive and watch the kids skate
He'd go down in the corner and stand by the glass
Watching close through the plexiglass plate
He stayed away from the coaches, the players as well
And the parents, he'd avoid like the plague
If one ever stopped him, and asked "How's my boy"
He'd smile, and give an answer so vague
His career ended early with a stick to the head
Almost killed him, but, he was too mean
His left the game early, with Wayne Maki to blame
The Scout, is Edward "Ted" Green


Each season he'd sit, watching game after game
In arenas all over the land
Some kids he'd notice, he did not come to watch
They were just something that wasn't planned
He'd come into town to watch a kid who could score
And go home with two names on his list
One a defence man, and the goalie as well
But, the scorer, couldn't skate and got missed
Ted, would watch and make his reports on kids
Some were right, and the kid would go pro
He may be a star in the minors right now
But, the bigs...well, fate only knows

He'd listen to parents and coaches talk of the boys
Saying "My son's the next Bobby Orr"
Ted would chuckle a little and not say a word
He knew the kid would be heard from no more
Putting pressure like that on a young players back
Is like saying, "My boy will be God"
From then on it's never, the talented kid
I'ts the boy cursed with Orr's lightning rod
Many young players get compared to the best
But to say it out loud is a curse
You put a red dot on the young players back
He may as well leave in a hearse

Ted's seen them all, coaches, players and bums
Played when the game was real tough
They  had lighter equipment, not kevlar like now
and Ted, as we know liked it rough
His scratches and scribbles on the page tell a lot
But to the untrained they look like a mess
A pharmacy student couldn't read what he wrote
Nor a court stenographer I guess
He's a spotter of talent with stories to tell
More of them about kids who fell short
Most of them cursed with the "My kids the next..."
and the name of the best in the sport

Two Hundred and Ten games he watches each year
Most times he's gone early on
He's sees what he needs and then he packs up his stuff
And by the end of the first, Ted is gone
He's off on the road to another ice rink
To sit and watch on the hard seats, so cold
To listen as parents and coaches again
Talk of greatness, it's all gotten old
Terrible Ted has a warriors soul
And his grey hair is thinner but, curly
He has ice in his veins and a stick through his heart
Too bad his playing time ended too early.

Oh I met him in the garden
And he called my name
I'd been watching him in the open
But I was ashamed

Cause I knew he was
What I could never be

It felt like a thousand years
Passed by in a flash
I sold my souls and tears
For approval and cash

Now I knew for sure
What I could never be

Now we're back in the garden
And I see him again
He's a stone's throw away
Saying his amen's

The spirit's still willing
For what I could never be

Here's a garden on a hill
With just three trees
His mamma is still
clinging to me

He's looking to me
To be what I could never be

I'll race you to the garden
Where we laid him down
The tomb is open
Angels around

I finally believe
In what I can never be

The gardener prunes
He'll bear fruit through me

You've planted daisies
Inside of my heart
And now they're starting to grow.

It's been awhile since plants
grew here.
It's been a garden
full of those potted
plants that you buy
at the supermarket or Home Depot
that you think you'll take care of
but they die soon after.

Gardens are only for those
with green thumbs.
My thumbs are red
from plowing and tilling the soil in my veins
in hopes that maybe
A good planter will come along
and plant the right flowers.

Daisies are starting to grow on me
and I think they're here to stay.

Stumbled across my strength,
And travelled the secret alley,
In moments of rejoice,
I found myself shooting stars,
In Gardens full of Bliss,
And fallen stars in the sky,

Robins spike the lawns,
Pulling from moist earth,
Bobbing and rigging oil
Skinned worms topside
And butterflies hovering,
Round eddies over flowers
On a windless day, sailing
In search of colourful spots
On which to land, sparrows
Are nesting above the fray,
Winging with fresh supplies
Building bases about twigs,
Tufts and twine, canvassing
The nailed on house shelters
Left for them, finches, yellow
Headed come in, cheerfully
Raiding the red apple buds
Before trees are even laden
And flowers are out in force
As the rapacious humming
Birds thrusting their rapiers,
Lash all the hearts blooming.

You're the answer I hear
when learning misbehaves
friendship running off around hedges
with rounded edges
calling me to figure out the facts
behind neatly pruned leaves
learning what is covered
when they cease
to scatter and dodge

I follow the delectable hints
to where the giggles grow
louder now I'm led toward
your near indecent scent
the flowers in the borders
wriggle with unbound glee
whilst love hides with held breath
in hidden indents

you dare to press up close
against an idle post
where radiance warms
to a chance find in prospect
expectant that your dalliance
will escape my notice
but I see it blooming in pupils
where love's not faked

I find you on a hunch
in the midst of hesitations
when I tease the bush
apart like two explaining pages
opening answering lips
brimming with wild questions
each kiss a knowing release
to lush and flowing fields

that day that friendship faced
the truth of love's sweet tutelage

I’m weeding through my bedside manner

because I thought the dull thudding of bass line wasn’t just my heart anymore

I met a boy who could see his heart through his chest

and and and

the women on the bench moved anyway

they asked what i was drawing

and the woman’s tattoo looked like adventure

but her face looked like she had spent too much time waiting

and and and

my feet don’t touch the ground

but my soul does.