The road led down to the edge of a bay,
with waters of blue, on the other side of which lay
what seemed to be a camp with buildings long and low,
and surrounded by fences over which no man could go,
and figures in orange exercising in the yard,
and other figures in khaki who were probably their guards.
“There must be an entrance to this camp of theirs,”
said George to his team with a serious air,
“Let’s drive on up to the top of the bay,
and to the camp’s entrance find out the way,
that we may know just who these people are
and why they have all been put behind bars.”
Eventually they came to a barrier of steel,
intended to stop any entry and to seal
the camp off from the rest of the land,
and patrolled by soldiers with rifles in hand.
George asked them who the prisoners were,
and the soldiers replied “They are terrorists, sir.
captured by our army in Afghanistan,
and our job is to guard them the best way we can.”

from The Adventures of George
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)

Hops and topsy-turvy jumps ― blurred movement
muddles across  the dewy meadow floor,
as though dawn brushes away the sandman’s magic
from the corner of sleepy eyes,
                                  to cast an enchanting spell
    A sudden hazy yet abrupt stop…
    hastily,  halting ,   frozen motionless

Stillness, as if some final destination has been reached…
  
Neck stretched and craning,
tilted with an eye to mother earth ;
a canted focus beyond interruption
   In the blink of an eye,
   with a vigor too rapid to capture,
   as the nowness of urgency flashes ― 
 
   She stretches the earthworm
   with the grasp of subsistence
knowing after fall   becomes the long winterlude.

The morning sun illuminates the glow of the native Maple’s
glorious fiery orange and yellow color palette  
A steady stream of animation rushes in and out
   of the giant tree’s golden splendor

Abundance perishes with the seasonal gardens decay.
Mornings of blueberry and strawberry feasts
have left the red breasted robbers foraging
for the last rotting apples the deer have left behind.

   Harbingers of spring…
  
   Blueberry sneakers…
  
   Gleaners of fall and winter..

“Teeek”  “tuk” “tuk” “Tseep”....
        fills the overhead air
   with a beautifully chaotic verve

The flock returns repeatedly     to and fro     the towering Maple
to the ripened cornucopia of scarlet berry clusters of the Mountain Ash

The Robin’s flock ravage and gorge on the plentiful delights
Soon the crimson berries fuel of flight will disappear
   as if it were only an unspoken allusion
          of the passing seasons

The pearl gray sky is an ominous backdrop
          for the fickle fleeting migrants
Daylight fades as the flock disappears
          into a break                in the clouds
fleeting unto the ominous pending winter sky…

In the blink of an eye ... life’s  senescent seasons
transform the stormy whirling winds of change
bearing the golden Autumn leave’s splendor
   across the rolling vista
like a higgledy-piggledy murmuration
   of a migrating beautiful mess

The naked rooted scaffold’s branches stretch
across the sprawling tapestry of the wooded sanctuary.
Winter flocks of Thrush and Robins,
    arrive on a frosty new dawn
Red breast feathers puff with the morning sun’s rays,
warming the tree tops leaning toward the southern sky;
   Their journey here and now,
from distant mountainous horizons,
   is part of a soul’s sacred circle of life…


November rivers ...the final autumn entry of 2017

She is not pretty.
Her face is an average face; normal, common, ordinary. She have too big eyes, a nose that is a little bit too small, and slightly crooked teeth.
She is not pretty, and she does not mind.

Her heart isn't kind.
Isn't caring nor warm, but it is not bitter. It is a heart. Beating strong and pulsing with life. It is too tight, sometimes. Hurting her when she wanted to breathe. Most of the time she lives with the feeling of death but her heart is alive and so is she.

People asked her if she is capable of love.
They never get their answer because it is not their business what her heart can or cannot do.
She loves, barely and hesitantly. A child walking for the first time, falling down and keeps getting up.
She loves like she is dying.

Kindness isn't inherent in her,
but the autumn and pumpkin latte taste bright on her tongue, scalding and burning. She tried crying one night, but the mold would not broke (or it's already broken and she does have enough to care).

People whispers about her, she does not care.
Labels are pinned unto her back and she walks like life isn't just boxes with tags slapped on it. She walks like life is life and nothing more. They are scared of her, murmuring about her normal skin; how she can walk like she is deaf to the world.

They are afraid because she held the secret that they want so bad to devour.
"what is your deal?" "Why won't you smile?"
"Are you even human?" (howcanyouloveyourselfwhenyouarentspecialprettywhenyouarejustcomm­onandaveragehowhowhowhowho-)

She does not stand out, standing out means to fit in. She knows that to fit in means dying. And she is in love with life to let go, too in love to care that she is nothing and not special because she isn't. How can she be more than what she is when life is miraculous and a wonder and so so so much more than she could ever be in a lifetime.

She is not pretty, and she is okay with that.
Because she knows that there is so much more in life than beauty.

-nabs

Suddenly the eastern cook grew quite excited,
he had spotted a shop with Chinese characters,
and chickens and ducks hanging behind a glass
to stimulate the hunger of those who might pass,
and a red and gold signboard with letters that said,
“Welcome -  enter this place and be fed”.
The eastern cook cried, “Why not go in,
it’s time for lunch, let’s eat something.”
“Yes,” said George, “it’s a good idea,
and safe - they don't make hamburgers here!”
This restaurant was a noisy place,
with tables crowded and not much space
for waiters to carry their trays well laden
with assorted dim-sums and bowls of ramen,
and the clatter of people busily eating
with friends with whom they had a meeting
and chopsticks clicking and glasses clinking,
and background music and singers singing.
They all sat down at a table for ten,
and ordered lunch for their party of men,
and just one woman who said that she
didn’t eat much but that she would be
happy to try any stir-fried dish
as she was partial to greens and to fish.

from The Adventures of George
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)

From branches of lilac, the roots of the apple tree, swinging on the tire swing.
Always a square peg in a round hole in the eyes of my papa,
An artist in the eyes of my mom.
An adventurer in the eyes of my grandpa, he’s been navigating the universe for me
all the way from the stars when the cancer took him years too early.
A free spirit  in the eyes of my Gramma, picking apples from the trees and climbing too high.

My GG called me beautiful girl,
then a more beautiful version of herself after the brain stent went in and she forgot how beautiful she was when she was my age and could only tell the same story about the milkshakes in her prom dress.
It’s one of my favorites.
My grandma Wheeze grabbing my cheeks from her walker while lizards crawled outside her house slightly further in from the gulf.
Gumbo and rice in the kitchen, a separate pan of buttered shrimp she’d sneak to me while my siblings were not looking.

The whisk in the drawer where it sits unused since that winter sunday morning walk home.
The tiny clock on the shelf, nostalgic off tempo click, Minnesota evenings. It broke on the move.
Cat Stevens on the ride across the state and into Wisconsin, Bob Dylan on my papa’s guitar in the hot kitchen and the broken clock on the counter.
Gnocchi for dinner, cafe au lait on the porch.
“Basta” mom would say, yet never enough.
An early caffeine addiction.

A tabby cat and an unfortunate end in a risky fight with a squirrel, “Basta”, but never enough.
A calico replacement, a companion to the present.  
Protector of the house when we are away,
Mardi Gras every year, beads adorning the Christmas tree, shifting to the epiphany.
God protecting the house.
French Quarters and VooDoo protecting everything else.
In my blood, I have both.

Somewhere over the rainbow still makes me cry,
Death doesn’t make me cry, only the fact that someone is dead.
Sometimes I don’t see shooting stars and I don’t see the fireflies and I feel abandoned by them.
A broken white chair in the corner of the yard from a night of not feeling enough, “Basta.”


Tire swing no longer on the apple tree, run down trampoline, a broken leg, I never came out to my
GG, she was on her deathbed when I went to tell her and I couldn’t do it.
My grandpa was on his when I feared death last. I’m sorry.

Anxiety coupled with success doesn’t feel like much, maybe that’s why I drink too much coffee.
I’ve gotten better, a family of champs. Loud, passionate, winners.
I’ve stopped living for someone else, I live for myself.
I transcend. I’m Mr. Brightside, I am that chick at that concert, hand on the barricade.
I am a future world changer, I am a drum major, I am an artist, I am love.
I have love.
I am in love.
In this cage some songs are born, I am Bukowski before the alcohol.
I am inside the inkwell of Poe.
I am the verse rewriting itself in Whitman's lines.
I am Emerson when I say good-bye to this proud world.
I am the dew on the edges of Walden within the pages of Thoreau.

I am a poet and every poet all at once.
I am an artist and every artist all at once.
I am positive film, I still keep the negatives, I still develop.


I am a prism, I am a bearer of light.
I am everything.
I am nothing.
I am.

They landed in the capital city,
a charming place, but it was a pity
that attractive buildings were not maintained
or looked after at all, but still retained
their original grace, with brass-knockered doors,
and balconies projecting from every floor.
George and his crew went out for a walk,
and wandered through a maze of alleys,
hearing on all sides the people talk
in Spanish, but they did not dally,
but continued until they saw the ocean,
with waves describing a circular motion,
as they frothingly fell on a shore of white
endlessly stretching until out of sight.
The water was calm in shades of blue,
with sometimes a fishing boat in view,
but the beach was empty, no people there,
no swimmers, no sunbathers, not a deckchair.
No children playing and laughing with glee,
just a deserted strand and a tranquil sea.

From The Adventures of George
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)

We are always trying to get away
The Winter is dark, and cold, and im terrified
because I might get bad again
I would move far away
Somewhere warm

When we grow up,
We grow out of hometown angst
you made me find the beauty in Winter
The beauty in such a familiar place
Memory
Family
The places where we were happy
Why are we always trying to get away

You came back and you said
“I forget how much I miss this place”
“I forget how much I miss you”
You bought a my Chemical Romance album on vinyl
It’s comforting to know you still have as much angst as I do

We climb to the top of the parking garage the last time that year
Alice is gone
Off-white paint replaces her face
I still lock arms with you like I use to
It’s cold
But its beautiful
You hold my face in your hands
I look away to see our entire world encased in ice and orange lights
You sometimes feel like coming home
Like my hometown

It’s early
I saw the footprints in the snow and remember years ago
seeing footprints in the sand and realizing the people who left them had their own thoughts and feeling
The fresh snow glistens and I suddenly found beautiful
The wind took my breath away
Not figuratively
literally
I can’t breathe
Why don’t I have a ******* scarf

We have unfinished business
At 3:35 in the morning you texted me
“I guess we could kiss again”
You’re like my hometown
When I look at you
I see cold nights in your car
Hands somehow finding each other in the dark when we aren’t looking
The pier
Cutting my foot at the lake, you kept telling me DON’T LOOK DOWN IT’S NOT BLEEDING THAT BAD
it was.
you bought me ice cream after

You’re like my hometown
you’re memory
Family
The one that made me happy
Why are we always trying to leave

You bought another My Chemical Romance album on vinyl
And you wrote a song about a girl with pink hair
and someone you called a “rambunctious ****”
You have so much angst
but so do i
I miss you.

she's narrating the way
she's falling apart
with every word
they call her art

she called for help
they called it
poetry
can anyone ever separate
metaphor
from
reality

so she smiled instead
she was pretty instead
there was color instead
she was alive instead

they pat her back
well done
good work
relatable content

meanwhile she
is actively dismissing
the intent
to pack up and go
to quit and say no
to end it and skip it and leave it
so she penned it
posted it and shared it

if the only way
to break away
is this creative escape
she'll take it
any day she'll fake it
just to find a reason to make it

The dark man then shouted, “If it’s pork that you wish,
then have it you will,” and hurled the whole dish
at the Maximum Leader who was hit in the beard
and his nose and his cheeks and his uniform smeared
with pork and with beans and chili sauce seasoning
which ran down his face and stained all his clothing.
The Latin cook then grabbed a cleaver immense
in order to protect and come to the defense
of the Maximum Leader, who support did not lack,
as all of his aides jumped into the attack.
A melee broke out with punching and fighting,
shouting and cursing and kicking and biting,
tables knocked over and crockery broken,
this was for George a tricky situation.
But, quick-witted, as usual, he knew what to do.
On the stove there was boiling a large *** of stew,
picking up a cup, and the other cooks too,
they filled them with hot broth which they then threw
at the combatants all, who, burned, ceased their brawling
and fled for their lives to avoid further scalding

from The Adventures of George
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)