Turn onto
Trap grounds
Spend a moment
Curated Eden
Silver bushed
Wet scuffing squirrel
Shoots under
Rooted upturn of trunk
Slakes back
Hairy tendril roots
Finger away
Dappled heat
Old breath of rhubarb
Chokes
Stumble drunk elder
Fizzes nose
Alerted fresh
Up there hear
High branched breath
Look down there
Mushroom home
At foot
Lowly  mauve
Modest flesh
Penetrate deep
Immense
Deep dark
Wet dark
Soil
Absorbs
Thunderous
Footfall
Unperturbed

Your mind is somewhere else,
just wait and see,
you never can´t reverse,
who you will always be.

You just do, whatever you want,
and you never think of others,
and sometimes you really can´t
do anything, what matter.

You always think that all is yours,
what you can see around you,
there´s not enough room for love,
it´s just your ego making you a fool.

Be and love, take care of them,
you know, all comes around you
and even if you cant´t see well,
you´ll see, love is in your soul.

Be yourself, but in the good way,
don´t hurt your loved ones more,
and never let anyone say,
that you don´t deserve love.

- Tarmo Selter -
2024

In my New Day I arose from my
screen-tent-mole-hole-flimsy-bomb-shelter-for-my-soul
and walked down to the banks of the Missinabi River
at the Mattice Landing
with dog’s leash in one hand and my right hand
leading lady’s in the other hearing and feeling tall grasses
swishing against my pant legs
and the crunch of course sand under my feet that once trod fields of green tall grasses swishing against my pant legs in the meadows and rocky woods of
my childhood and youth where I spent summers working

at my Aunt and Uncle's farm in
Canada's Northern Ontario region, and in the woods and along the banks
of the Lackawanna River just over the **** behind
the house of my childhood and youth in the Anthracite coal
region of the American Northeast which is light years away from the land of my birth where I now live in this Northern Ontario port in the middle of a deep
                                     cold sea of countless
                                     converging
                                     never-ending
rivers
lakes
trees
swamps
bogs
muskeg
and mountains of snow
where snow white and black flies fly freely.

I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush
burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses
that is in all of us.

This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching
under foot and tall grasses swishing and canoe parting
waters that flow deep in my mind and spirit--once only
winding past burning villages where humans **** and pillage
--but now also following a more
pastoral             idyllic             and super-natural course.

A vagabond never quite understands the working-class
woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land.

I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand.

But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news.

They must rise early the next morning alarm clocks not set on snooze.                                            

work ethic
family hearth and home
days of scent
of freshly mown grass  
barbeques                                          
campf­ires  
coffee brewing  
children playing  
TV and music blaring
dishes rattling
in sink or
swim in the lake

Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the
crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall
grasses swishing against pant legs...

Not only wishing
but going deeper into the trees and bush burning
speaking to our primeval consciousness.

This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses
swishing.
The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams
through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand
between my fingers and toes crouched down wet-crotch deep waiting long enough for minnows to tickle fingers and toes as mosquito’s pin-prickle skin.

Watching creatures much smaller than I gliding
even walking on calm still water which we humans can only dream of doing in our motorized sleep.

I think I now understand:

To not be constantly mourning the plight of man isn't being ostrich with head in sand.
I must keep gunning-off the haunted deeps alluring stare.

I must taste life
    Smell and feel life
        Enjoy life outside of my troubled mind

against the backdrop of the latest holy war
and the imploding creations of our kind.

I always went for the natural look
till it dread itself with dread

I put some conditioner
and lathered its sorrows away

Little did I know
that I was manipulated into thinking
my natural was natural...

Till I dried it off
and saw a lighter curlier ...natural

It has been three Tuesdays since I lost you.
I will never forget seeing you, just lying there.
I went to our regular coffee shop, at the regular time.
For the second week in a row I ordered both our drinks.

It has been nine Saturdays since I lost you.
The drugstore called yesterday and said your medicine needed to be picked up.
I picked it up.

It has been seven episodes of that show you like, since I lost you.
Most of the things on the DVR are yours.
I’m just not ready to delete them. It’s the little things.
I don’t think I can just yet.

It is the first Thanksgiving since I lost you.
Dinner at my parents was nice, but no one mentioned you.
I canceled Christmas with your parents.
They said they understood.

It has been twenty-two Sunday walks in the park since I lost you.
More than once, my friends told me it is time to pick up and move on.
What is so important about moving on? I lost someone I love.

It has been dozens of mornings waking up and not seeing you asleep.
You are more than someone I wanted to spend my life with.
You were a comfort, a constant, a habit.

It has been five months since I have heard you tell me you love me,
and the memory is starting to fade. I can’t lose it too.

It has been one hundred seventy-four days, sixteen hours, and twenty-one minutes since I lost you.
To him.

Sem sabermos bem o que é o destino,
Sem sabermos se é  profano ou divino.
Parece ter ordem cósmica ou sobrenatural,
Destino que parece efémero  e fatal.

Ninguém a ele pode escapar,
Nem dele se pode livrar.
Parece ser um dever cumprido,
Dum sonho passado, vivido.


O destino existe e nunca é conhecido,
Parece ser porto sem abrigo.
O homem nasce com tudo predestinado,
Seja no amor, na morte, no pecado.

Parece estar em sintonia com o Deus criador,
Um ser supremo feito de  paz e amor.
Criaturas transcendentais repletas de luz,
Te enfeitiçam com o destino que  seduz.


Destino da criança que chora sem razão,
Respiramos com a brisa a bater no coração.
Entusiasmo com o espelho da vidraça,
Destino que tudo conforta e abraça.

Victor Marques