The older guys knew what to do:
dig a deep bed
and bury the coals under sand.
A survival tactic
they’d learned somewhere.

On that freezing night by the lake,
no one talked much,
just the crackle of cooling embers
and the weight of breath in the cold air.

I remember the heat on my back,
like the sun was buried under me
and our blankets were made of myriad stars.
We survived till morning
and followed the frost to the tracks.

may depress,
but I see it as the tree of winter
shedding its last leaves.

If it’s cold,
it’s only because winter
has paused over us,
resting without a coat.

If it’s grey,
it’s only because winter
hasn’t slept in days—
his face gone ashen.

Intellectually,
I’m indifferent to vicissitudes,
but my body feels the changes—
my body is the weak point.

I compensate—
growing leaves and poems
on my limbs,
that the spirit might carry
into Spring
what the body can’t.

Bread flour on the table
on my hands
over my mother’s apron

She'd dab some dough on my nose
and we’d both laugh

When she shook the flour
from her apron
an angel hovered in the air

When the loaves
went into the oven
it was like mother heat
and warmth
shaping the dough

That first taste
was the bread of life
the last taste
will be the bread of life

Why do I love Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise so much?
What has happened to me,
Overnight I’ve become an old man who weeps
For a song without words.
Is it because I’ve known the past,
Or because I know the future—
And that is a bitter knowledge to possess,
To know we will ****** each other again,
And that nothing changes
Across landscapes of madness.
Another Vocalise will have to be written,
And another me will have to suffer
The sadness of knowing,
Of hating who we are,
And of what we’re capable—
After all, there’s something tragic about music
If it exists to heal the wounds
That we ourselves inflict.

A house finch on a juneberry tree
Feeding
On the fruit
That has yet to be

for Brigitte

Give thanks for her hands,
For the years they’ve woven,
For the soft touch, the steady grip,
That’s held you through the storms.

Give thanks for the quiet nights,
For the way she rests beside you,
Not needing words to say everything,
In the silence, she speaks.

Give thanks for her eyes,
For their spark, their warmth—
A mirror to your own heart,
In their depths, you’ve found your home.

Give thanks today,
Tomorrow,
And every breath between,
For she is the song that calls you home
And the silence that lets you listen.

I twist them into strange forms,
Others—vile abominations.
They beg,
Cries thick with desperation,
To be people again.
But I tell them,
“You shouldn’t have stared so long.
I’m a poet, you know.
I have this power,
And no control.”

My left knee tells me it’s still winter.
My shoulders are still unsure.
Every part of me that aches
Aches more for the uncertainty.
I smoke some Acapulco Gold.
A serpent creeps down from the sun
And curls round my spine.
A warm wind blows over me
And for a while I don’t feel old.

Two blue jays land without a sound
then—
a hawk

light
and shadow
tear across the grass

the jays lift
and the chase
disappears
like it was never there

A day of such absolute stillness
Belongs to its own mausoleum.
It’s probably been dead for years
Like the power of any potentate.

Scanning the trees and the ground
It’s just like Keats might have said,
Scarcely has the very smallest leaf
Moved from where it sometime fell.

It’s a day to sit still and be grateful,
A day for thought and restful eremition,
Like a cancer in remission,
The spirit, at rest, beside its flesh.

Just last week in the neighbourhood
I saw an eastern bluebird
For the first time in years
More often they are in open spaces
I’m glad they’re still around
With royal blue and russet feathers
They are always beautiful to see
Now that it is almost April
Winds can still turn from the North
The earth could still hesitate
And ice encapsulate a flower
In a prism of glass
I’m afraid for the eastern bluebird
Will it survive a blast from winter
Will it have time to nest
It might be the last one I ever see
The last one to weather the changes

When you wash an octopus
the water becomes an octopus.

When you boil an octopus
the steam twists into tentacles.

When you cover the mirrors,
the octopi come alive.

When you crack open a window
don’t they all escape?

Samphire makes a long journey
from cephalopod to plant.

The stigmata in my hands--
shaped like baby octopuses.

How many times
have I died for my young?

How many limbs
have I regenerated?

How often have I used ink
in my own defence?

How much blue blood must spill
to save the world?

How many hearts do you need
to survive through our losses?

Blood-dark days and lilies in bloom,
the knife, the gun, the operatic end—
all goodfellas and grandfathers,
all godfathers and millionaires
at yet another Sicilian funeral.

I was young and arrogant,
I dared to walk behind a Mafia boss.
I could have taken the long way
around the circle of captains he sat among,
but I didn’t—he felt my presence.    
He turned, slow, deliberate.
The look he cast my way
haunts me to this very day.

It was as if the dead man’s eyes
opened in the boss’s stare,
and I was staring at a cold, dead soul,
staring back at me,
and at another funeral—my own.

Every time we went to his barber supply shop,
he’d ruffle my hair
and say, “hi kid, how ya doin'?”
He knew my father from Sicily.
They went to the same school together,
but after the war, my father became a barber,
and he became a mobster.
He was friendly with dad,
like childhood friends often are.
They’d joke in dialect and laugh.

It wasn’t until later
that I learned who he was,
his businesses were fronts
for covers and covers for fronts.
Anyway, what did I care. I was a kid.

And that was the rub.
Under the RICO Act
I was “guilty by association.”

At ten I turned myself in,
but I never snitched,
and I’m still serving time
in the garden of good and evil.

Another time—young, handsome,
and likely high on laced grass,
at a Sicilian wedding anniversary,
I asked a beautiful mob wife to dance,
and flirted with her on the floor.

Right away, my father drove me home.
“I’m saving you the beating
of a lifetime. Sleep it off.
In the morning, you apologize.”

I couldn’t believe how messed up I was—
the drugs, the homemade wine,
full of amorous traces from the earth,
and the woman’s smouldering beauty.

When I apologized the next day,
I saw bullets in her husband’s guns—
but in his wife’s dark eyes—
a trace of arousal, a flicker of regret.

Tell me where Jimmy Hoffa is.
Long as I can remember,
he’s been buried in my psyche.
Long as I can recall,
he’s been hidden in my memory.
America, I don’t recognize you.
All your money belongs to the rich,
and decent folk are a thing of the past.
Is Jimmy Hoffa in the air or the earth?
Was he incinerated,
scattered everywhere and nowhere
both at once and neither?
Is he buried under a building or freeway?
Perhaps at the bottom of a lake?
Crushed in some wrecking yard?
All the stories are true.
All the stories are false.
All the people talking are liars.
All the liars are telling the truth.

My cousin Joe was a simple man,
But he was also a man of the earth,
Which meant he was deeper than most.
In the final weeks of my father’s agonizing death
From stomach cancer, Joe came to visit
To say his last goodbyes.
My father, after yet another seizure,
Was sleeping somewhere near his death.

How many seizures can you bear
Before you reach for those Dilaudids
Prescribed to your father,
To numb your own pain?
How many episodes can you endure
Before you wish for death to take him—
How many words can you cling to,
Before they all sound false.

Outside, Joe sat beside me,
Sensing I had reached my emotional end,
He said nothing at first,
But the silence felt like an answer.
Then, quietly, he spoke
About how he grows his potatoes
And why he has such a big yield.
How deep he dug his holes,
How he covered the root potatoes
In loose sand, not soil,
Giving them space to grow,
Waiting for the flowers to bloom and fall.
I clung to every word
Like it was some holy truth,
And in that quiet moment,
He placed his hand on my shoulder
And said, "Come on, let’s go back inside."

At the grassy margins of the marsh,
The reflections held the child’s gaze.
He opened his eyes,
To the vastness of the marsh,
And the watershed beyond it.
As sunset touched the distant trees,
His father said, "Anything could bite."
The water deepened to purple and green,
And stillness held a thousand reflections
In which the child was almost lost.
With reeds swaying in every direction,
The marsh began to seethe with sound.
Before nightfall, his father warned,
It would soon be time to wrap it up,
Watching his son with a smile,
As the child cast his line
Into the unknown, for the first time.

A photo I can’t forget:
From the Globe and Mail,
A Muslim mother kneeling
Over her five dead children,
After the 1983 Turkish earthquake.

Grief has never been
Captured by an artist
Like the grief
This photographer
Found in her face.

The photo comes to mind
Whenever I need to feel grateful
For what I have not lost.

When I found my mother dead
I stepped outside to steady myself.
It was a summer at its zenith.
The night was now alive.
That’s when I saw a leopard slug
Climbing up the garage wall.
It was like I was suffering
A bad acid trip, all loss and no escape.
My eyes wide, taking in the world
Like it was some new form of reality.
I could see the slug’s
Slowly undulating body.
I could see it looking in the dark.
Nothing else seemed real,
Until cars of family and friends
Pulled into the driveway.
It was almost two in the morning.
We all went inside
To say goodbye to mom.
The next time I went out
I could see only the trail
But the slug was gone.

for my dad

The months of change do me no good at all.
In March and November, my anxiety spikes,
Under heavy, shifting pressure.
Not fear, but something primal--
Angst in my gut, like a bad meal.
At my age, a body knows the poetry--
A language older than the mind.
March wears winter like a mask;
It breathes winter’s remnants
And chokes out plastics and debris.
Only when I’m embedded in summer
Can I bear fruit from the soil of my mind,
Enjoy the long days of light,
And wear my old hat into heaven.

Almost a violet pearl between branches—
Radiant in an indigo sky--
Like a Taaffeite gemstone, rare in its brief glow,
A gift to the earth, while it lasts,
As Bizet’s aria Je crois entendre encore
Kisses the cool night air,
Before dissolving into dawn.

Sparrows pierce me like arrows.
Who knew robins had no bottoms?
A ****** of crows, frightening prose.
A hawk, a magnificent shock.
Do vultures feed on culture’s corpse?
Are kestrels kin to petrels?  
Have the pigeons been agreed upon?
Could plovers ever run us over?
Flocks of blue jays are on the way.
Cardinals and carnivals? Think about it.
A wood thrush in a frosty hush.
Swallows, those Apollos, don’t care.
Phoebes have the heebie-jeebies.
Owls and their lovely vowels.  
Cormorants and conglomerates.
Egrets sending their regrets.
Today, only the border crossings
Of Canada geese—give me any peace.

The little girl in a red jacket, skipping across
A pedestrian bridge made me smile today.
Her jacket was so red against the pure blue sky,
She seemed to be telling me something.
Spring was just a skip away, just a jump away,
And then she leapt into spring with joy,
And with a smile, I drove beyond winter at last.

Car chimes was what *** called  
All the bottles Joe would gather,
Drinking in the back seat on road trips,
Passenger to his own joyful reeling.  

Joe couldn’t go without drinking,
It was the poetry in his blood.
*** and I would do the driving
With Joe happily reciting W.H. Davies:

“No man to pluck my sleeve and say—
I want thy labour for this day;
No man to keep me out of sight,
When that dear Sun is shining bright.”

And when he’d recite those poems
The bottles would begin to chime
In rhythm to his tapping feet,
Music to our ears, laughter to our tears.

At death the brain must flood with DMT
For one to see fluorescent waterfalls
And feel warmth and love
After rising out of a world of hate
Now breathless you breathe with ease
Now flat-lined you surge with love
Now brain-dead you see all
Why didn’t you understand before
Why did it take your death to come alive
To see the light through the door
To see fluorescent waterfalls appear
To see Jesus and your grandfather
And to feel drawn to so much love
That to return the soul recoils  
You ask to stay but are told to return
To serve some penance in our hell
Where the righteous fade and the vile rise

A door opens like the birth of a child
Like the death of an old man
Who opens his eyes and sees at last
A door opens like sunlight through a cloud
You who haven’t seen it
Refuse to believe but a door opens
A door most definitely opens
And you step through
You turn to look back at your body
But the light is too bright
Pain now gone your way now clear
A door opens and you’re home

I flowed in the river
Went deep, thought I’d drown
But a branch caught my hand
I drifted through the unbearable purity
Of this water
I don’t know how long
The water stung my flesh
Until it washed me clean
I moved toward the bank
Where tree and leaf reflections
Shimmered on the surface
A palimpsest of light and shade
I saw souls in the shape of fish
Basking in eternity
I don’t know how
I stepped out of that water
It wasn’t my time
Still, I am the river
And I flow as I walk

for *** and Joe

This was way before computers and cell phones.
Some of you might remember.
You needed collections and anthologies of verse,
An atlas, an encyclopaedia, several dictionaries,
A Bible and The Golden Bough,
Brief Lives: A Biographical Companion to the Arts--
And, of course, a good study of poetic form and meter.
It was also nice to keep the spirit flowing
With several open bottles of wine,
And the sweet smell of Acapulco Gold
To keep the spirit whirling,
Like some ancient chant or music,
And two good friends who loved poetry.    
That’s how poems were made.

I went to the other side
And saw one I loved
She lowered her head when I called
I saw my mother and father
Standing in the mist
Their faces pale and soft
Tell me it is you mother
Tell me it is you father
And amid the multitudes
I saw my brother
In all his sadness
Searching for his son
And I heard my father
Ask a question in my mind
What have you become
What have you become
And then I woke
To face what remains of me now

Now that you’ve lost everything
Are you ready
To fall back on the stars
Now that you carry the weight
Of the past
Are you ready
For the lightness of being
Now that you’ve been broken
Are you ready to be whole
Leave what you own
It belongs to the earth
You belong to what’s beyond
Are you ready
Yes I am ready

These are spring clouds
Lingering behind leafless trees,
Spreading into purest blue.
Am I seeing things again,
Or is it just a case of pareidolia?
Faces bright with sunlight,
Angels in my skies,
Swans in my eyes,
Milkweed on my mind,
Apple blossoms in my rhyme,
Heaps of assurance
For fairer weather.

It’s too bad Ruth closed her fruit stand.
She’d sell fresh produce from the county
On a little piece of land she owned.
Ruth had an earth grain to her skin
Like bushels of greens, baskets of pears.
She loved to smile and talk,
Her heart as pure as sunlight on soil.
She had the wisdom of nature
And grit of work to her banter.
Now, when I drive past the stand,
It just looks abandoned, like Ruth
Had wandered into the wilderness,
And the blades of a standing fan
She left behind, turn without power,
Turn with the seasons, and haven’t stopped.

Touch the surface
Touch the light
Touch my skin
Touch my eyes
With your eyes
Touch the surface
Touch the pond
Feel the ripples
Hold the gold
Let us love
The same light together