"granville" poems
I.
Sunday mornings in Vancouver
even pigeons sleep in till 10 A.M.
Undaunted, I walk down Granville shortly before 8
seeking lox bagels with capers, red onions and cream cheese,
two breve lattes, and a newspaper. In truth,
panhandlers on the corner of Robson
have far greater chance of scoring.
An unexpectedly sunny February morn
suffices to spur me on. I am attuned to all vibration.
Breath of the awakening city
exhales manna upon the shop awnings.
Bagels rendered superfluous,
I scarf images instead ---
trolley buses, an umbrella shop, falafel stands ---
delicious Canadian visual cuisine.
II.
Vancouver is a nymph. Of that I'm sure.
I hear flirtatious giggles trill
from darkened alleys between hotels.
Spotted her once across the street on Dunsmuir,
seated on a walk bench reading a Margaret Atwood novel.
Bus passed between us and she vanished.
Caught a later glimpse through the window
of a walk-up dim sum restaurant in Chinatown.
Flew the stairs, only to find an empty table and
discarded napkin smudged with candy pink lipstick.
She watches me.
III.
Turns out there are no Sunday morning papers in Vancouver,
but I locate the bagels and espresso backtracking on Helmcken.
The barista smiles as I approach, sets down her Atwood novel.
I leave a Toonie in gratuity.
B.C. wind pushes hard on my turned back,
as I rush our breakfast back to the Executive.
A nymph goes roller-blading by toward False Creek.
The Gastown Steam Clock whistles that it's 10 A.M.
A flock of pigeons lifts in flight.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
Symmetric shapes of forms unchanging,
their wings beat as one to turn-
An angle to encompass the dry sun
of which lights sable days.
But human minds, are no different.
Though each politically independent:
Believing of truths and Free; We
are guided by inhibition and the
need for clarity.
Circling the damp waters, they do not ask,
they tell-The river reflecting that of
an illusory image: It tells none but reveals all.
We cannot fly and though cement cannot reflect:
In our faces, we mirror actions and recollections.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
tetris patterned-shirt
weird, life-is-a-creamy-dream feeling every ever
I spend here
in
Downtown Vancouver.
is it the thought of the chilli-pepper eyed parrot
grazing on the street soul from the corner of Davie
and Granville?
is it a birth trauma coma slam
considering the fact that my
passport
says I awoke here
for the very first time?
is it the caffeine pulsing through my sweat like blood
the triple-sweater sandwich I call my chest
the passing of my dear old Auntie Debbie
the alien faces of a city-gone city goer
the warm freeze of 15 dollars in my pocket
wallet
crunch
perhaps it's the red pants
the folded skinny's
the overalls
the great validation of Shakespeare's scream:
"All the worlds a stage/ and all the men and women merely players."
Did he mean John Players?
Each and every all of us to be smoked
in the soaking rain
pretending that we
each
have brains?
- - -
I know
I'm not as intriguing
as most of these Greek-God's and Goddesses
But I still wonder
if man and women gaze to me
like I'm bless-ed.
- - -
could that explain the dream feel?
the creamy steamy dream feel?
my lack of validation
in this crowd-work calling card?
- - -
it's just about time
that I mention the women
whom gazed
from the train
that traverses the
clouds.
East Indian I assume
I the troubadour
I gazed right back into her eyes.
We played this game
until 'screech' went the train
and I moved on in space and in time.
She exited there
at the same place I glared
to the tiling below my unfit and soaked
sigh's.
As to why that I raced
so that she couldn't chase
and speak words that would open the
light
I'm unsure
but I wanted to
even as I
slipped from sight
into Vancouver's day bright of a night.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 9:31 PM UTC
hey you.
yeah you.
it was 10:30 and i was groggy
my bones aching and creaking as if they were worn out machinery
you got on at Granville, maybe Thorndale
i may have missed your entrance, now that i think about it
you wore a class ring
that caught the morning sun and reflected it into my eye
but that wasn't what caught me
you stood patiently
as we lurched forward
you balanced
calm, composed, collected
i looked up ever so occasionally
hoping you'd be looking back
sometimes you did
i laughed
you left at Grand
i left at Lake
next wednesday if our paths may cross
i will tell you that i liked the way your hair looked
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
There was a guy who acted the clown at college?
Because he thought it was cool to be that way?
But he really liked a girl called Bev Granville and hated;
When everybody called her Open All Hour's from the British sit com Open All Hour's?
He said her name's Bev?
So there was a guy who acted the clown at college?
Because he thought it was cool to be that way?
But really he joked with the girl to try and make her laugh?
But really that guy just wanted to say Bev?
I think I love you?
So do you feel the same?
But just being your friend was a joy as well.
Just sitting with you was like being in heaven itself?
She was beautiful outwardly, but more importantly she was inwardly beautiful as well; so she was never a mean girl or thought she was better than the rest.
But saying I think I love you would have been too much of a risk for this clown.
So saying he thinks he loves you in front of other lads was too much of a risk for him; this was just in case you didn't feel the same; you see his image mattered too much to him?
He loved his time with you in math's class and study time with you in the college library?
But I think she only liked him like a good friend in honesty?
They were good friends in truth.
He hated the week she was off sick from college that week seemed to last forever?
Our time together were the best two year's of his life.
So he had to make jokes to just talk to you?
Yes that clown was me,
Yes that clown was me,
Yes that clown was me!
Oct 14, 2021
Oct 14, 2021 at 4:37 PM UTC
Voici juin. Le moineau raille
Dans les champs les amoureux ;
Le rossignol de muraille
Chante dans son nid pierreux.
Les herbes et les branchages,
Pleins de soupirs et d'abois,
Font de charmants rabâchages
Dans la profondeur des bois.
La grive et la tourterelle
Prolongent, dans les nids sourds,
La ravissante querelle
Des baisers et des amours.
Sous les treilles de la plaine,
Dans l'antre où verdit l'osier,
Virgile enivre Silène,
Et Rabelais Grandgousier.
O Virgile, verse à boire !
Verse à boire, ô Rabelais !
La forêt est une gloire ;
La caverne est un palais !
Il n'est pas de lac ni d'île
Qui ne nous prenne au gluau,
Qui n'improvise une idylle,
Ou qui ne chante un duo.
Car l'amour chasse aux bocages,
Et l'amour pêche aux ruisseaux,
Car les belles sont les cages
Dont nos coeurs sont les oiseaux.
De la source, sa cuvette,
La fleur, faisant son miroir,
Dit : -Bonjour,- à la fauvette,
Et dit au hibou : -Bonsoir.
Le toit espère la gerbe,
Pain d'abord et chaume après ;
La croupe du boeuf dans l'herbe
Semble un mont dans les forêts.
L'étang rit à la macreuse,
Le pré rit au loriot,
Pendant que l'ornière creuse
Gronde le lourd chariot.
L'or fleurit en giroflée ;
L'ancien zéphyr fabuleux
Souffle avec sa joue enflée
Au fond des nuages bleus.
Jersey, sur l'onde docile,
Se drape d'un beau ciel pur,
Et prend des airs de Sicile
Dans un grand haillon d'azur.
Partout l'églogue est écrite :
Même en la froide Albion,
L'air est plein de Théocrite,
Le vent sait par coeur Bion,
Et redit, mélancolique,
La chanson que fredonna
Moschus, grillon bucolique
De la cheminée Etna.
L'hiver tousse, vieux phtisique,
Et s'en va; la brume fond ;
Les vagues font la musique
Des vers que les arbres font.
Toute la nature sombre
Verse un mystérieux jour ;
L'âme qui rêve a plus d'ombre
Et la fleur a plus d'amour.
L'herbe éclate en pâquerettes ;
Les parfums, qu'on croit muets,
Content les peines secrètes
Des liserons aux bleuets.
Les petites ailes blanches
Sur les eaux et les sillons
S'abattent en avalanches ;
Il neige des papillons.
Et sur la mer, qui reflète
L'aube au sourire d'émail,
La bruyère violette
Met au vieux mont un camail ;
Afin qu'il puisse, à l'abîme
Qu'il contient et qu'il bénit,
Dire sa messe sublime
Sous sa mitre de granit.
Granville, juin 1836.
535
Granville Wesley Clarke
May 14, 1921 ====July 19 2011
The late ******* or Perry
A golden heart stop beating at sunset July 19 2011
Today my memory is a large duck egg
Yes, that large duck egg, you got from the
Chicken coop, so that I could have it for breakfast”
If you haven’t tried ducks, eggs
it's time to became a tester.
There will be no funeral today,
Only memories of the people we love
I remember the tall trees, in which you
Climbed in order to cut the branches that block the view
And the wind that cool our roof top
I remember our morning strolled in big gully
In which we would go and pick green lemons
I with my small paint bucket, you with your big brown onion bag
with our findings you would fill it to the top,
My small paint bucket I also filled it up to the top:
With my doo rag tied so tight around my head I sweat bullets
my brother old pants protected my skinny legs from the bugs
There we were strolling through the woods
Almonds, I ****** the juices, and hammer the nuts with a rock
As you cut down trees, to finish your pig pen,
There will no funeral today, or weeping
Just good old memories, about the dead
Rest in peace, with the angels,
Until we meet again,
Jul 26, 2021
Jul 26, 2021 at 10:03 AM UTC