Once a staple of the times
(Even in my day) ,
The woodstove was a means
By which God made a way.
A bridge between then and now,
It fed and kept us warm.
The woodstove was a way of life.
The woodstove was the norm.
And ranking ‘mongst the basics
Needed to survive,
The woodstove has served well
In keeping us alive.

My nutritionist told me I need to increase my caloric intake and eat more carbs. I asked my nutritionist, “aren’t carbs bad for you?”
She said, “No. Carbs are not bad for you, carbs are an immediate energy source for your body to use, what’s bad for you is not eating enough and passing out at the end of the day like some ***** *****. Now eat some carbs and get some meat on those bones before I order you a ******* pizza myself.”

I should mention that my nutritionist is also my best friend. I call her Lady Reptar, because she is one. A lady, not a reptar, even though she’s twenty times more awesome than a dinosaur and fifty times nicer. She’s beautiful like a ******* daisy in the woods and she’s sharp and wittier than her cooking knives and she’s warmer than her father’s woodstove.

"So, do poppy seeds count as protein?"

Just the thought of them makes your jawbone ache:
those turkey dinners, those holidays with
the air around the woodstove baked to a stupor,
and Aunt Lil's tablecloth stained by her girlhood's gravy.
A doggy wordless wisdom whimpers from
your uncles' collected eyes; their very jokes
creak with genetic sorrow, a strain
of common heritage that hurts the gut.

Sheer boredom and fascination! A spidering
of chromosomes webs even the infants in
and holds us fast around the spread
of rotting food, of too-sweet pie.
The cousins buzz, the nephews crawl;
to love one's self is to love them all.

All winter the fire devoured everything --
tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers.
When April finally arrived,
I opened the woodstove one last time
and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights
into a bucket, ash rising
through shafts of sunlight,
as swirling in bright, angelic eddies.
I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log,
black and pointed like a pencil;
half-burnt pages
sacrificed
in the making of poems;
old, square handmade nails
liberated from weathered planks
split for kindling.
I buried my hands in the bucket,
found the nails, lifted them,
the phoenix of my right hand
shielded with soot and tar,
my left hand shrouded in soft white ash --
nails in both fists like forged lightning.
I smeared black lines on my face,
drew crosses on my chest with the nails,
raised my arms and stomped my feet,
dancing in honor of spring
and rebirth, dancing
in honor of winter and death.
I hauled the heavy bucket to the garden,
spread ashes over the ground,
asked the earth to be good.
I gave the earth everything
that pulled me through the lonely winter --
oak trees, barns, poems.
I picked up my shovel
and turned hard, gray dirt,
the blade splitting winter
from spring.  With *** and rake,
I cultivated soil,
tilling row after row,
the earth now loose and black.
Tearing seed packets with my teeth,
I sowed spinach with my right hand,
planted petunias with my left.
Lifting clumps of dirt,
I crumbled them in my fists,
loving each dark letter that fell from my fingers.
And when I carried my empty bucket to the lake for water,
a few last ashes rose into spring-morning air,
ash drifting over fields
dew-covered
and lightly dusted green.

Is there a place that one can go
to truly be alone
to escape the hustle of our lives
and traffics monotone
Is there a place where I can sit
notepad and pen in hand
And capture the true nature
of this majestic land.
My needs are very simple
just somewhere to rest my head
with a simple little woodstove
and a comfortable bed
I have no need of music
for nature plays my song
I will fall asleep to crickets
and awake to sparrows throng
I will read alone by candlelight
the poems of the day
And think of friends I left behind
who would love to live this way
But for now all this is just a dream
that one day may come true
And it seems a little closer
no that its been shared with you

This is an excerpt of exquisite letter that Kerouac sent to his first wife, Edie Kerouac Parker, in late January of 1957, a decade after their marriage had been annulled.*


The world you see is just a movie in your mind.
Rocks don't see it.
Bless and sit down.
Forgive and forget.
Practice kindness all day to everybody
and you will realize you’re already
in heaven now.
That’s the story.
That’s the message.

Nobody understands it,
nobody listens, they’re
all running around like chickens with heads cut
off. I will try to teach it but it will
be in vain, s’why I’ll
end up in a shack
praying and being
cool and singing
by my woodstove
making pancakes.

This branch, this life, the tongue to taste
the bitter of the pinecones.  Best  
to request permission for my heart to skip a beat,
dare me in February from here to west.

Woodstove fire - ash and flying ambers -
dries the musty grain of cedar essence.
Dancing smoked perfume is rising
Slowly - an inverted lava river.
Its sharp soft teeth the alphabet dismantle
back-taking life to its primordial matter
as history became the final institution.
Why did the idol have to burn, its thorns devoured,
Knotty eyes of wood in mind imprinted -
starry firmament on my sub-conscious?

Its a wood stove burning through the night
Crank it down
Deprive it of the oxygen it needs
So it can keep smouldering
Conserve its fuel
Damp the heat
Bank the coals
So that they can last until morning

And maybe
At least I hope
Remain energy to create with

if i am          fine
you are          fine
like words written on the lines of your lips
i will taste the way you heard me speak
and watch the home videos of our time together
in the reflection of your eyes.

penciling in our heights on the walls
trying to see who could reach the ceiling first
if i am          fine
you are          fine

First sun-warmed sand
First boots-and-socks-off beach
First ankle-deep stand in rushing water
First SPF rubbed on my face
First crocus pops up in the yard
(Delicately)

Nearby, a young father begins
to teach his toddling young
how to fish.
(Patiently)

Last high-country snowshoe
Last low-country woodstove fire
Last hot bourbon toddy
Last dreamy days of Pisces
Last longing for lost love melts away
(Finally.)

Early over the mountain
the nearly-but-not-yet worm moon
spies the confluence and I below.
(Knowingly)

Here at the place where things change,
the wild world fills me
and I devote myself once more.
(Wholly)

For one who is in love with the chase
And the glory of all things yet-to-be done,
The true rapture of Nature is in knowing
She is too Big, Wild, and Free to own.
(Like me.)

Yut,
Well, I'd woke up early
**** rooster
just about  the crack of dawn
last crickets chirping loudly
heavy dew carpetin' the lawn
cold air, ya know
can see my breath that time of mornin'
as the tired furnace is  a kickin' in

Stretchin'

Emmmm hmmm, well dat'
woodstove she's a squirmin' with anticipation!
Yes sir,
smell of the incomin' weather
fresh cut and stacked Maple, except them box elder type you know gettin'
researched
Oak too, yut
some Birch ...burns real pretty

I hear them pumpkin patches callin'
eager to win those hearts
and the children
funny duffers in costumes

Ya, beckonin' a reckonin' they are
to become silky pies in their namesake
a big ol' mess left in that wake
from jack-o-lanterns,
& roasted an toasted
seeds of joy we use all win'ter 'round here

Kinda like the sound of them tires on the pavement ya know?
Warm hummin',
they're rustlin' down asphalt
with the leaves
visitors headed home again
will give way to the sloshin' of sleet, freezin' rain
whata' pain

Well here comes the ol' horses
and a wooden cart
to collect the trash
17 years
Percheron prizes them beauties
I really like that sound too
hoves clunkin' in perfect harmony

Yut, agreed,
love this place indeed
clip clopin' along with jinglin' bells soon
straight outta' Robert Frost he is

A symphony of smells
the ringin' of the church bells
time to eat
sighing

"Well...take a seat
Mornin' boys"

Oh Momma's up
Fill up her cup!

Oh thank you kindly
Well, we got some perfectly cooked hickr'y smoked local bacon
Scrambled eggs so beautiful and fluffy they look like clouds of clear yellow sunshine on that plate
those girls did well this year
Maple yogurt I insist on
with that crunchy homemade
sweet n' salty nut Granola
Don't forget some fresh fruit salad
stuff goin' on now
rest been reserved for winter days
Can't say that I'm not lookin' forward
to some wild blueberry pancakes
and that beautiful amber
Vermont maple syrup"

Yut,
was a lotta' work drainin' those sleepin' veins of golden sugar
emmmm
Is a great mornin'

"Good to savor the wonderful gifts the seasons bring, share and enjoy "

We certainly are grateful ma'am.

Take Your Hat Off What's The Hurry?

little remains
of my grandfather's house:
raw rafters, warped planks with hints
my uncle invested in paint

the windows all gone, time
and twisters took them, and much
of the roof--what is left of that sags,
a silent submission to gravity

a woodstove survives, cold
to the touch, with no memory
of the fire it once birthed, the precious
prairie timber which fed it

now it knows only mourning
doves' song; winged squatters
unperturbed by my presence, as if
they know I lay no claim to now

the old boards have stories
I will never hear: the birth of babes,
reading the Word by kerosene lamps,
the last breaths of men

the songbirds may know,
but they woo the living in flight--a
future of nesting and fertile eggs; they
owe no belated dirge to long lost kin

It’s always the same,
Hiding in that pitch dark room,
Like a terrified animal on the floor.
Heart pounding as if to leap from
my chest.
It always starts the same way,
Always . . . every time.

Up through the glass,
bright as a night sun,
The full moon stands suspended,
Big and gold, looking like the face of man.
Is it God I wonder?
Is that him looking down,
Watching me, cowering here?
In this black-as-a-cave room,
On my hands and knees,
Teeth chattering, ******* myself,
Fearful beyond all reason?

I crawl away from the window,
Deeper into the blackness of the kitchen.
Brushing past the woodstove,
still hot from that night’s fire,
Inching on my belly towards the corner table,
Its massive covered pedestal my remote destination,
My safe harbor,
My child’s imagined salvation.

Powerful angry footsteps,
Naked feet slapping pine wood floors,
Coming fast, their rhythmic thump echoing,
With evil resolve and harmful intent.
He’s coming, coming again for me!
I tuck myself up under the big table,
Wrap my arms tight around the oaken tower,
Jam my bare feet under one of the table’s claw feet.
And dig in!

Looking back at the window
and the bright face in the air,
I silently prey, yet scream it inside my head,
“God if that is you looking down through
That window, do something. . . Help me!”

He’s inside the room.  
I can hear him breathing hard,
Even smell his vile stench.
Tobacco stink, whiskey and death.
He’s close now.

The metallic swish and trailing sparks
of a sulfur match hastily struck on stove top,
Produce a near blinding flare.
A single wooden taper ignites a flame,
Extinguishing the darkness,
Of my enveloping cloak of fleeting invisibility.

The devil sees me now,
Knows where I hide!
His massive, claw-like hand reaches down towards me.
I tighten my grip on the table and tense my body.
Closing my eyes, I open my mouth to scream!

It’s always this way, always . . . every time.

A debris of specs flow through me as thick cream.
The lull texture of the olive green checkered couch, sleeping.
The scent of the last lingering bits of wood ablaze in the woodstove, waking.

In the early morning before anyone would arise,
I would rub my tired eyes and by settle the window
to watch life stand still for a while.
Few cars passed by in these early morning hours.
Stray cats at ease lying on the thick yellow lines painted in the middle of the street.
Only dark silhouettes of tree branches revealed,
thick charcoal veins bleeding into the glass windows of attics.
An illusive manifesto.
It was silent, street lights still gleaming orange, noiseless...

Birds perked out of their clever nests singing.
This was the only time of day their divine chirps could not be interrupted
by motors, sirens, wood saws, stereos, grass cutters;
their songs often become ignored, white noise.
The sun would swell up upon the tall red house next door.
The world becoming alive, stars being put to rest.
I would stare up into the sky watching the mosaic
black speckled canvas disappear, fade into a lighter shade of purple, then blue.

Across the blistered gibber plain where flies die in the sand
Through swamps of prickly sago where rotting death is planned,
To stride in windblown tussock hills where wind vanes carved their say
To saunter groves of green tree fern where moa giants did play.
In clearings cut with alkali, tusked elephant would loom
With crevassed hides, Methuselah, once aged in terms of doom.
Whilst high above the rocky crags of ancient mountain high,
The keening screech of kestral soaring up to deep blue sky.

Heavy boots in crusted sand where tiny lizards flee
Amidst the rust red rubble of volcanic rock and scree,
To clamber up the ignimbrite, great Vulcan's steps of stone,
Encrusted with thick epiphyte in lichen's mossy home.
Up into the altitude where dark cloud clusters here
And the threat of rolling thunder indicates that rain is near,
Torrential in it's downpour with sudden squall of gale
Surmounted, all quite suddenly, with a blinding blast of hail.

Staggering to shelter in a tiny alpine hut
To find hot coffee on the woodstove and a curvy, hot young ****,
To find us frollicking together beneath a patterned patchwork quilt
Was quite beyond my imagination's comprehensions built?
And afterwards in slumber through the curtains of our room
I watched, in fascination, at a hanging, frozen moon
And wondered, in amazement, at the doings of the day
And speculated, sleepily, where tomorrow's prospects lay.

Blearily I stretch out from the covers, nicely warm
To nullify persistence of that alarm's intruding horn,
Yawning into morning I remove myself from bed
With panicked realisation....all dreams evacuate my head.
Vanished are the alpine hut, the dolly bird, the caves
The crash of rolling thunder and the plunge of mighty waves,
Gone are those phantoms which dwelt inside my mind
Devestatingly dismissed until re-dreamed another time.

M.
Pukehana Paradise
13 December 2014

on beech logs destined for my woodstove
I sat one summer morn, sipping tea,
young, robust, with Whitman in my hand
surrounded by wild fields dotted with scrub
the  mist would fill the valley during the night
then dissipate steadily away as the day progressed
I stood witness, it is a high definition memory
if there is a heaven it is a meadow
and the air will be filled with the sweetness
of the grass and the wildflowers
that absorbed the sunshine
under the tree swallows loop de loops
on a morning that I still touch this very day

i grew up in a patch
of green
low rolling hill
tumbling sky
red maple picnics
cool earth

roses at the chain link
spring's surprise
play dates out front
shoddy wooden hideaway
to the rear

woodpile-beware!
sister scarred
angry bees collect

red-shingled horizon
white shack
rear view
laundry-line perimieter
prison yard
beware
invisible fence line

irish drunks
right side
wife shouts
captures best friend
back-rear torment
pup trapped
evil about

boys and bruised knees
cheek kisses
and sunset
bike rides
snack spot
woods of death

the sky fed me
my roots
tightly woven
spanned, undisturbed

summer mornings
on the run
heat like fire
pebbles, glass
walking on

escape, run, be wild
dreams your navigator

loose teeth
mother's hugs
father's presence
marlboroughs
motor, artistically
deconstructed
colored red

powered escape hatch
off-license
long gone
tree trunk porch presence
dead bird picnic
red-slatted bridge

fruit spider visitor
tiny rodent winter traps
screaming zia
e mamma
adniamo
basta!

communion veil
st. albans bound
pappa, look!
gum stuck hair
and
ruined sleeve

tumbled jacks
fruit loop bed
times
mas*h
glass box
from the carpeted
haven
orange-smokey
scent

beat downs behind
the woodstove
hair-dragged reckonings
begging
cries

anger passed down
mother to
mother
to
brother
pray, midnight
smoke
sleepless-haunted
hell

i grew in no-man's land

i am captivated
by the fluidity of your text message
you claim you arent a poet
but wow
how you can use 140 characters
to put words out of my mouth
evolving silence from stunned emotions
fantasies flit and twitter
sparked by your wit
the eminent feeling of loss when they fade
out of the temporary reality of my neocortex
and my thalimus
away into the sharpening atmosphere
my discombobulated desires
each begging for my undivided attention
in this sleepy realm of imagination
i contemplate your construction
a worthy demonstration of your capacity to hold
my mind
my eyes
my body
you are great, large, spirited
and your spirit consumes and overflows
my selfish desire to swallow you whole
until you spill out of my ears like maple syrup
sweet and sticky
and then i can have you all to myself
but that isnt fair
to the world
and the good you do it
you have taught me restraint
in my inability to think of anything but you
coupled with my inability to be with you
you manage to intrude into my every thought
conversation
my very being
with magic
your resplendent mind staining my arms
the overly colourful shadow that creeps along my spine
i feel a spectrum of colour
flickering along my horizon
crawling down my thigh like a silk scarf
i am consumed
by your light
crackling and growing
sparking and fizzling
fuelled by my tinder
my eyes swivel and squint
trying to see you through the bright mass you are surrounded by
and i catch a sigh
escape my lips
falling to you
from this new plane of existence you lifted me to
and here there is a woodstove
and a mass of cotton blankets
with a divot in the middle
begging to be filled
and you are there
my hand eases my descent into your warm chest
feet lifted
head filling the gap between your shoulder and your neck
and i rest my hand on yours
you gently sweep your fingertips along the top of my thigh
and you hold my other hand
in life there are times and places
abundant
that we find ourselves falling into
relationships
feelings
people
and so rarely
do we feel like we are made to be there
but here
darling
is where i am supposed to be

Birds chirped, the smell of bacon and wildflowers coming from the kitchen, the smell of cedar from logs in the woodstove. It seemed like heaven to her, though she knew not what heaven looked nor felt like. If she could write it the way she studied it in school, those long languid days spent in the arms of her lover and learning the ways of Whitman and Dahn, it would look somewhat similar to this. To the stubble grazing her chin in the night under cotton sheets, not a plan for that day or the next. Only the hearth to keep fed and the nights to keep warm. Heaven, she thought, was a combining of two souls in one spot.

(Though the problem with that is that not only does it require trust in an undiluted state to such a point that judgement cannot waver to the extent supplied by doubt, but that love also requires a feeling that most are incapable of pursuing)
If two hearts are in tune yet only one feels it, love can fall apart. Every single time.

I

February

Einbahnstraße in a
night of black arrowheads/jazz, obliteration perfume/
the twinkle of your
eyes which are engulfed
by youthful nymphs

Fur-lined sable coat
& I
in a jean jacket, hair styled back/
the perspiring windows of Paul Gustavus
open to reveal alizarin (death of day)
velvet curtains
(an appetite for moonlight &
mirrors) the reverberation
echochamber settles over us infused
with alcohol and tea leaves

Basement seclusion,
Deutsch in every direction

Woodstove heat/harsh truths exist in
a Blue Rose of cackling ash, left
disentangled ... duskdancer and copperhue-rooftop Saharas
 billowing madly

conversation as a
room full of isolation, lip -
eye, breath -
hairline/drifting to attic enticement,
bedsheets ruffling like
a winged dove

(insertion/devotion)

I am a North American phantom speaking through written paragraphs

& on my second drink a voice
persuasively licks my thigh/come up from the uneven ground

"feed the moon

relinquish fear

-blindness & burden, parish your
      anticipation for fire"

II

In my restlessness later on, I realize
all I can do is keep my head
high, mimic hope, mimic strength knowing we are
but one brief collision of beautiful
time purposed to split off again
towards a chaos larger than
ourselves.

Remembering The Woman in The Dunes..

"There was a drooling wolf...there was the sun. And, somewhere, he knew not where...there must also be a storm center and lines of discontinuity"

our own repitition of love & labor, warding off the deathhand which always comes back around

... How far do we have to go for lasting tenderness?

III

March


Australian sand/I erase my flesh
in Summer fruit/the air is thick,
I have stopped wearing leather

With iron humility
I task myself to
tillling a steeple into
a breaking cloudbeam

Sitting in front of the woodstove and feeling the heat
Comfy slippers are now in my feet
Staring at the flames dancing in the old firebox
My feet are warm in my nice woolen socks

A February evening at the cottage and feeling no pain
Watching Coach's Corner with Cherry and Maclean
The Leafs and the Habs are tied at a goal apiece
Life is good all bundled up in wool and fleece

Looking out the front window, the snow is quickly drifting
I'm warm and cozy inside and it's quite uplifting
Feeling like a good old Northern Ontario pioneer
I'm cheerful and smiling as I crack open a beer

Suddenly a dreadful feeling comes over me
I must run to the outhouse since I can't let it be
But nature calls and the cold sure is numbing
As I now sit here wishing I had indoor plumbing

I can’t breath alone…
I need your love as my own..
Hey! Come with me somewhere alone.
For only your love can save me from the drown….
We will find a place to be together… Where love is always in the weather…..
Your love is sweet your love is sour…
Still i want your love more and more…

My heart's now aching…. Beats  stopped celebrating….
The thread between you and me; is now torn apart….. Tears  of love are crying out hard…
Come back to me, for  i am alone…. Only your love can save me from the drown..
You are my plethora  of love…. Without  you I am  woodless woodstove….
Come back to me for I
miss you more and more… Be my love from your heart and core……
My beats are crying…. Still my eyes are lying….
I want you.. I love you…. I miss you my love... Come back,  don’t leave me alone…
For only your love can save me from the drown……

Life seems to be
an arduous climb
up steep, winding roads,
with harrowing bends,
to the top of a mountain
where you can turn
in a full circle,
and see all around you; or

it is a long sea voyage, all alone,
where you can see that same horizon
all the way around;
the monotony tempered
by the anticipation
of reaching shore
somewhere, maybe to find
something new; or

it is a long walk
in the woods, lost,
all the trees seeming the same,
until you find a clearing
and see a house,
or hear the familiar sound
of traffic on a nearby road; or

it is a journey upriver
battling against the current,
losing headway when you angle
for either shore; frustrated
and out of strength from
the continual rowing; or

it is a tedious drudgery of work
on an assembly line
of routine and boredom,
your paycheck no remediation,
your weekends bland, similar,
a welcome rest, but
holding no promise; or

it is a tiring routine of meals,
the same over and over,
until you end up putting
hot sauce on everything,
and your mouth and your mind
go numb in rebellion
to the lack of creativity; or

it could be a walk through a city
down unfamiliar alleyways,
large buildings blocking
your view, with a fear
inhibiting the anticipation
of finding your way out again,
a foreboding at every corner; or

maybe it’s an accumulation of meaningless things,
a discarding of meaningless things,
an argument over meaningless things,
a long oration from meaningless people
about the meaning of meaningless things; or

it can be a search through a library
of information, roaming
through the stacks, taking
books down, looking
for secret directions,
hidden meaning between the lines; but

sometimes, it is the joy
of a song with others, the
harmony of worship, the
serenity of hope, the
other-worldliness and the tears
of the sadness for yourself and
everyone else caught up in it,
and the faith for what might be; and

sometimes, it is just
the joy of food with others,
sitting together in comfortable chairs,
the chitchat and the laughter,
the regaling of memories
of how you somehow made it,
miraculously, this far;

and then, as if waking
from a dream, you climb from
your bed, dress painfully,
groping for your slippers, and
you stumble through your home, and
lurch to the door, open it and marvel
at something radiant and unexpected,
a prospect of new adventure,
where everything will become
the epitome of all you sought, and
you will become the epitome
of all that you have ever been.

Winter's a time for philosophy,
When deep snow covers what we love
We make up stories to convince ourselves
That nothing we care about matters that much.
Or we feed our hopes with memories,
Warming ourselves around that woodstove,
As if keeping those fires alive
Keeps the things we love closer
Even as they become more distant,
Or keeps us ready for their return,
Though they are never coming back.
We dance, waving our arms frantically
In the smoke, playing games in the snow,
Keeping things alive in our minds
As if memory brought them nearer.
Pictures on shelves
(Showing how it was for us)
Sit and gather dust.
We bathe in happy memories
And try to look ahead,
Hoping for summer again.

Jack Johnson artist
title "Better Together"
medium volume 
Natural light 
lit the kitchen 
but it didn't matter 
Her presence 
lit my world on fire 
both of us covered in 
PASSION 
Breakfast Sunday morning 
but only after 
we made love 
I couldnt resist her
the woodstove warmed 
THE FLOOR WE ROLLED ON 
The kids all in bed still 
the next story above 
Sunday morning breakfast 
the best meal ever 
because we always 
COOKED TOGETHER 
WITH PASSION 
as the lyrics play

🎵🎶"Mmm, it's always better when we're together
Yeah, we'll look at the stars when we're together
Well, it's always better when we're together
Yeah, it's always better when we're together"🎶🎵

I woke up
wondering,
why is the sun
shining in through
a north-facing window?
it was
my big maple tree,
bright yellow
in its dazzling,
autumnal display;

the trip to town
was a glorious drive,
the sky
full of falling leaves,
windows open,
my half-finished poem
flapping
on the seat,
I drove more slowly
dodging wooly bears;

the autumn colors
remind me
of the corduroy shirts
I wore
as a boy,
and the multi-colored
drip candles I made
in my bohemian days;

I’ll do my shopping,
then see if the leaves
have fallen
from the gingko tree
on the college lawn,
then go back home
and think
of all the things
I’ll write
while sitting
at the kitchen table
this winter,
by the woodstove,
when the leaves
are all mulch
in my garden,
the snow is falling,
and evergreens
reign supreme.