Dirt

The dark loam pours out of the box
onto clumps of dirt packed close
by winter’s chill and weight of snow
and ash from the wood stove:
rich, life-giving soil from
vegetable parings and apple cores,
eggshells and grapefruit rinds,
coffee grounds and tea bags;
nothing is wasted.
Scrapings from dinner plates,
tips of beans and celery leaves,
corn cobs and avocado shells
all thrown in together
to rot, metamorphosing
in that polyvinyl cocoon
into the black earth
that cradles the new year’s crop.
Parsley stems and tomato cores return
to the soil that grew them;
tough stalks of basil nourish
next summer’s pesto;
and all this flows onto my spade
and I spread it and bury it
and crumble the clods of clay-packed dirt
which, after years of mingling
with spring’s spoils from winter’s waste,
is still hard and rebellious
under my shovel and rake.
A clang of metal on limestone and
shale brought up by winter heaving;
these will not decompose.
They will not become soil
in my lifetime.

Guinea Pig

Guinea pigs are the animals of choice
for elementary-school classroom pets;
they live extremely boring lives
and are amazingly content to do so.
Provided with enough food,
They will eat till they burst.
Their cages smell, no matter
how often they are cleaned.

My best friend had a guinea pig.
It was black as coal
and when it died
it was cold as coal.
My girlfriend’s mother asked me,
me, an innocent bystander
unimplicated in the rodent’s demise,
to dispose of the remains.

Why couldn’t she do it?
I still don’t know.
Even my girlfriend was uninformed
of the fate of this pet.
Perhaps it slept, lying as it did
on its side in its cage,
unmoving, unmoved;
and I wrapped it in newspaper like a fish from the market
and deposited it without ceremony in the can
holding next week’s garbage pickup.

I still harbour resentment
at this manipulation of my youthful devotion,
at my friend’s mother’s betrayal,
at the disposal of this lifeless corpse
belonging to something she once loved.

You have only to wait.

You have only to wait, they will find you;
like tendrils of fog they will infiltrate the cracks,
will seep under closed doors,
they will spread outward across the floor,
lapping at chair legs, licking at baseboards.

They are the good intentions,
the broken promises,
the words spoken in anger,
residue from ill intent.

They carry with them the hatchet unburied,
the sharp-edged grudge,
the dull anger of denial,
the horns of hate.

You cannot outrun them
for they stick to you like burrs,
clinging to your clothing,
staining your lily-white hands,
darkening your innocent brow.

They are the karma that grows,
the debt unpaid,
the sorries unsaid,
the guilt of neglect.

They plague you with what ifs,
should haves,
might have beens.
They replay scenes you’d rather forget
and you burn with shame
and with sorrow and with guilt.

These are the sins unconfessed;
no priest can absolve these iniquities,
no number of Hail Marys will wash
the blood from your hands.

You have only to wait.
Memories forgotten will surface
like the weathered bones of dinosaurs,
grotesque and monstrous,
in the eroding rock strata of your defences.
Every bone exposed, every hurt feeling,
every harsh word is there.

They do not remain buried in the past,
hidden behind the screen of humour,
of good deeds,
of an exemplary life.

Someday all the ill once afflicted on others
will return to haunt you,
to creep in through your bedroom walls
and crawl under the covers,
caressing you with horny hands,
tweaking you and tugging at the blankets
until you can stand it no longer,
until you cry out in your sleep,
“I confess! It was I! I did those horrible things!”

For when that day arrives,
the day they find you and foul you
with their fiendish residue,
that day you will learn,
perhaps too late,
that love was all that was necessary,
forgiveness freedom unfettered,
tolerance a virtue above all.

You can wallow in the despair of past decisions
or you can open the door,
the window,
and your heart.
For life is short and love
is everything.

The Fantasy and the Reality

In my mind
our bodies entwine
like sinewy adders
and creeping vines
our souls unite
our breath is one
we move together
like a snow-white swan
gliding on the lake
under silver moon-glow
one swan above
its reflection below.

***

We are not one
and never shall be
for though I love you
and you love me
we cannot entwine
but are kept apart
by other claims
on our aching hearts
and though we may live
on either side of a wall
our love is friendship
and that is all.

***

How can we live
knowing our fate
the love we’ll never
consummate
neither to embrace
nor kiss tenderly
or join like the swan
on a moonlit sea
feeling the ache
of love unfulfilled
a fantasy only
tinged with guilt.

Ode to a Deer Skull

This bone is scoured clean,
the sutures where one plate meets another
are undulating lines,
matching up like the erose edges
of jigsaw puzzle pieces,
meandering like streams flowing
across flat landscapes,
undermining and cutting the soil
to leave switchbacks and ess-curves.
There are no oxbows,
these are not rivers.

The sockets where the eyes once dwelt
are like gaping mouths of subterranean tunnels
sloping inward. The eyes are gone,
the windows shattered, the soul fled.
The antlers are double-tined prongs
curving towards each other.
I imagine in life arcs of thought
leapt from one to the other
like sparks of energy generated
by a Tesla-inspired machine.
But now they are merely bone,
dead, lifeless bone,
a leftover reminder of rutting
and sex and a bid for power
and dominance.

* * *

Who were you, deer, whose skull
now sits atop this pedestal?
Did you run free through the woods,
nibble daintily at the windfall apples
in the farmer’s orchard?
Did you frolic in the moonlight?
Did you have a mate?
Were you racing to meet her
when the truck slammed into you,
ending your brief life,
extinguishing the light in those liquid eyes,
breaking the enclosure where dwelt your soul
so that it continued on its way
across the road and into the field beyond
while you were left behind
in a pool of blood and matted fur?

Dream Haikus

I.
A foetus in the womb
Dreams about sucking its thumb
While it floats in space.

II.
Whimpering, whining,
Running after dream squirrels,
An old dog slumbers.

III.
I dreamt last night that
You and I became lovers.
It was just a dream.

A dialogue

The ticking of the clock answered
by the dripping of the rain,
the sound of water as it falls,
as it hits the leaves,
patters on the roof,
splatters on the stone,
clearing the air of dust, of heat,
of the oppressiveness that holds you
immobile on a hot summer’s evening.
The rain comes and the thunder:
a grumble and a growl from afar
heralding the arrival of great beasts
barking at the lightning
flashes that split the darkness
with their forked tongues.
Then there’s a new scent,
a fresh scent, heaven sent,
of ozone, the molecules sundered
as nitrogen seeps into the soil,
nourishes roots of grass and trees,
oxygen liberated into the atmosphere,
that same atmosphere
which so recently bore down on you
with its oppression of heat and humidity
and is lifted with the patter, the splatter,
the dripping of water from the eaves,
the elm, oak and maple leaves;
and as the storm subsides,
the spaces between raindrops become larger,
the gaps are filled in by the regular ticking
of the clock.