Summer wheat

stay summer wheat

please stay

keep your silken hairs

blowing in the warmth

of a morning breeze

stay and sway in the sun

until dusk when

i will lay with you

and as fall approaches

you will change maybe

turn a different colour

and be cut

i will wait

at the edge of the field

wait until

you are back

with me

you will grow

patience will be mine

and we will once again

sway in a morning

breeze of summer

Summer wheat and Erin

3 AM.

3 PM.

Windowpane

Night flowers

for erin

On how we act the part

how soon we forget the struggle of someone else
wrapped up in our own insecurities and strengths
the blinders are on oblivious with good intent
we hurt and misunderstand people around us
being a person is so much better then being male
to drop that role tradition
rally our collective weakness together
as community
or two or
even singular
to look out
and just see people
their struggle and say
may i?
or
i am here
or a nod of the head
will save us
don't you think?

Black and White

In the shadows on Scotland Road

Papers, Home Fries and Thirty Nine Years

In my fifty five years I have held many jobs. I have spent twenty two years in the print business, started a pub in Cape Breton that lasted for six. Another six years I have spent commercial fishing in the Atlantic to name a few. Odd jobs and day jobs have gotten me by.
When I was sixteen I road the back of a Toronto Telegram newspaper truck dropping bundles of newspapers off at boxes, my first real job. Nic Dyke was in the driver’s seat.

We toured around Toronto sometimes driving fifty miles an hour on the wrong side of the road from box to box. When we saw a cop we would cruise up and hand him a paper and then off we were again. It was a good job.

My memory has me always going back to the times after we finished our run when we went to the Mars Restaurant for breakfast. We sat at the counter and not three feet away was the cook hovering over the grill, eggs, bacon, ham and home fries he lead like a conductor with his spatula into golden brown orchestrated scoffs for our hungry mouths. The way this cook moved a utensil in one hand reaching for a plate with another was such a joy to witness. The huge mound of home fries he worked until they were all perfect in colour and heat, adding garlic and paprika along the way, too. He was a sculptor or a surgeon with that thing. I have remembered this for thirty nine years. This has been so very important to me.

The other day for the very first time I was a conductor with a spatula. I am working now as a cook at a fishing lodge here in Northern Ontario. My first couple of morning shifts I followed the rules. The home fries went into the deep fryer, something I disliked very much. Tuesday morning I cut potatoes into cubes and piled them high on the grill. A huge mound I worked and coloured with utensil and chilies and garlic. One hand on a plate, one hand serving I cooked up fifteen breakfasts, eggs sunny, eggs over, omelets and poached all with a generous amount of home fries. All with the Mars restaurant memories of years gone by. It was beautiful, it just was.

Reflections on Scotland Road

Impressions on Scotland Road

more so your scent is

each precious moment
of morning quiet
i am up

i am here
or there
as you sleep
we are still
and i think and you dream
we are still

as anxious to hear
first footfall
to floor to stair decent
the warmth of hand
the back of neck
our kiss
your skin
your scent
our skin
is one
day begins
brilliant
each day

stripped
like these
words naked
touching
breathing
smelling you
on the wrist
of my heart

never hide
your scent
my oxygen

more so
you are
and you
won't hide
again

Home

Sunday Morning Blues

of recent crying children
and the first flight of a sparrow's
scream from the nest
of a son getting married in Vegas
i cannot attend
a brother who works too hard
who doesn't understand
my sunday morning is filled

and in this quiet morning
this sunday morning i normally love
there is this anxious feeling
to fix and solve
my head is filled

and i wait for a
morning greeting
from a woman

a woman whom i have never loved like this before
a woman who will ease
these feelings and hold me like a baby
and quiet the sparrows scream
who will somehow ease
by just a gentle hand
at the back of my head

as i am weak
unable and flawed
beyond getting back
to this sunday morning

on the line

goodluck

SEMI - LUSTRE

Sepia Rose

On Massicote Road

April 5th. 2010

the naked stand, roots torn
from beneath the waves
have breached, travelled inland
past cities not considered,
through farmlands
beyond thresholds
of resales and rented souls
to a small town transient
of train line and transport
commuters.

where night fog
rain clean sidewalks,
the air so thick to chew
of morning dew
that
extra hour before
spring sun draws buds
from winter branches.

here, here stand
naked of past exposed
to a rich black soil
dig in
dig in
melody day
and stay, keep time
these new surrounding
rhythms of robin's song
and full breast reborn.

stay and stay
push root
beneath Bouclier Canadien rock
beneath underground lakes
leading to great ocean bottoms
and reach this sun
is good this naked stand.

The same or not?

I started playing with this image. It is a wonder how the whole picture changes, the tone, the story, yet the image itself still has the same components in the same positions.

So I pose the question, "What do you see?"

For John Lydon and us all.

on the inside of a not
so wise enterprise
an adaptable love song
lit the candles
in television dinners.
standing naked in the back of prime time
loosing body heat
with a bleeding heart public image
looking for bodies of injured minds
ashamed of the pure advertisement.

i could be wrong
this could be nirvana
patterned stamped for all time.

one two three; Kick!!

planned future around

picket fence
post to post
paint and paint
each year the layered same colour
layered same
i will take the furniture
you take the dog
testing, testing, testing
HELLO!

dressed as a clowns
we reach to the skys shopping malls
like drowning men and women
just below the surface
faces in the murk
watching hamburger eating salesman
in front of strippers at noon
forgiving the futures confusing
illusion
not only do i make it up as i go along
i expect you to sing along with me
this love song 
please do me the honors.

i miss the car park
in between the lines we station
bum in the sun
in the sun sun sun
waiting the drive 5 pm. home
part of the scene
part of the scenery
connecting to freeways
mindless auto pilot of
good natured 
landfill nonsense
pointing road rage fingers

one two three; Kick!!

on the clock

a little clear the 5 am.
rain washes my face
and gentle cat paws on my leg
meow meow coffee beep
calls to further my awareness
the day at hand

these shifts
not so bad
i've had worse
but the change midweek
turn  the clock around so
night is day is
afternoon
spin and push
then
the exhaustion to
nine hours of sleep

one more day til one day off
this morning welcome
rain washed face awake
and coffee beep
simple i know
but
here i am
5 am.

She dreams in the forest...

For William

sleeping man
working man
looking back at us
sometimes wide eyed and mischievous
other times deep in troubled thought
we ought to look more
into those eyes
pen and ink and charcoal love created
at that story telling pose
portrait of one man and many
of us all.

my grandmother's name was Iris

He says this fingering the locket that I now wear that once belonged to Iris:

She was a small woman. Came to here. Tiny, but she got wide in the end. She'd understand this. She had great understanding. Understanding and patience.

It was always grandma's house for special occasions. There would be great plates of food. Her daughters, Margarite and Cecil, would always help in the kitchen. And for supper, she would always sit at the head of the table - where she belonged. She wasn't a religious woman but we would all hold hands. We would say grace. Grace for the family. Family was important to her.

She would tell us, don't lose mind on the silly stuff. Remember what's important. Remember who loves you.

My grandmother's name was Iris.

collaboration by erin and robert

Black and White Iris

morning departure

i stand at the car and kiss you goodbye
she sticks her tongue out, devil girl
he, shy in the backseat looks on in understanding
waiting for their drive to school

i wave and turn and go to the fence
watching for the car
wave and wave again
turn again and head inside

the house so empty
as i sit here and explode in the loneliness
of your absences
the door opens and you are here
caught me
catching tears
in my mustache

see
you see me
a man as i am
endured third largest truck
and six meter high seas
you see me
catching tears

you sit on my lap
tell me how you couldn't leave just then
we speak
i explain how much i love you all
how unexpected these feelings are
so deep

"i have to go now; will you walk me to the car?"

we dance on the front lawn
to the car radio
hold each other
so gentle.
the goodbye is sweeter as i go back to the fence
i wave
jump and wave.

i think of how i have to tell them

she will become a very beautiful woman one day

in so many ways

and he will help people and find joy

and great purpose in doing so

how much

a man as i

can love them.

and when they come to visit with stories
of their lives
we will stand at the fence you and i
wave
and cry at
their goodbyes
dance in the front yard
turn
walk hand in hand
inside
where you will sit on my lap
and we will catch tears together
in a few years.

Midnight

midnight in the garden

when all toes are tucked and lights are clicked and husbands wind a quarter turn to wives

we emerge.

collaboration by erin and robert.