A new star glows…

Milky Way over Canadian Prairie - Stock Image - C044/3003 - Science Photo  Library

Tonight, go outside, lift your head up to look at the stars, and you’ll see a new one. See it? It’s right there, just to the left of the one you’ve seen all your life. No, not that one, you’ve a vague memory of that one, it’s the one that you’ve never seen.

That’s Eileen, the kindest woman you’ve likely never met. She took up residence in the firmament last night, shortly after I visited her amidst a Covid lockdown. She’s up there looking over me, looking for Dad, dearly missed, but at peace after a harrowing few years.

Thanks Mom, for everything, for teaching me the value of hard work, good friends and being a generous person. I’ll keep trying to make you proud.

Ars Poetica

Right off the bat with poetry,
if you’re reading this,
you’re doing it wrong.
Poetry is meant to be heard.
It’s the way that it’s always been.
So use your diaphragm,
your voice to read it out loud
It doesn’t matter if you’re in a coffee shop ,
have the guy typing on his laptop give you a glare
while you howl about your Ginsburg

But yet you look at the poem,
lying there on it’s page etherized
like a cat in the fog
and you think about how gto read it.
You see the odd line feeds
breaking up the words the sentences
and you think to yourself
how should I read this? You read it.

The line feeds Maybe pauses
or maybe breaks
or they may be just flourishes
put on the Page by the poet
because he thought it looked pretty.
Unless of course you’re

                     and you
                          the words
about           the             page

like traffic on a Wyoming freeway
to try to give it that look you call Jazz.
But I never really liked jazz.

The poem is the words coming home

is the metaphors,
the poem is the similes,
the order is important
but the words
and the sounds they convey
of what the poet it’s trying to say

Yet, here we are,
lines later,
still looking at the page
as I baited you
with blank space
With the thought
you should read
What your need to

Nursing Home Christmas

A quiet call from a dim room
Catches my ear
I call for nurse and go in
A frail arm waves to me
and takes my hand
Trembling like a wounded bird
I hold lightly, a grip of gossamer
Not wanting to crush
with my wheelchair grip
As I wait for the nurse
The breaths become shallower
Until they stop
The grip loosens
I feel a wisp brush my cheek
And I’m alone in the room
Until the nurse comes in
While christmas blinks in the window