190. To the pregnant woman

To the pregnant woman that
missed the
Grand River Transit
bus 7B to Fairview
Park:

I didn't realize you
just missed the
bus I just
left:

by the time I
realized, you were
running after it,
desperate:
did the driver not
realize either?

your dark skin
glistening in the
hot summer air,
late for an interview
or from one?

I wanted to offer a
ride, I thought as I
already started back to my
apartment, and you
were already walking
to the next
stop.

Stay put, I want to
say - the next bus
will be
by in a few
minutes - (I
check this later,
for my own
conscience)

I want to tell you
this,
too -

but I was tired and
sweaty and
wanted to
get home
myself -

selfish or just
a missed
opportunity, I
wondered, and
still
do;
with a
twinge of
regret and guilt
as I write this,
hoping.

August 21, 2018
Waterloo, ON

189. The hours between

You have been asleep for hours -
three and a half,
approximately.

Here
I am:
not anxious (a
welcome surprise
)

the night is though,
I hear an occasional
car and a distant
party rumbling
incessantly;

I am reading
emails and
Instagram comments,
half-aware of the
black-and-white episode
of "What's My Line"
playing
at my left
nightstand.

I am at peace;
I could drift off at
any point, half-
conscious;

and it is not
that I have too much to do,
but I revel in my
Bohemian nocturne
as I squeeze the
last drop
of possible waking.

I briefly fantasize of a
day job
where I earn
a decent salary, benefits,
2 paid weeks off -
the thought! -

where I wake and sleep
at the same two times
every
single
day - the
horror!

Such a regular life,
such a square
existence.
And I did have a taste -
for three months
teaching Grade 12 chemistry
to six
teens who will
grow up to
do the
same:

I leave the
regular hours to
you:
waking, sleeping, and
otherwise:

as I spend these
pensive few
dark ones,
brooding, contemplating,
creating.

Living solo
for just a few
more
moments.

Aug 15, 2018
Waterloo, ON

188. harbour dining

August:
and the seagulls
circle

smiling ship-sails
rest their
contented wings

scavenging above the
sapphire-strewn
surface,
cackling, boasting,
gossiping

children shriek
and call their
hungry
friends,
beckoning with strips of partly-eaten
lettuce from
lunch's ham
sandwich

sparkled concrete
blazes my
heat-soaked
toes;

gulls comingle with
assuming toddlers,
planes take-off of
life off,
unseeing

glistening, the water
hums and
whirs,
silver sapphire
in the
waning
sun.

July 3, 2018
Waterloo, ON

184. 2/3 Oranges

You are peeling the
orange
I have given you

The director
has my attention,
but my mind
follows the segments
torn, ligament
by
ligament.

The dressing room is
a circle of
smiling bodies...

Notes are done:

You are already
leaving;

All I see is your
backpack
out the
navy blue
door.

From the
hindsight of the future
you will
later thank me
for this
little
orange, but

as you sing your
aria do you
remember
the tender hand
which has
fed you?

Aug 6, 2017
Dalhousie University, Halifax, NS

183. Coro a bocca chiusa

All their mouths are
closed
to me:

final wisps of daylight
stroke their weary
eyes -
mother to son, to
daughter -

now is their sleeping
time;
halls long
devoid of footsteps
in their echoing
bellies

closed
to me:
wandering down their
silent paths -
birds muttering in the
dying
day -

closed to me -
a language only
cedars
know:
rustling in the twilit air:
rustling lullabies to passersby
who believe themselves
awake -


https://thevisionaryfolkphotographer.files.wordpress.com/2013/09/glow-dalhousieuniv_4191.jpg?w=810


https://thevisionaryfolkphotographer.files.wordpress.com/2013/09/glow-dalhousieuniv_4282.jpg?w=810

July 16, 2017
Dalhousie University, Halifax, NS

181. Torontonian Months

Sushi without
fish and
water without
ice!

Lessons back-to-
back and lessons just
alone;

Sweat and smiles and
suitcases and
backpacks -

birthdays and
cards and
Australia and
San
Francisco -

restaurants and
catching
up:

new friends and
old ones -
new buildings and
old -

smoke and homeless and
pizza and
LV:
these are the sights and sounds and
smells!

180. Part-Time Torontonian

i am
yet a
stranger,
tourist -
             visitor!

without your hand in mine,
it is all still magic and
miracle to
me!

the bustle, the
people, the
music, and
the
food!

But how it was nicest,
your hand in mine -

The fresh
breeze
in the October, bright-lit
city -

Breath entangled in
eager bliss!!

176. Toronto Half-Life

sketches of a relationship between _______

I – јабука

Beauty is a liquid gold –

The sun is

on you or –

you

are

the sun!

Gilt, your

silver hairs

glisten, caught like

rare riches

in a sea of ebony – every

marble Hercules

and god

incarnated.

my fingers burn

at the

paper

cup;

tongue burns

at the

apple

brew

I have nowhere

but to

melt,

gold glistening

everywhere,

You

Alone

shine

with its

molten glow - !

II - ноћ

breath crystallized in

the crisp, late

night:

ears still ring

with chords and

trills and

fioratura - mine,

at least –

Light meets

window;

glass meets

the

eyes:

Feet crunch on the

carpet;

soft as the

grudging

snow:

keys -

checks for

company –

it’s dark out the

window, but

lights poke the

tender

sky;

I am seeing,

seeing:

couch, table,

television;

there’s a

hallway,

and there are

rooms:

there is a

computer and a

swivelly chair and

a mattress with

a wolf blanket,

it’s mildly juvenile,

but

adorable –

embarrassed, expectant –

I’m not sure how I

should respond –

he has prickly pins

blacking out at

me

I ask to kiss him

he blinks,

bewildered, surprised

as we meet

eyes

again

like an animal,

a toddler, seeing for the

first time:

this adorable

mountain of a

man

I am moving,

shifting already

The lips linger on

me, until it

forms in speech:

in that moment

your petulant eyes

implore me to stay

and yet the

briefness, chasteness

of those hushed and

starry-eyed, unhurried moments

haunts

me

warmed me

in that still slowly blossoming spring

snow did not cover

the barefaced

sidewalk

we walked in

silence, the

lamplights smiling

two figures

splotching their

pristine

path –

III - јутро

From 21 stories high,

they form a

metropolitan fugue

below:

a sea of swishing

Doppler effects,

a griddle of frying

vehicles –

The tender spring sun

pours onto my

curious skin:

light pours on

everything –

the buildings, the

people, the

roads:

still amongst the

weekend traffic,

breakfast

sounds from the other

room:

frying, cutting,

tinkling,

splashing –

footsteps plod toward:

they slow as they reach me

and with your eyes,

glancing over an

already tried and

familiar

view,

mine –

fervent, young

join years,

and we walk together,

sun over everything –

the cups, the plates, the

cutlery,

as we smile,

and

eat.

IV - плажа

Blaring from the

studded sea:

yachts aflame with

spinning bodies,

booming pop;

it is a scene from

Michael’s Marble Shop gone

wrong: rejects

happly tanning in the

breeze

photo-strown,

his perfect specimen

lies before

me

he smiles,

not of joy, not of

mirth –

of self-

satisfaction

seagulls squawk the

brazen azure

canopy,

the fizzing beer

laughs below;

photos kiss my

dewy skin –

magnetized:

I cannot

look away

from –

you are opening your

perfect, perfect

mouth –

a word

forms – !

V - Зелен

My mind in

yours:

Hand,

smooth as marble and

warm as the

hearth;

black prickles kiss my

tender

skin –

in the darkness,

the dull

thudding of the

green-and-white

rustles through the

night

we aren’t alone,

but very well as may be:

our muted whispers

dissolve into contented silence, listening

to our few neighbours,

their

moonlit chatter

evaporating

in favour of our

bliss in shared tenderness,

two hands

in harmony, in

unison.

I lean towards you:

I am loved,

safe.

VI - сив

Air thick with

pungent, stifling

gas;

pigeons lick

splattered oil spots

on splotchy asphalt

sometimes sun

glistens on the

buildings

nearby

sometimes we are

grateful the rain exists

outside the

terminal

boundary;

so many hours of

lungs

filling with

cubes of noxious

fumes; time spent so

mundane, so

ornery –

in a time before

and

after, it’s

strange to

be here

alone –

yet the air is

still thick

and the

pigeons lick

splattered

oil

spots;

and time treads

on, lungs

fill and

empty;

buses fill and

fill.

VII - терминал

You are

thirty million feet

away:

I try not

to touch

you

cold, calm,

and unchanged,

oxygen and

napkins lie

between us,

only –

May-time

light between is now an

autumnal grey:

and windows

eavesdrop

with corporate

glints in

tinted

eyes

When we are here again,

I turn without a

word.

I am so angry, so

proud.

I see you

saunter away through the dashboard

as usual,

lonesome and

unafraid -

it is the Last Time

we will huddle in the

fumes of the

terminal.

I yearn for

the sun-scented

oxygen of

our

shared summer,

and the quiet of your

hand in mine

in the

gentle darkness:

It has been long

since my eyes smiled

into yours so

tenderly;

these are now eyes

which know

these gold-gilt dreams

spin further backward, backward,

as I spin forward,

remembering,

in spite of

me.

175. Cash or Debit

Time is a shameless
measure:
no returns and
no
exchanges:
final
sale.

Like a
holiday tape wrapping
gift
by
gift,
the holly pattern
always

Sitting on a shelf,
observing
the darkness
of
neglect

A fate
to
pity, of
senseless
indifference

or perhaps to
covet,
eternal and
proudly
beyond,
spinning mutely

We cannot see its
end,
only –
think we
do:

cut short,
it
proceeds –
old gifts and
memories
remain;
undying,
unreturned,
dust-collecting and
sitting unblinking,
unremembering

174. A Shared Mile

The hills describe in pink,
of yawning suns descending:
it is an ode to love:
it is their adoration.

Our hands are interlaced;
our hearts are wrapped in silence;
it is the twilit dusk,
it is her mauve entreaty.

Paired in sylvan joy,
road the winding way
smiling to infinity
past the rose-gilt, silent trees;

My bliss swelled past our smiles
beyond the gold-drunk forests:
a love, that shared with them,
now separate, still remembers.

171. The Opportunist

American Robin at Frank G. Bonelli Regional Park

San Dimas, Southern California

Image Source: Two Birders To Go

Noble:
red head
raised high,

the robin
bounces
steadily, beady
eyes glimmering
with the
spring rain

in such splendour,
lone on the
beaming emerald
do I notice:

Stringy worms
dangling from
its resurfaced
beak;
munching, it is
a mortal like any other;
the rain,
fortuitous

Cantopop sails
in from the adjacent
living room;
eyelids painted and
eyes scrunched in
synchronous exertion:
dolled-up girls
and girly
boys

Things
seem not so
cheap
anymore…

170. Crabmeat

Scuttling over,
puts my hands on her
waist

“Breathe.”

We do so together.

Master and
novice,
experience seeping
through her
pores to
mine.

“Feel the depth of the
breath, it can
colour our
phrases
too.”

Soft flesh,
ancient and novel;
polyester fibres
crinkly and
taupe

As I am
processing,
understanding; we
breathe,
feeling the
depth,
discovering the
beginning

168. Cattle through the Peepholes

circles:
blinking eyes
beyond,
eyelashes long and
golden, dusty;
flies
interspersed

still yet
moving,
inches become
miles,
through alchemy
to kilo-
metres

skin beneath
metal,
air beneath
exhaust fumes:
and in the driver’s seat
the unthinking
be-jeaned,
be-plaid-shirted
blue collar
robot

driving,
surviving,

one eye:

glassy,
still, and
searching

166. Princesses and Trashcans

Unborn embryos
gestate
in my head…

a poem,
I once
read?

My mother
checked out a
book from the
library:
portraits of women;

in poetry
(I secretly
read it
too)
things 10-year-olds
shouldn’t know:

I was
gripped:
it was horrifyingly
tasty

words.
images.

Was it all a dream?

I.
Witch doctor in
hot
Brazil,
summer heat
twirling the
plastic plug-in
fan

treatises on using
recycled fetuses
as
lotion,
teen mothers &
satin skin:
“semen is the best
moisturizer”…
(I didn’t know what
that word meant
then)

crony old
fingers dance,
translucent skin
framing her flaming
red cuticles
on the turquoise
counter

Bidonville…
“Eu chorei, perdi a paz…”
Portuguese flits through the
metal grille of the
portable radio,
yellow as
banana,
sound tinny and flat
like
botox)

II.
A mother trails the
blood of her miscarried
baby,
red on the
Michigan
snow

Poems on a
poem;
strange how one can
create in a
created universe,
it’s all very
meta,
isn’t it?

Little babies,
trapped in lotion,
loss painted
red on the snow:
these things will
stick within a
kid, or
would they

165. Smokey Beijing

grey in the morning
smog,
streets awaking
bicycles;
cars thread through:
awake,
smoky Beijing!

misty in the veils of
time,
museums stand,
tall and Junoesque;
antiques are real when
awoken,
smokey Beijing;

earthy, cigarettes mutely
fume,
lazy streams glistening ‘twixt
Mandarin;
words entwining,
awakening,
smoky Beijing:

humming, miles away the
tourists,
globe’s collection in bright sun
visors,
parasols out and wide
awake,
smokey Beijing –

from the stolen sands of
time,
progress lays its youthful
tracks,
resting lay the timeless Dragon,
in depths and
at the core,
smokey Beijing.

164. Floaters

silent tumbling strings
translucent and transparent
flee the clear ether

silken treasured song
weaves its tapestry in Sun
glistening in the day

embers of fire red
ignite the quiet white snow
look – a fin appears

curlicuing ‘round
a chlorophyll encounter
circling comets sing

of molten moonbeams
in such dappled harmonies
only spectres swim

160. X-Ray Machines

Indonesian visitors view escalators

HK Sai Ying Pun Third Street, near Centre Street (April 2013)

Image Source: Remyumksoa

Sea:
pink, identical –
What is this?
eyes
question

some
bespectacled,
others
bejeweled

All
imperfect from the
fuschia
crop

Crisps,
adverts,
nonchalant
passersby
regard
impassively:

one sees
more
than
the other!

Amazed by this
strange new
world,
difference
divides

and reveals:

158. BUBBLE

For whom?

do the
hollow shelves
wait

the dusky
archives and
yellowed
magazines
beckon –

The
ants still
mill about,
carts rolling,
volumes flitting
back
upon
shelves;

Frictionless
vacuums
where
children
play

algorithms and
formulae
[formulas?] and
conservation of
energy &
mass and
momentum;

acceleration,
inclined planes and
laws of
Newton:

Silence on the floor,
despite the
creaking of
cubicles,
clicking of
lights,
buzzing of
4-year-old
Sony
Vaios…

155. Lingua Ignota

Wings flutter;
flyers in the
door-made
breeze:

lurid,
almost
desperate pleas
for
attention:
shadows remain of
careful, tack-
rent fingers

One, absorbed in
his
book,
does not
see
and yet –

unseeing
of the words
at hand:
eyes covertly
search
the gathering crowd

My then-self:
as exposed
as a half-tacked
flyer upon the
wall,

for a glimpse,
a single
glimpse
of my
beloved

who, despite
my careful
planning,
could not
alter what was
to be:

One poster
upon
another,
plaster on
plaster and
paper on
paper:

154. Salon des Refusés

He sits beside me,
only seat at a
crowded
intersection:

Old –
what a horrid
word;
wrinkled up,
frail, and
gauntly
tall.

Why are you here?
I would like to ask,
not judging
nor rudely,
but genuinely
curious

Abstracts
flicker
flacker,
dancing ‘cross the
pixels,
zebra manuscripts
painted
in cathode rays

Treatment
Medication
Lifestyle factors
Genetic component

headlines

Headlines:
receding,
newspapers clippings saved,
lay study
summaries

And yet isn’t science,
isn’t research
a mystery,
as cryptic as the
things they
study