Monastic Spastic

Look at him

Railing against the acknowledged

Unable to ascertain what he so knows

Yet cannot comprehend

He makes his choice

To enable peace, withdraw

God has not made room in his vessel

And who can move against God

He can

Cause he can move mountains

All failures possess him

All futures inspire him

Move along folks

There is nothing to see here

The convulsive knell of a re-inspiring soul

Aspiring back

Now take him or don’t

He is as is

Honest precise

Disoriented

Yours truly,

Verbose Boot

I am the vorticist

Here amongst the pipes and wires and girders

Spinning my yarns and my poetry

A contrarian to my environment

Comfortable in my industry

The idea of idle

Sitting about and

Simply

Contemplating

It is a rare treat

The great tragedy of my humanity

This constant compunction to do something

It is killing us

It’s killing me

And yet we are feeling pressured

To do just something

I am the vorticist

In quiet contemplation

In the din of my existence

Aged industry

Boilers and steam

Air and whistles

Motors humming through the circuitlatory

Pulsing

Artificial life

Derived from physics

Observed from nature

All there in my simple grasp

The touch of a button

The twist of a valve

Keystrokes in control

I could do it

I could

I could end it all

But why would one

This din keeps it all away

All at bay

I am the vorticist

An artist the poet

In all this industrialist 
Quag

Reflexion

Wake up she whispers

His name

And “wake up”.

She always starts his day this way

A voice unknown and always welcome

Familiar

Who is she he wonders

Forcing his eyes open into the dusky light

The alarm clock reflects a trio of numbers

3-3-3 projected upon the ceiling

Askew to his eyes he smiles

Looks like three pairs of breasts

Chasing across the ceiling

First thoughts

The lights from the streets below

Project the mullions and sill and transom shapes of the window

Pythagorean

Triangles and trapezoids

And squares and rectangles

Across the ceiling and wall

Testing his feet

He stumbles

Once again

To begin his male

Dear…

He reflects memory, question, resignations

Reflections

The answer to one circle made

Sadly contently aware of what he is

And so it begins anew

The Shot Heard Around My World

My step-father (and I use the f-word loosely)

My step-brothers

And me

We march to the middle of the vast wheat field

Well they marched

I flowed around and around

In the belly high grain

Brushing my wing feathers

Across the tips of the yellow stocks

Leaving behind me a swirled path of my adventure

Entwined around the regimental step-line

A single shot-gun and a box of shells

Today we were going to learn to shoot like men

Like a Queens Own Cameron Highlander

My step-dad’s (and I use the d-word loosely) regiment

Dad, I say.  Did the regiment really use shotguns?

Shut-up you silly boy, it is only what we will use for training today.

He sets a bottle up on an old fence post

Counts back thirty paces

Demonstrates how to load the shells, one in each barrel

And shoots, and in an ear splitting roar

The wheat either side of the bottle takes two fatal rounds
You missed Dad.  I get a smack.

Each of my step-brothers comes forward

Loads

And shoots

And for each of the shots they are rewarded

With a trip onto their bums

I am certain somewhere a cloud or an aircraft has taken a wound

And I also wonder aloud where the lead shot has landed

What poor soul may have received a wound

From an unseen, unheard enemy afar

My turn is received with peals of derision

Dad, why the retard?  It is a waste of shot.

I point to the stay of execution the bottle has thus far received

And am rewarded with a smack to my head for being cheeky

I also have watched and learned

The shells are loaded and the rifle cocked

Rather than stand, a small child with a large heavy ungainly weapon

I drop to one knee to steady myself

I twist my right shoulder ever so slightly into the stock

And before I could be forced back to my feet I shoot

The bottle shatters, its sentence carried out, duty done

I reject the unspent second shell

And hand the weapon and unspent shell to dad

I turn and march back along the line created by the Steps

Until I come to the first intersection of my imagination

And again I flow as a bird in flight

Peaceful along the tops of the grasses

Snapping a few pieces of wheat stock

And placing them in my mouth

I am the dove of peace

Never to take a shot again

That poor poor bottle

Grandpa Comes to Visit

I have in my closet

A very special thing

It’s patterned and tattered

And coloured and frayed

It lays there patiently

Waiting for me

My magic flying carpet

It can take me away

I fly from my flat

Above the tree tops

Float above the river

And sail round the bend

I visit my friends

Say hi, how do you do

And together we ride

We are coming to see you

We wave to the Golden Boy

Swoop down near the bears

Follow along the river path

And fly up the stairs

Say hello to the folks

A sunny day at the Forks

Stop in at the ballpark

Have a dog made of pork

We sail over Point Douglas

Flit in and flit out

Among the ancient old girders

Of old steel Louise

Do whirlwind circles

And big loop d’ loops

All over old Elmwood

To the heavens we mount

And swoop down real fast

Dive down to the grass

We land in your yard

Surprise! here we are

Can you come out to play

Alexandre and Nicolas

And Rachel

Today?

Come ride on my carpet

We can all take a turn

It goes to the coolest places

Just ask it you’ll learn

See mountains and prairies

And oceans and cities

We can even go to Africa

Just as quick as you please

Grandpa has a flying carpet

And children he loves

And a great big wide world

And a big sky above

Come climb aboard

There is room for us all

Hold on tight. Here we go

Swoosh to the air, oh my what a ball

Room 76 Reflections (i)

Longingly I stare out the window

The machinery hums and squeals about me

A hot day, I think

Everything is labouring

From the half century old vessels above me

Water leaks raining to the pedestrians below

A rainbow forms in the mechanical mist

A nice reprieve from the mundane about me

And I think

I am older than these machines

When am I going to start to leak?