A hermit crab without a shell
is a desperate thing.
Foolish to hide
Dangerous to seek
They risk it all to find one.
When they find one – home free!
But
they nudge
rotate
inspect from all sides
peek
wiggle their butt in to get a feel
before claiming it for their own.
Even a hermit crab
can reject a home
without clams clamouring
they should be grateful
for whatever they get.
The pork is being chopped
and the bok choy wokked
You’re bringing home dinner
to feed the mewling mouths at home,
but
for now – right now –
the bustly, rushy go-go-go world –
the world
needs
you
to
wait. Continue reading “Wait”
I am a stranger
You can’t see me
I am a stranger
Do you know what I mean?
On a secret path
The one that nobody knows
And I’m moving fast
On the path that nobody knows
And what I’m feelin’
Is anyone’s guess
What is in my head
And what’s in my chest
I am a stranger.
Gord Downie, The Secret Path, 2016
Show some respect.
Now is not the time, never now;
the time was yesterday.
Before.
So hurry, quick –
tomorrow’s shooter is readying.
Talk gun control today
and show some bloody respect for tomorrow’s victims.
I want to sit
on the shores of Georgian Bay
Sunny days
calm days or
full of wind and grey
Whitecaps and swells or
waves so sly
you hear the hissing sand complain
as each drop squeezes by
Days in damp suits and clinging sand
my burning soles seeking a place to land
Days with hood tied tight under my chin
Beer-cold water daring me to come in
Sitting and sitting
fingers siftingsifting sand
eyes on horizon
ears tuned to gullsong
Nose seeking sun-baked jack pine
And surprise
When my tongue licks my lips
And there’s no taste of salty sea.
There is
no mirror
like a mirror-still river
to make you stop,
just as still,
and reflect.
With every blossoming chestnut tree
Je me reviens à la ville de Paris
Strolling behind Nôtre Dame
Une glace Berthillon dans ma main.
Brisk march down the subway platform
One pulled-back panel of green tile revealing century-old rusty bits,
And one old wooden shim, woodgrain visible under underground grime
Of a sudden, in that glimpse, I’m thrown into its
Tiny beginnings,
Quiet whispers of time,
Years of baked pine-needle-and-soil smell
slowly passing like one perfect summer afternoon;
The boots
The sawmill scream
The sawdust air
The truck
The worker
The saw
The mallet
The muffled roar of time
The glance of a woman who thinks she knows where she’s going.
Why
Does the eye
Seek out beyond the blue of the sky
a piddly bit of water blue?
Hey, I just saw the lake!
There’s no shortage of blue, trust me.
So why one blue and not the other?
Sky and water, mother and daughter,
use sunlight to display their bluey hues.
Sky absorbs and becomes the light.
Water reflects – it’s having none of it;
sunglasses in place
upon a stony face –
“You think you know me? You don’t know me.”
Hey, lake!
Long-necked
shadow of the pine
stretching ‘cross the frosted
stubble of the field;
elegant, tender,
as the sun burns away
last night’s
lacey
blanket.
But the pine,
lingering,
clinging to that tattered blanket,
whispers to the stubbled field
– just five
more
minutes.
Moira Dunphy May, 2016
