Clouds and Trees

"Nothing ever goes away enough or arrives enough,/ and I want to cry when I think of my heart,/ muscle pounding in muscle, greedy always for joy." – 'A Warning', Eric Anderson

Month: February, 2009


You’re a one-way street
lined with marigolds
and cold concrete walkways
where the neighbours arrive
and never escape
where the sun is so bright
that the nighttime feels fake
as I walk in the dark
to the end of the street
where the cul-de-sac ends
with a hill by a lake
where a little house sits
in its wintery shell
but the glow in the window
lets me know you’re home
and I’ve come to believe
that were I to leave
I would never feel safe
without this backwoods hideaway
without this one-way street


The Odyssey at Bedtime

Sirens might be silenced
by the song you sang
as your ship cut through the shallows

My epithet describes my eyes
and my owl is like clockwork
I am a boy; now I’m a man.

Taste the lotus, eat the pig,
open the bag, and feel
the wind against your back

Son, you can walk across the river
to set the devil free or save the lady
with the rough-spun cloth that never was long enough

Wrap up this blind man’s song
with the heft of a spear
and a reunion flecked with blood

As dawn spreads her rosy fingers
take a moment, little one
and lay yourself down to sleep


Trying to conjure up images
in my mind
I find that I’ve lost the ability
to be creatively nonchalant
and that forced exhibition
of my inner thoughts
has become my only option

It’s not uncommon
for me to doubt myself
but recently I’ve been lost in
this foggy white asylum
and the magician I used to be
is crippled with the time
that was once meaningless
in his eyes, and mine

Before Sunrise

If you can fall in love
with a stranger on a train
in just a day
then every stranger is a beginning
and every day is a lifetime


I wish time were at the forefront of reality
and that my misconceptions were neglected
like the rest of my delusions
condescension is a tool
used to argue
and twist definitions
if there’s one thing I’ve learned
it’s that religion is a decision
and a lifestyle less easily maligned
than others
I can let myself be hemmed in by wishes
or close my eyes elsewhere
and leave hope up to the immigrants
who seem to find promise more easily
than others
but the dream doesn’t seem to be real
for any of us
and when it comes down to it
it’s all about who we trust
and whose dream it is
because it’s easy to believe and hope and dream and wish
but we are all keys turning
and locks breaking
picking our way through that hourglass keyhole
spying on our desires
I only hope I can one day walk away
from the scratches on the door
and write myself a room
which has no walls
and which let me in
simply because
the door was left ajar
and one way or another
I had the key all along

Phases of the Moon

creativity holds no roots
in the boundless soul
or the broken heart
but instead hides itself
in the beautiful imperfections
of this ragtag world
reflected in our perfect eyes
leaving plenty of room
for confusion


where will this detour get me
unlike some
i’ve got luck
and the things I need
to live without a heading
so raise the sheet
over your head
and tell them
the glow is from
the light you’ve kept from them