the godfather

the godfather is gone

grey. though he is still

the godfather, you may

not recognize him 

next time we meet. 

staved it off a long time: 

excellent genes

and a life of ladies,

music and music and beer.

but the time has come, and

the time has come to learn new tricks.

a pistol-spin around the index finger, pull

a rabid monkey out of the hat,

oracular fireplace, 

a special tea, cash,

a new chord.

he has loved you,

loves you still.

but he is no longer the fastest, and so

he steps down to cheer you on from the sidelines.

this may sound maudlin:

it is not.

other than premature exit,

there is no escape

from the wrinkled sack and shroud, 

life in the entropic. 

the godfather still catches flies on the wing,

and he will continue to sit

with notebook and smoking pen,

back to the wall, eyes on the ingress,

considering substance beneath the surface.

but he is gone grey,

the painting fades, and becomes somehow

more the purity of quartz than part of

the animal or vegetable realm.

the godfather, childless godfather 

loves you, all three of you, for being his children.

in some cases discipline was

withheld, in others, praise was effusive.

always there was love. your godfather 

goes, gratefully, to colour

of cloud.

for each cloud, for all we know, 

is a living entity, living

vapour that can

block the sun, 

reveal it,

saturate the earth with life,

and take on any shape

the child's eye finds

in this expressive and mercurial dance.

                                                  for JT, RD, & CL

after my first lightning storm in the new home in the forest

when I go

I hope I go

with a lance of lightning

in the heart…

and two crows—

one on the rim of each eye—

tearing at the fabric and

lapping at the pools

and strands and silk

of all my dreams and all that I’ve seen—

that the stilled heart’s beat

may be broadcast 

just a little longer,

from the top

of a momentary

jaggedly lit

bare 

high 

tree.

March ‘21

winter is a person too

there is such widespread grumbling about it

you wanna wonder how winter might feel.

everyone from suede and mink to cracked

leather and musty goodwill parka

try to hurry it along and out of here.

true, spring will be green, profuse, and—tra-la—ever

a skip-a-beat goosing when bulbs sprout.

but nothing will be elemental, honest,

quiet and clean like this again…

satisfied if I can, with jays and crows,

chickadee, (flash of yellow!) grosbeak

and the grand overseer, raptor in rapturous spiral.

it is “too cold” as other seasons are “too hot.”

but beyond all that, winter has feelings too.

toronto-town grumbles against slush that truly 

has little to do with the plan:

mouths of exhaust pipes, stacks of industry, and

plenitudes of human sigh and syllable

see to that, heat the air until

the unique and precious crystal cannot survive:

“I’m melting” and turning turbid brown.

enough. always a shock when the first mouth of lavender

crocus breaches the torpid brown to sing, sing to

returning throats that sing, sing of the south,

bringing some of it back here. sing

to the lengthening days.

no one drinks sun like my eyes, let me be clear;

it’s the hustling it out of the club without 

recognizing winter is not niggardly, not

invariably harsh, but

a big spender: silence and white

pour out of those big furry pockets

and the quiet on the fields is the perfect lattice

for sleep, thought, love, song.

Jan ‘22

The World

to refashion the world.

one crow at a time. 

a sheen of crows is what I said. 

care for this tablespoon

of earth, nod to its bounty

what they said. and so

we agree. perch on high,

shine and sing.

poetry

really
doesn’t
look 
that difficult

most pages
less
sound
than
silence. 

granted:
each word
of jovian weight:
gravitas of
the OED
in a three-letter 
conjunction: 

but…

such

silence.

each line 
stopped
short
for want
of breath.

simply
swat at
the infrequent
unruly
image:

flies of autumn
frantic
at the 
great 
window.

Oct 2022

scattered prayers

like my fellow

frail and useless humans I have

scattered my little prayers over

selected areas of the land on which I live. 

more specifically: 

lupin pods and poppy, coneflower

and others unnamed, broadcast with seeming casual hand

                    as if nothing depends on it

on bare dirt, awaiting frost and freezing and

then the spring, may there be another spring. 

this I have done, in good conscience and ample

faith brown seed on brown earth will,

with sun and the turning of a few calendar pages—

add the touch of the divine—

bring forth colour to attract the butterfly and eye.

pine, sky, human 

made of letters

shaped of curves and angles, sounds

out of the big bowl of forgotten time,

here I go mute, shake out

a handful of prayer

as if it all is not random,

and await the spring

(may there be another spring)

as I stand frail and nearly useless

under the blackboard sky, in the chill

of how little we know—

and how much less than that— 

control.

on a day of prayer

an entire day can be defined

by the sighting of one

great grey owl, yellow eyes

searching the snow as the sun begins

promising it will set. 

at the top of one thin and closeby tree that 

does not sway despite the 24 inch 

priest at its apex. in silhouette

that face is flat, otherworldly. looks to have

a great flow of locks down its back, 

and facing forward it sees all

easily now, flowing, until 

with the utmost focus, it will spot movement

in the white. an entire day

spent waiting—can be turned into a view from 

the heavens. this owl, yellow eyes, barely

swaying, its swivelling head, so close

I am certain I hear it declare

you are not the prey.

March 2023

listening to the piano

listening to the piano
tuner, I consider Gd those first
days of 
            creating 
         from chaos,
                             order.

praying with the bluejays

winter morning,

outdoors for prayer

in dad’s blue and white

tallis: 

a flag—

reminder of the tie

between seen sky

and hidden shamayim,

His Eye and law—

my late father’s tallis.

in still-bare trees,

the bluejays,

accustomed to my 

presence

and daily offerings

of peanuts, gather,

chatter, until, 

reaching the Shema

they quiet

and as one 

we declare

Gd is One.

fireflies

inaudible to me the
fireflies
fly above the trees and
sing
in the frequency
of light