Friday, February 24, 2017, 08:48 PM - Poetry and Writing
Thorax of tractor, trailer aground.
Letting the metal go.
The gathering is shrinking. Soon
we forget to ask.
Old men idle over tinto and war.
A dyke gives way nail by nail.
It doesn’t stop here, ever.
Through bulging sewers
and guttered debris,
the music snuck back,
slipped on a hot little dress.
What part of love is patience?
A blown-out, boarded-up
city stuffs its windows with toys.
The derelict car lot
polka-dotted.
Abandon as litter
or landscape?
Insides out
mustering red.
Published Halifax Poetry Series, Frog Hollow Press and FreeFall Magazine
2016
Wednesday, January 11, 2017, 02:46 AM - Poetry and Writing
Was bloody, half the empire would fall
but battle only lays them for a time
they cut and burned the books to quell the living
Rites of Zhou replaced with rule of law
and rule of land and tombs that fit for kings
an infantry to make it great again,
chains of serfs and bandits moved as one
bound the little states that wrapped Beijing.
Two thousand years, about a million men,
a life for every foot of wall when done.
What is blocked and what is kept within?
Caged white roosters, mortar of human bone
like the scales of a sleeping dragon
and as visible, too, from the moon.
Saturday, December 3, 2016, 02:58 PM - Poetry and Writing
Proud to be part of this chorus of voices speaking out on the American election. Click on the link below to read the poems. 
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Friday, December 2, 2016, 02:39 AM - Poetry and Writing
like those before him, less blood
or a different kind, different
ceremony but similar use of timing
and Other as when Europe swelled
from pogroms and picket lines.
I don’t mean to equate brutalities
but history is bound by desire
spit and gut.
You can slay an order
when we're grinding our teeth.
The right mix of wind and kindle
a clear enough path
to unleash the legs of flame.
They knew, they know
fear is bloody heady-
we don’t care for details.
We’re tired and
when you’re tired
the smell of body
on altar delivers.
Hot front, full speed
seemed to come from nowhere.
Sunday, November 27, 2016, 01:20 AM - Poetry and Writing
It's hard to hold mist.
Rather, burn off like fog. Sit,
Grin. Let the sky cleave.
Written during the Wisdom of EveryDay Life sessions at the Shambhala Centre, Halifax with Bob and Linda.
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