promise me

promise me I'm more than the ghost 

of your desiring heart, 

your true love 

in all the worlds we've ever lived, 

the gaze of an inner eye 

transfixed upon the shape of 

my existence,

then life would not be lived in

strained vanity, 

a dust mote in beams of 

splendid light

without shadow or gravity, 

is such love possible 

beyond ideas and 

good intentions? 

Coyote

I think I may have written about this before, but tonight I was remembering it all again, with a clarity and feeling I haven’t had for some time.

One time I was travelling out east and booked a campsite in Mi’kmaq territory in Nova Scotia. I was all alone there, on a high sloping hill overlooking the surrounding countryside. In the distance I could see the ocean. The moon was almost full and shone quite brightly over fields around my site. I slept in a very small tent, a one person deal with the classic prism shape. The night had grown cold and I was ill-prepared for the chill that settled.

As I was falling sleep I suddenly heard what sounded like flutes being played. It was rich and warm like a wooden instrument. I also got the impression women were singing. I couldn’t understand where this was coming from. Then gradually I felt as though I was being lifted up out of myself, as if I was going to go through the roof of the tent. Truth be told it was a lovely feeling. I wasn’t scared. I willingly gave myself over to it.

Then out of nowhere I heard what sounded like laughter. Immediately the spell was broken and I returned to my cold tent, listening intently. I realized it was probably a coyote, making its coughing/barking noises. It sounded very much like laughter that eventually trailed away into the night. I was left cold and shivering, still trying to hold on to the music and voices, but also chuckling to myself about the rotten little coyote that had broken the spell.

I’d like to think this experience has some deeper meaning. I researched the Mi’kmaq culture to see what they believed about coyotes. In some First Nation’s cultures he was a trickster, but apparently coyotes are latecomers to the Maritimes, and so there wasn’t much about him there. For them, the crow is the trickster. I couldn’t help but see him as a trickster anyway that night, for breaking the spell and then laughing at me into the night. I don’t really know what to make of it all, other than something magical seemed to happen there, not far from Paqꞌtnkek First Nation lands.

safe space

there are no words for what I long for, 

nor teacher for this folly, 

love's mirrored image 

set in calm repose, 

despite the raised eyebrow 

our laughter trails off into the night, 

dare i assume the safety of this 

sacred place

and make myself a fool again, 

naive man that i am, 

i thought this time was different.

Sidewalk thoughts Aug. 27.25

I will have a revolution within myself.  
I will overturn values that have been planted and grown inside me by other people and institutions.
I will learn to see the world as if for the first time.
My eyes will be those of a newborn infant, slow to categorize, label, judge.
I will listen to those around me better.
I will seek more moments of silent meditation.
I will grow something beautiful inside my heart.

when we were close

when we were close
i took those golden moments 
for granted,
when the sight of your face was
sunshine warming mine,
and now at the end of an age
you drift,
a whispering specter haunting 
everything.
like Odysseus i'd offer blood
to bring you back.
where have you gone?
can i trace this filament back to the
exact moment you became 
a ghost?
would i find my own fault there?
oh to turn the hands of time 

I just wanted to say...

She placed the freshly-picked flowers in a glass vase and said,  “I almost don't want to talk about the things I wish for because I'm afraid they won't come true, you know?”

In that moment I desperately needed her to be speaking of us.

“I didn't take you for a superstitious person,” I said with a smile, more teasing than anything else, trying to ignore the ache I felt in my heart.

“I'm not really superstitious,” she said, “I just feel like whenever I really want something and let other people know it, I end up not getting it.”

And in that moment I realized there was something deeper being expressed in those words. This was the expression of a sense of loss, of unfulfilled and frustrated hope repeated again and again. I suddenly felt deeply honoured she'd shared this with me.

Before I could say anything her friend came in from outside. Our conversation returned to the mundane world of work.

The next day we came together in the same place. Our eyes met and we held each other's gaze for a time. I was the first to speak:

“I've been thinking about what you said yesterday, about how you feel that telling your wishes to others might mean they won't come true.”

I waited for her reaction to gauge whether to keep speaking or change the subject. She gently nodded and I continued.

“I just wanted to say…”

ex ego

where there is a true word 

there is the meaning of life 

and my whole being in this world 

is not even the smallest breath 

in the hurricane of its saying

when i go away

when i go away

leaves will swirl around 

the bleached white sidewalk 

near my home 

as if i still walked there, 

and crows will still watch from rooftops. 

the black spotted dog and his 

sidekick chihuahua will still race 

along the fence to chase away my ghost. 

if you look through the branches of 

those flowering trees you'll see the 

bluest sky. 

i'm there between the petals 

in the part that goes on forever. 

In Nepal

in Nepal I saw a tear 

fall from the eye of a Buddha 

and splash upon the earth.

as I watched, a flower grew 

in that very spot. 

it was fragrant, like freshly 

opened lilac or hyacinth. 

the Buddha's gaze was 

unperturbed, serene. 

the flower danced in the 

cool Himalayan breeze.

i had witnessed a miracle, and 

yet… 

i felt no surprise as

the flower bent toward me. 

i leaned forward, until 

my forehead touched its petals. 

10,000 suns illuminated the sky 

and i fell to the earth blind. 

i heard a buzzing noise, 

like a giant cicada coming 

closer to my ears. 

when it reached a volume 

i could hardly bear, 

it vanished and the light 

shattered to thousands of pieces. 

quiet on the mountaintop. 

wind graced my hands and hair,

my eyes remained closed.

crunching on the gravel path behind me 

as a traveller up the trail 

made summit. 

but when I opened my eyes 

there was no Buddha, 

no flower. 

a woman, her dark hair shining in 

the mountain air. 

she took my face in her hands and 

touched her forehead to mine. 

she gave me water and I slowly drank. 

little bird

oh time you slip away
and i can't catch my breath
as i press against this autumn chill

when the lonely bird 
finds its evening tree
and the night wind sways the
branch it calls home
she blinks the stars above
from her tear-filled eyes
and like shooting stars
they fall to the ground below
she will pass unnoticed 
she will pass unnoticed
like a dry leaf blown from its 
withered twig 

my steps beneath the
cold dark trees
a collar to the coming
winter's wind
a movement catches my eye:
a small feather swirls around
the frosty ground and passes
into the night

if i could drown in you

if i could drown in you

i wouldn't hold my breath
or struggle
but close my eyes and
inhale every drop of you

the water is a crystal blue tonight

and upon its surface
float two blood red roses
how perfect their last moments
together

this is a mystery
so profound it leaves me
speechless

L'avenir n'est pas un souvenir

Pachebel's canon played the day 

I watched you down the aisle 

Your smile made stars seem dim 

And the world was all promise

Imagine then if we knew 

Life would split in a hundred ways 

If heaven itself would fall 

For one of us 

New Year's Day 2025

J'ai vécu plusieurs vies

Je ne sais pas si

Tu connais les noms 

De mes enfants

Dans notre enfance

Nous avons rêvé de ces choses

-Rembobine, réfléchis-

Le futur est aussi 

Réel que le passé

Mais l'un est parti

L'autre est une promesse

À réaliser

I promised

I promised in the last life  

I'd find her in the next 

An age went by 

And cities fell 

While worlds were turned to ash 

Before she came and grew 

And I was born and knew 

The person standing there

was you 

Every death creates a veil 

Obscuring reborn sight 

Until the sacred moment 

(often late into the night) 

The inner eye is opened 

And you see things as they are 

How bright you've shone 

To reach this eye, 

How far…

mirror

you are mirrored 

neuroses 

of each other, 

and it's love 

the bliss of love, 

the intensity of it a

cosmic rip in 

spacetime 

when will destiny be

fulfilled 

and the sighing days

cease to 

exist 

I saw her

i lay no claim to her

and life itself cannot own

her passing

for she lives a deeper magic

untouched by any common 

hour 

but... i'd like to think

i've seen her with my

patient eyes 

sharpened by the northern wind, 

Middle Eastern suns, 

and jungles of infinite green, 

there beneath the 

lightbulb in my kitchen 

i saw her. 

how was it possible? 

i was ready...

stranger than fiction

"Reality is stranger than fiction," she said. 

I turned it over for a second. 

"What if reality IS fiction?" I muttered. 

"Like we're living in a simulation or something?"

"Well there's that too." I sipped my tea carefully before continuing. "Chuang-tze once had a dream he was a butterfly, and upon waking he was no longer sure whether he was Chuang-tze dreaming of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of being Chuang-tze." I paused again for more tea, but before I could continue she cut me off. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"What do you think it means?" 

"No no I'm not falling for that." She crossed her arms. "You tell me. You brought it up." 

"It means you think you're listening to me speak but maybe you're just having a dream about listening to me speak.  And if you're having a dream, then it's not even me speaking, but you, since it's your dream and your brain is creating the whole thing."

"That is totally not what that story meant."

"What do I know I'm just a voice in your head," I shrugged. 

"Why do I even bother talking to you?" She sounded exasperated. 

"Who else are you going to talk to?" 

"If this is all in my head I could literally talk to anyone I wanted." 

"Now you've got it," I said. 

Goodnight. 

touched

I have been touched by the gods

or the universe 

whatever that profound space is 

both inside and outside my head

and am somewhat mad

at least i think so 

but i ask myself, am i truly

going mad? 

or is everyone else who plods along 

like nothing remarkable is 

taking place, 

are they the ones who are mad? 

so these either are the writings of a madman 

or the diary of one of the few 

sane people on earth, 

even time itself won't tell 

Midnight in the back of my car

Midnight. In the back of my car we made love until we were dripping like the foggy windows. Then the thing all back seat lovers fear: the knock at the window.

It was her mother. How she found us down that dead-end road in the middle of the night is still a mystery to me, but she did, with that supernatural radar mothers have. The knock. The knock that threw us into motion like thieves caught in the act. What were we stealing? 

She got dressed faster than me and stormed out of the car to confront her mother. As I pulled my clothes on I heard them yelling at each other. I was impressed by her ferocity. I'd be sheepish. I was caught fair and square. What right would I have to put up a fight?

She came back and told me she had to go. She told me everything was ok and she'd call me soon. They drove away and I turned my defrost on full so I could see. I was that guy, wasn't I?  The ones parents fear.

There was a difference, I told myself. I actually loved her. I didn't know what the hell I was doing but I loved her. The drive was 30 minutes through the hills and trees and I turned the whole thing over in my mind. When I got home I slipped in through the bedroom window so I wouldn't wake my family. 

As sleep came to me I thought about the water running down the inside of my car window and her hand pressed against it while we made love, in the same spot her mother put her hand when she knocked... 

promise me

promise me

you'll find the beauty 

in our world

when my eyes

no longer see 

promise me 

you'll have vision 

for the two of us 

i, looking 

through you

in this moment of

pure existence 

double-visioned 

graced moment of 

divine sight 

let light fill 

our body

in the presence of 

this passionate 

cohabitation 

i am always with you 

if you have eyes 

to see 

firefly

When I was little I'd catch fireflies in a jar. Only one or two at a time. To my young mind these small creatures were living miracles.

They would always appear in the same spot in our backyard, near a small hill around the base of an old telephone pole. Catching them was easier than you might think. One simply had to wait for the little insect to signal with its glowing abdomen and scoop it up. Where I live now in suburbia I rarely see them in great enough numbers to do this, but when I was a child, the night air was full of them. 

I'd take my jar inside and inspect the bug under some light. What a strange creature lived there on the other side of my fingers and a few millimeters of glass.

Then I'd sit the jar next to my bed and go to sleep, but with one eye open to watch my little prisoner. Sometimes I'd see it glowing there, but never so brilliantly as outside.

In the morning I'd find the firefly lifeless on the bottom of the jar. I don't think one ever made it through the night.  There's probably a metaphor in that, if one cared to think a little more about it.