Showing posts from March, 2016

Forever the Naughty Master


Nine Mile Road

He had left the streetcars
And the Volvo ads
The smirking pan-handlers
And flower ladies
The smell of bagels
And urine in subway corners
The cadre of blue suits
And padlocked briefs.
In his forty-fourth year
Of mis-direction.
He bought the camp
With the little green
Patch out front.
Traded dictaphone
For a set of carver's tools
Offered by Willie
For beer money.
Willie, that syllabus
Of Huron lore and images
Three miles down the Road
And closer to Honey Harbour.
Craftsman now
And woodburner
Taking treasured bits
Of Huronia and the bush.
To that flea market
Up Highway sixty-nine.
Bringing harried holidayers
A sense of land and past.
(They thought nothing
Of the artisan's price.)
Wood chopper
Bay boater
Walleye troller
Night sky singer
Campfire dancer
With the west wind
And rock gray
And bush green
With dapplings of birch
And sky blue
And on the move.
Even the driving rain
Had become a welcome guest.
Glenda had balked at the idea
A time apart for re-gr…


He's a bit off
That one
Writes poetry
Observes the passing throng
Passing judgment
On what's wrong
Pushing virtue
And venture
And all that out-dated stuff.
Isn't Wikipedia good enough?
He told a friend
Sleep gets interrupted
By a line
Or a cadence
Or an image.
Often talking to himself
At work
Distracted jerk.
Thinks a Heavenly input
Pens the lines.
Dances with beat
And rhymes
And Something beyond
Long assigned to the shelf.
By most of us.
Browning, an old one
Of like art
Wrote of the passing
Of a village bard.
Said he watched and mused
At others driven, confused.
And passed some lines
To Duke and Court
Hurt, hope or good report.
A man thought wise
To philosophize.
But we're beyond that.