Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Monday, December 7, 2009


There are images from our past. Music. Sights. Smells. Sounds. Some stay with us in photo-shop breakdown. I see a certain colour combination and it reminds me of something from long ago but I’m not sure what. What I do know is that these triggers alter my emotions and pin stripe my moods.
I’m fortunate that I rarely fall to triggers that take me to black and I feel for those susceptible to such recurrences. Me, I see an empty parking lot at two-am with a steady snow falling through the yellow light and the sound of a plow scraping across town somewhere and I pocket down and smile deep, knowing school will be cancelled.

the gold that white ambulates
sparkles in midnight glitter.

black painted silver
sweeps down
in exposed waves of accumulation
telling soft tales
of Winter solitude
under the lone light
of an empty school lot.

viewed in this manner,
snow is understood.

a train heard,
through blind hills
but all encompassing
it penetrates the village
soothing the ancient
luring the young
giving the wind voice
in the language of
where and when

heard in this manner,
time is understood.

the rhythm of tired waves
the stillness
of the red-tails glide
an alone child
on a squeaky swing


A grandmother’s shaky smile
a gift in tender wrap
weeping incited
by long ago scent

do you remember

the sound of rain on your tent?
the taste of your first red kool-aid?
the smell of your first barbeque?
the softness of your first kiss?
the wetness of your first good kiss?
the trust in a friends eyes?
the way of a spring storm?
the warmth of a fall breeze?
the crunch of fresh snow?

then you have understanding
and a recipe
for tomorrow’s hope.