Thursday, November 18, 2010

Drunken Drummer©

Sand. In the mouth, hair, eyes. Each breath number 8 sandpaper. That wind is a drunken drummer. Tiny playful gusts of sand whack the metal sides of the mobile home with short buzz rolls. RRRRRRRR. Then quiet again.

The trailers, with their gap toothed porches, are lined up as straight as loose change thrown into a panhandlers hat. It’s the casual way of life. A job here and a job there mixed in with a generous helping of social assistance and illicit pleasure sales.

Two young kids, probably a brother and sister, amuse themselves by exploring, unconcerned with the older folks goings-on. They came upon an apparition. A row-boat in this tumble weed trailer town. Sitting on a lonely dune, abandoned. Squint and the long course grass is the missing water, slapping the sides; reminiscent of the garbage bag waves in a cheap theater production.


Saturday, November 13, 2010

Deep Fall and the Penguin March©

Air is a wet sweater, dripping and hanging, weighing everyone down. The steam-ironed sky is the low tent over head. Don’t dare to stand up straight. Might hit the top.

Nature’s giant rotor fans crank up the breeze, giving a static shock of cool.

Crack of blue elbows its way in.

Hip carrier bag looped over the opposite shoulder. Narrow jeans tucked into her high leather boots. She looks ahead. Left hand is gripping the insulated coffee mug. Without changing her gaze, waiting for the light to change, the cup deliberately comes up to deliver. Inverted lips in distracted concentration.

It’s hot chocolate - the love drug. The muscular bittersweet takes her back to the night. Wrapped up in the duvet of her lover’s full body. His rhythmic relaxed breath is the hammock that lulls her into the stars. Drunk on the vibe and hormones she is reeling through the galaxy, into all knowledge. Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! Cross walk signal rudely brings her back. Get a butt moving across the street before the light changes again.

Multi-colored penguins parade off the shallow sidewalk bank into the sea of traffic - momentarily parted. Shoulder to shoulder, not daring to look sideways. It’s bad manners for proper penguins to be interested in a neighbor; no matter how attractive. Maybe sneak a peek as far as the peripheral will take.


Sunday, January 31, 2010

Song Lyric Ideas

My Friend asked me to come up for some lyrics for a song he was working on. The general idea was a man who went to the Yukon to search for gold, in the Gold Rush.

Here are some ideas that are in progress.

The high mountain air is blue
Smells blue
Tastes blue
Blue Cold and Hard
“You can’t breathe me”.
Each pick swing brings a laugh from the rock,
Calling my name; deep throated “Tom”
Sneaking wind conspiring with the trees.
Chorus of “Foooooool”
Coffee steaming on the spruce wood fire
The cold still grabs my ribs.
Back home my New Brunswick girl teased me
“Grow your whiskers, callus your hands.
Come back when you’re a rich man.
Two years I’ll wait then I’ll close the gate”.

Yukon gold on everyone’s mind
Feverish schemes of every kind
Dreams of gold in this gray land
Hoping for the one big find.
Go down to the river and wash my hands
Shout to the mountains from the riverbank sand
I miss that girl so bad it hurts
I’ll tell the world that you’re my girl.
I’ll show the world that I’m your man.
I’ll show the world that I’m your man.

Keep shoveling and picking and sifting for gold
My New Brunswick girl is waiting
With a glimmer of hope
Write her a letter and mail it on Monday
Tell her I love her; think of me Sunday
Tell her I love her; Keep the fire burning
Keep that gate open; I’ll be returning.

Go down to the river and wash my hands
Shout to the mountains from the riverbank sand
I miss that girl so bad it hurts
I’ll tell the world that you’re my girl.
I’ll show the world that I’m your man.
I’ll show the world that I’m your man.
I’ll tell the world you’re my New Brunswick girl.

Saturday, January 23, 2010


Inspired by Paul Quarrington and Alistair MacLeod;
Dark lined etchings of harshness,
with a coloured wash of compassion.
King Leary and No Great Mischief
Tried my best; might be over written – better than underwritten.

Stinky shadow of his former self
Leaves a dark abstract impression
On the sidewalk,
Unshaven, unbathed
Who knows what,
Or what not else.
Trying to hold his twisted body together
Steady enough to hold the Tim’s coffee cup
Out far enough for potential passer-by
Sharp canyons; some lined up,
Some seemingly random,
Topography of a face
Informed by stormy brain,
Not a fog -
A ragging hurricane;
Rain, wind, thunder, lightning,
Distorting his face to the world.
He stands naked in his head,
A sailor without stars.
He hunches down with his back against the warm bank wall,
His shaky legs need a rest,
Is it Pay Day? Is it Christmas or some other holiday?
Only knows the metallic taste in his mouth from the hunger and the cold.
Pile of silver and brass building up
In his cup,
There is generosity in the air.
Plain mukluk boots, long puff coat, long undressed hair,
A woman stands in front of him
Fishing in her carry bags,
Finally a small change purse,
Two brass looneys from that,
Tossed into the change pile,
Delicate scales tip,
Unsteady stinky former shadow of himself
Teeters toward the sidewalk,
Cup is released to relativity,
Gravity takes over,
Silver and gold rainbow arches from the paper vault,
Metal tinkling on the sidewalk
Rain on a metal roof,
He wets his pants.