Category: Scribbles

I tramped my early days
on Kingsway roads
with Royals’ names for streets,
signed with anglo city signatures.
I grew among the Humber flow,
a ravine side scrambler, adventurer,
salamander hunter,
clamberer of my dangerous heights,
now but shoulder high,
the distance of a hoist and hug.

I tramped along in unlocked time
to pass our open doors and linger
for the breadman’s basket at the back
or the milkman’s bottles, thick cream on top,
the front door flung open,
the delivery calls : Timothy’s!¹
Pushed and pulled, opened up
The world came in – my world went out.
Before doors were locked behind.

I tramped among the horse clops’ end
among bridled wagons,
their demise delayed by metal gulping war,
their sounds changed soon to power’s noise,
and cars came home
packed and wrapped by glory chrome
that bragged by curves and glint,
and gathered neighbors homage round
to greet the new, and speak as
experts of specs and speed and style.

I tramped among  unknown voices
from other places pouring on our grid,
tastes and smells,
with  sounds and changes
charged to leave behind
my own English Irish city’s start
to become this now boundless blended flow,
out from streets of new arrival
churning in our city’s currents’ daily tides.

I am a tramp,
wearing ragged jagged time
to rummage the past in present,
finding changes feared
have wrought all the difference
that makes us all the same,
in Toronto  huge in my drifting days,
coloured, touched and made
from universal unbounded multi-coloured rays
in fond and unexpected ways.

 

 

1. “Timothy’s” would be called out by the Eatons Department Store delivery man after opening the unlocked front door and leaving a package in the foyer.

 

 

Saturn’s spectrum snatched by glass,
thrown gently to my eye,
telescopic touching,
through the whole
black between-us space.

Your rebounded sunlight
thrills,
as when a lover’s presence
outshines his pictured sight.

With you suddenly
I am vanished,
when our joining makes
me and all the around me it’s
into tiny insubstantial
bits.

Railside lines weave music staffs,
Flowing cleffed as pictured songs fly past,
A silver trumpet horn of light
Plays off the lake before the night.
Timpanic factories boom now and then
At either end of small town rondos when,
The houses’ human chorus notes appear,
United by road lines’ cadence clear.
Farm fencing string sounds go round
The earth turned deepness of the cello ground.
Among the autumn’s espressivo  tones,
Occasionally comes back alone
The engine horn – long, long: short, long…
The monotone refrain in this sightly song.
Then a lone three storied old stone gable sings,
In sky blued keys through window gone rings,
A heartfelt tune of magic rhythm,
The thrilling lyrics of our natural anthem.

The open casement by my bed
speaks the sound of the Georgian shore,
a moonless night,
blinds black my open eyes.

Listen.

On the stones and sand
the water’s edge,
is saying,
sleep,
to sleep .

In whispered shush,
small waves sweep back,
as I am young and
softly curl from shapes
into my seeping dreams.

To float below the surface ripples,
spent by the windswept crashes
from the foamy fists’ thundering pound,
splashing white on the grey gone day,
wetting strips of sand man skin,

I become a blood flood shore.

This old sweater,
white ribbed wool,
heavy with
times we’ve spent together,
the patterned puffs,
and yarn stitched lines,
a myth I’m told,
but tell my friends is true,
were first used as family signs,
so those Aron sailors
washed ashore were known.

Its gentle itch next to my skin,
welcome  unlike others,
an alive touching friend
recalling worn past ways:
love, lying rumpled by me on the floor,
cold wet tear soaked days,
wind tickled times blowing joy,
soft over a blaze inside me,
its thick white cables tied,
to memories from the deep.