poetry, Rantings, Uncategorized

4 am massacre

a verbose bird
typewriters outside my window
like a bell ringer who downloaded
too much cocaine

my cement legs
bolted-to-the-bed
refuse to muscle up the courage
to deal with this imbecile

instead my mind
fondles the delicious trigger
of a 12 gauge shotgun
because no pussy pistol
will justify this moment

“but wait…” says the brain
maybe marinade the base of
the tree with gasoline and happiness
the flicker of flame and
stench of smoke
will help him finish his argument
and muffle voices in my head

“let’s go for convenience”
retorts the devil in my dreams
breadcrumbs in a shopping bag
and the cheerful glisten
of a baseball bat
to bring an end to the
symphony this asshole started

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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Canadian nuances, Rantings, Uncategorized

Canadian nuances – Part 6: Wading through sludge

I spent my New Year’s Eve in an empty house. The warm kiss of sherry coating my lungs, and the gentle sigh of a dog narrating my thoughts. It was lonely, but perfect. Quiet moments give us time to reflect. On everything, really.

I babbled to a few people on Facebook, my thumbs thundering against the glass face of my phone. I checked the time 23:34…shit, time to leave. I threw on my headphones, slung my bottle of sherry back into my bag, began my ascent through the ice and sludge. The succulent anger of Slipknot thundering threw me.

I approach the SkyTrain. Reach for my wallet. Seconds after my hand collides with its porous body, my eyes dart to the sticker adjacent to the turnstiles Free Ride on New Year’s Eve. 8 P.M. until 5 A.M. A smile creeps over me. “Thank you Canada,” I mutter to myself.

I get off at my station. A few of my heavy metal anthems are now slithering across my playlist. I start headbanging and beating drums like invisible ghosts in the air. Somehow this doesn’t seem like enough. I kick up a bit of snow and do an Irish jig in the middle of the street. (It’s like a version of Riverdance you should never watch. Trust me.) A thought came to me this morning as I began etching out the events of last night. I think I’ve fallen in love with this country. Or perhaps it’s fallen in love with me? I don’t care which way you slice it.

During the summer of 2016 I had a romance with a beautiful Japanese girl. I see an interesting parallel between loving a person and loving an environment. There’s the initial awe of something new coupled with anxiety of being able juggle the complexity of it all. Maybe one has an angry parent buzzing in their head saying “You’re in a new country / relationship now. Don’t fuck it up!”

Initially being in Canada felt like wading through sludge. There’s so many details, -isms, directions, slang and faces thrown your way, all that’s left to do is slowly wade through it. The sludge. Now that I’m two and a bit years into being “settled”, there’s less sludge. I can still see parts of it, others haven’t found me yet.

Where am I going with all this? Well, you remember the earlier analogy about the lover? A tipping point comes in any relationship. It is when you let your guard down. You express yourself, and run with it. It feels like flying. It tastes like freedom. That was exactly how I felt a few hours ago, churning up snow and dancing like dyslexic spaghetti.

Yeah…I may have looked like a fool, but I’m cool with that. Man must frolic, and so should you!

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Ted Hughes – Macaw and Little Miss

Got some great feedback on this older poem today I’d forgotten about.

What are your thoughts?

The World of a Crazed Writer

I’m an image whore. I love poetry because it achieves this almost immediately And of course you don’t get much better than Ted Hughes. I enjoy him because he’s the Beethoven of poetry. He creates the storminess and ferocity that many other are afraid to mention and talk about. He uses the animal kingdom to reveal the dark side of humanity. He can be tender at times, but generally he’s vivid and intense.

This poem is probably more suited for a horror film, but I really like it. Comments are always welcome 😉

Macaw and Little Miss

In a cage of wire-ribs
The size of a man’s head, the macaw bristles in a staring
Combustion, suffers the stoking devils of his eyes.
In the old lady’s parlour, where an aspidistra succumbs
To the musk of faded velvet, he hangs in clear flames,
Like a torturer’s iron instrument preparing
With dense…

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poetry, Uncategorized

beginning

his feet pump
with the weight of words
muscles in his voice
ignite and imbue
the asphalt

his face fidgets
in the creases of the wind
yet his eyes
remain resolute
through the old fog

his mischief wades
down the street
a scarf embraces him
like the soft pulse
of a mothers arm
whose embryo voice
whispers and says

– today you’ll be the
gentleman that
echoes empathy from
the folds of his heart

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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What value is there in our story?

A powerful story. I learnt a great deal from this, you should too 😉

A Teacher's Soul

Should we listen to our own story?

“Could you tell me what is your educational philosophy is?” I been asked that nice question often. Just imagine if when a teacher/lecturer/instructor was interviewed for a new post we were to ask these sorts of questions…. Right now might need some hefty personal liability insurance if you did.
“Tell me about a moment in your life when you betrayed yourself? How did you recover from that?”
“When you find yourself on the edge how do you reach out for help and stop that spilling into your colleagues and students’ lives?”
“What are the major sources of beauty and inspiration in your life?

“What do you do as a psychological or spiritual discipline that deepens your level of personal integrity?”

Those questions cut to the core. Tragically this core of  the ongoing work of  developing personal integrity (EQ+IQ+SQ) has been only deemed necessary…

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Home is Where the Heart is

I’ve always been a fan of the beautiful images that pour out of this blog!

hovercraftdoggy

Home is where the heart is (1) Home is where the heart is (8) Home is where the heart is (7) Home is where the heart is (6) Home is where the heart is (5) Home is where the heart is (2) Beautiful sculpture work by Elle Nitters, from Rotterdam, Netherlands. Her words:      I was asked by designer Koen de Wilde to participate in his project "huisnr." (engl: House Number). He is fascinated by the basic shape of a house and hands out little wooden houses to designers and artists so they can do their own thing with it. Home is where the heart is (4)

This post is part of our second Theme Week where since last Friday, you the public had the chance to choose between 5 themes/inspirations for each post this week. Yet again you chose probably the most challenging theme we had listed: ‘Miniature’ Hope you enjoy… 🙂

Beautiful sculpture work by Elle Nitters, from Rotterdam, Netherlands. Her words:

I was asked by designer Koen de Wilde to participate in his project “huisnr.” (engl: House Number). He is fascinated by the basic shape of a house and hands out little wooden houses to designers and artists so they can do their own thing with it.
 
This is my contribution to the project. You can also see it on the project website: http://huisnr.koenst.nl/005

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