In going through a box of papers I came a cross a pile of old old poems written in late 60’s, early 70’s. So having no shame I’m resurrecting them with minimal editing. I was using a cheaper, yellow copy for many of these – the paper hasn’t yellowed with age. Enjoy 🙂
Sunshine Corners 1971
summer day small & dangling
little blue suns from the bigger ray
falling adream in the middle of the day
with pieces of pie & cups of tea
long time cashed in by ups & me
cashed in for a boat ride
sold for a smile or a simile
to sail away to
hidden treasure island innuendos
fastly teasing eyes & ears
hiding hiding
in sunshine corners
early days early days
late night mourners
streets of cars
eyes of ice
making the turn
signalling for a full stop
talking word after word
catching the bus
falling in a heap
like leaves on retreat
red night falling from behind
unaware of the feelings in the place
beneath the ground around all
I have to offer is a million marvels
a circus to some
an escape to others
a relief to be inside
the other side of the seesaw
the scale that will never tip
in the air
in the air
in the air
the snow filled air
the thousand
never ending
ever melting
fleeting flakes of snow
finding brief rest in sudden death
patterns in paper ribbons
or
sparkles
in dark hair
on moonlight August hills
in little corners of restaurants
where we ate the fun of it
drank the hell of it
finally left the rest of it
floating
in the air
in the air
in the air
it’s the moon in mystical mood
shining angular
on the fields of harvest stubble
on weather grey houses
on shadows as the crow
flies off for home
or orchard
or lingers to scream you awake too soon in the morning
you were saving for this moment
only to have it mocked by a black jester
who has never spoken to her sister
who shines for hours all day
while the moon bides her time
hidden in a cloud’s back pocket
there was a sun
bright & shining
now there is the blind man
feeling the sun on his face
feeling the water tugging his knees
deep in the other way of missing
building up
higher screaming hammering
all at once
empty
in silence each note unechoed
each temptation resisted
dry laughter
little sounds within
the big sound
daring
repercussions of daring
to be alone
doing this
for the first time
wondering if the
telephone is too out of time
to use
falsely afraid
for the beams
cannot burn
cannot shatter
afraid that they might
security afraid
but hoping to be let down
somebody claims to have found him
in my writing
in my searching
but for
some reason he
he does not seem to be
what I am searching for
he I have found but feel there is
something besides all this besides
some velvet guillotine to stop the
interloping tangents from regressing into
solenoid spheres & exaggerated
laughing fits of yesteryears
falling
jagged like music
in clumps of smooth & rough
harmony & discord
breaking forth
after expending so
many days of violent
turbulent struggle
into a soft hello
or a tender glance
or even the merest thought of
becoming unwithdrawn
to the point
where helloes & glances
take no energy at all
so tell the darkness
that this sound can be heard
even while the warmth comes
as waves & veils over & down
head to toe
reflected in a window
neglected in a cellar
full of madness
desperate afraid angry
lonely
yet aware of loving
every minute of it
there is only the flight of the gull
to cut across the face of the sunset
there are only my tears
to wash down my face at sunrise
still feeling the tingling
of the right notes up my back
as the engines shift into hyperdrive
while I wait for the
passengers to climb aboard this
rocket to the sun
Let’s get this influence up front: ’I dreamed I saw the silver space ships flying/ In the yellow haze of the sun.’ There’s no denying the influence on early me by the early lps of Neil Young. ‘Ghost Town’ is clearly a variation of ‘Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere.’ ‘After The Gold Rush’ was the same with all that longing & fragility.
There are many reference to my daily life here as well. Drinking tea, eating pie with friends in my comfy basement room, drinking in restaurants, waking up hungover & feeling like harvest stubble. The emotional build up to finally say hello, or in my case, never saying it. I love & cringe at the same time, at some of the melodrama ‘there are only my tears/to wash down my face at sunrise.’
I have two versions of this piece. One handwritten with drawings & the other typewritten. I don’t know which came first but there are slight differences between the two. This one is the typed version – line breaks & all.
Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee on my trip to Cape Breton – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet
