Kerns Lake

I must look forward to find the memory
That cannot be looked forward to
But appears
   As a hole in the trees
   As another rock in the empty forest.

I must look forward to find the memory
That cannot be seen while in it
Only the surprise
Of the lake below the rock
                At the top of the cliff
And the chance they would see us
Paddling the raft in the buff.

I must look forward to find the memory
Like the one which  later
       got a big deal shrug from my friend
Though he felt the cold water too
When he swam with me to the other side
                                         To the raft.

What Am I Worth?

What measures my worth, gives me importance?

I can bless myself, but is that just moral masturbation?
   As meaningless as a noble Hitler?
If so, others must judge if I am worth their time
   And my time.

If I am young many will pray
   To my flat stomach and protruding maximus

If I am titled with Doctor or Manager
   I will see them smile with subtle reverence

If I am strong, they will cheer as
   I cross their goal lines running

If I am a fashionable victim
   Their guilt will give me what I want.

"Why not?", she asks.

My Anger Came Out in Words

My anger came out in words

Many Americans cannot afford health insurance
Many Americans die of bullets impacting flesh
I said "that's immoral"

The CEO fired three people in their fifties
The CEO sent himself to London
I said "that's immoral"

The teenage boy broke a bottle on my street
The teenage boy broke into my garage
I said "that's immoral"

But they asked: "What is this thing morality?"

   Most Americans get the best health care in the world (better than yours)
   All Americans can protect themselves (not just the criminals)

   The company must be profitable (and you take a good wage from us)
   Someone has to go to London (and you went to Montreal last month)

   The street sweeping machine will clean up the glass (or you could)
   I need the the tools I took from your garage (more than you do)

What is this thing morality?

Let's start this conversation again.

Crying with the Clouds

Wispy memories of the cooking jam and red liquid at the edges
Walking to school wading in gumboots through the west coast rain
                  rushing to the drains
And later, mysterious large fingers over the prairie pointing west
And then driving through mountains, through snow
                  rushing to the windshield
To the kitchen light and her waiting there to turn the kettle on

Tears, or hints of tears
    A past that is past but sometimes not past
    And then tears, or hints of tears

Now, awed by showers In the distance under backlit mountains in the air
    The horizon open in every direction
    A life to be lived
    Hands to be held
    Truths to be listened to