America has given birth
to a giant orange child
a zaftig infant Gulliver
striding the ravaged earth
of his own imagination
trampling whole villages
swallowing villagers whole.
America has given birth
to a giant orange child
a zaftig infant Gulliver
striding the ravaged earth
of his own imagination
trampling whole villages
swallowing villagers whole.
We got off the train from Machu Picchu at the Ollantaytambo station, walked up the station road to the town square and came upon this: Mother’s Day in Ollantaytambo. It went on all day – entertainment, raffles, prizes, politician’s speeches. The ladies seemed to enjoy themselves, although they never clapped once.

Later that evening, we had dinner in the restaurant down at the station and walking home we witnessed this haiku-worthy scene.
Station Road
I
Two black dogs humping
a puzzled white terrier
on the station road.
II
Puzzled about what?
about the expectations
of the dog in front.
photo by Marie Feeney

There’s something comforting
about Anderson Cooper’s hair
its quietude
its insouciance
its unabashed whiteness
no Paul Manafort chocolate brown
no Clooney dusting of grey
no Pavarotti boot polish black
just plain white
lightly cropped
a hint of a comb over, maybe
but that’s ok
and it does not move
Hurricane Harvey
Hurricane Irma
blasts of hot air
from a Trump surrogate’s mouth
nothing moves Anderson Cooper’s hair;
to misquote Paul McCartney
and triple down on a preposition
in this ever changing world
in which we live in
there’s something
that’s comforting
about that.

Following the Sound
drollery
tomfoolery
corollary
frolic
cassock
tussock
bacteria
factotum
spume.

he can’t quite remember when they started –
the text messages direct to his head,
actual text messages
appearing on the screen of his brain
preceded by a ping;
they were innocuous at first
quasi-inspirational stuff like:
ping! write like no one is reading;
ping! own the day, it cost you nothing.
Then they became fragmented
as if someone was trigger happy
on the ‘send’ button:
ping! America, the country
ping! that God is asked to bless
ping! is hurtling down
ping! a golden garbage chute
ping! that goes all the way
ping! to hell!
Then, nothing for a while.
Then, one message repeating
its sneer implicit in its abbreviation
its adopted argot,
over and over again:
ping! Dems got no game
ping! Dems got no game
ping! Dems got no game….
Photo: Detail from fresco inside the Camposanto, Pisa, Italy

he can’t quite remember when they started –
the text messages direct to his head,
actual text messages
appearing on the screen of his brain
preceded by a ping;
they were innocuous at first
quasi-inspirational stuff like:
ping! write like no one is reading;
ping! own the day, it cost you nothing.
Then they became fragmented
like someone was trigger happy
on the ‘send’ button:
ping! America, the country
ping! that God is asked to bless
ping! is hurtling down
ping! a golden garbage chute
ping! that goes all the way
ping! to hell!
Then, nothing for a while.
Then, one message repeating
its sneer implicit in its abbreviation
its adopted argot,
over and over again
a non-stop textual assault:
ping! Dems got no game
ping! Dems got no game
ping! Dems got no game….
Photo: Detail from fresco inside the Camposanto, Pisa, Italy

allergens loiter
on the vacuum’s humid breath
spiders abandon
web based solutions
seek cover in crevices
domestic terror.

free verse, let
it roam far
from all rhyme
and reason.

Bones to pick.
Barrack Obama pardons Chelsea Manning.
Donald Trump pardons Joe Arpaio.
Is there moral equivalence here?
The Trump surrogate on CNN thinks so
but there are no metrics to measure by
so the discussions drag on and on
and the screen splits into two heads
and the screen splits into four heads
and the screen splits into eight heads
a pundit arrives
a pundit leaves
a pundit gets indignant
a pundit gets emotional
a pundit gets that gotcha smirk
there is talk of smoke and fire
there not been one without the other
and I see this distraction of pundits
this deflection of pundits
this confusion of pundits
standing looking at the horizon
across an open plain,
oblivious, while behind them
Rome burns.
Too Many Questions (a slimverse lite*)
U is at?
Is u at?
At issue?
Is it u?
*a slimverse using only 6 letters

let it be
the answer
lies in the
wondering


the thing that defined him
was that he was
unapologetically
unapologetic
while those around him
stopped at
unapologetic.

The sun drops behind the ridge of the house
the wind goes crazy in the trees,
the moth balls smell like halitosis
on the warm neurotic breeze.
Slim and I are logging some early evening deck time chowing down on barbecued steaks from ‘What The Cat Dragged In’, our local artisan butcher shop, and partaking of a balls forward red, having already polished off a growler of craft IPA – slightly over-hopped with a hint of camel’s breath.
It’s hot. Rivulets of sweat trickle down Slim’s face forming a damp half-moon at the neck of his white tee shirt which carries the message “IT’S NOT IMPORTANT”. I’m telling him about how I spread moth balls all around the base of the shed at the end of the garden in a vain attempt to deter the two skunks who have set up home underneath it.
(rivulets,
Romulus,
amulets)
“Napthalene” Slim announces “is the chemical name for moth balls. By the way, I was out on an eHarmony date last night and I mentioned to the lady I was having dinner with that I used to work in the chemical industry….”
Slim on eHarmony, this is news to me. I wonder what his profile is like, what hobbies has he listed? I know he doesn’t kayak or go for long walks on the beach at sunset, his main interests outside of poetry are Premier League soccer and playing bass in a Clash tribute band (not coming to a venue anywhere near anybody, soon). Plus, he hasn’t dated anyone in years and his wardrobe consists of faded jeans and white tee shirts that are too small for him and usually carry some nihilist, dystopian message.
“What did you list as your hobbies on your eHarmony profile?” I interrupt, to his annoyance.
“Cooking, now let me get on with my story. As I said I mentioned to the lady I was having dinner with that I used to work in the chemical industry and she grimaced and said: ‘Ooh, chemicals, bad!’ So I told her that at least 50% of what she was wearing was synthetic material made from petroleum by products; that behind the walls of the restaurant that we were sitting in were miles of electrical wire covered in plastic insulating material made from petroleum byproducts; that the phone she keeps checking contains plastics, not to mention lithium, probably mined using child labour in Africa; that the toilet seats that we plonk our over-privileged arses on are made from plastic; that all these materials are products of the chemical industry and are manufactured in some shit hole of a town far from our blissed out home; that we are not going back to an agrarian society, we are too soft and distracted, the work is too hard and we would be bored out of our fucking skulls; that we have to regulate industry, not get rid of it and how we can we possibly move forward if we don’t understand where we stand, or sit”.
“What was her response?” I asked.
“She said that she was going to the washroom to plonk her over privileged arse on a plastic toilet seat, and she never came back.”
they came out of the woods
without their hoods
Trump spawn
hatred walking,
to Kall them Klueless
would be too Kind.
all the news
that can break
has broken,
the prompters
are blank, the
pundits gone,
goodbye Coop,
Wolf, Jake, Don.


Goodbye Reince Preibus
I’m sorry you had to go
now we are left with Bannon
and his auto fellatio
Scaramucci, Scaramucci
will you do the fandango.
I have been fascinated by the name “Reince Preibus” since I first heard it, the chainsaw screech of “Reince”, the Latinate portliness of “Preibus”.
Reince: There is something otherworldly, foreign about those slender vowels “ei” before the “nce”. The “ince” part is fairly common – wince, mince, convince- and even the Germanic sounding “ein” is common enough -skein, stein – but “eince” is something else, a chainsaw screech but modified as if heard through ear muffs. There is also something medicinal about it – a salve to be applied sparingly (put some reince on that cut, son).
Then “Priebus” takes the “ei” and reverses them (pronounced to rhyme with “Brie”). It has a Latinate portliness, like a Shakespearean character, or a writ to slap someone with- “Habeas Priebus”; or a complicated skateboard manoeuvre – he executed a perfect reverse Priebus.
Yes, the Trump administration is a treasure trove of assonance, dissonance and onomatopoeia. The man himself sounds like a heavy landing, a cross between “rump” and “triumph”. “Jared Kushner” is the sound of something nasty being squelched underfoot and Melania and Ivanka with their Eastern European aura put the “ass” back in “assonance” (sorry about that one).
Goodbye Reince Preibus
no more will I contemplate
the strange music of your name
those slender vowels reversing
no longer will I look for meanings, explanations
Reince? A salve to be applied
sparingly to a wound?
a rinse? a douche? a poultice?
and Priebus? A complicated procedure?
Last night, doctors performed
an emergency preibus
the patient is doing well.
Goodbye Reince Preibus
I’m sorry to see you go
now we are left with Steve Bannon
and his auto fellatio
Scaramucci, Scaramucci
will you do the fandango.
When I look at Mike Pence
I think of H.L.Mencken
who once said
that Puritanism
is “the haunting fear
that someone, somewhere
might be happy”.
Great weekend at the Vancouver Folk Festival, highlights for me were Rhiannon Giddens, Bahamas and The Revivalists plus three young British folk singers (more about that later).
I was particularly interested this time around in hearing the response of the folk music world to the current political climate in the USA, Britain, to climate change, to the refugee crisis. This was all touched upon in a workshop I attended on the Friday afternoon which was led by Billy Bragg. The theme was “Working Class Heroes”; Rhiannon Giddens and Grace Petrie were part of the group of five singers on stage. I saw both of them give better performances later in the festival, here they seem constrained by the downbeat atmosphere. The song introductions, although heartfelt and eloquent, went on way too long; Pete Seeger’s name was dropped more times than an egg at a drunken egg and spoon race. Later in the evening, Billy Bragg sang “There’s Power in the Union” and a song about climate change which was essentially a rewrite of “The Times they are a Changin’”. On another night, Shawn Colvin sang a beautiful version of Paul Simon’s “American Tune”. It all felt a bit nostalgic, the established singers seemed to be creatively chewing on a bone when it came to addressing today’s issues, to be looking back to former struggles for inspiration.
However, in the afternoon of day 2, I attended a workshop called “Keep Calm and Carry On” (which was a poster produced by the British government in 1939), and I found what I was looking for – folk music as a living organism. The performers – Jake Morley, Will Varley and Grace Petrie, all English – were anything but calm, “stay angry and carry on” would have been a better description. Of course it’s not enough to be angry, an artist has to make his/her anger interesting and that they did. They were all in their own way, original, talented song writers – witty, profane, poetic, self-deprecating (they are English after all). Grace Petrie is more punk in her approach, has a gift for word play and knows how to write a chorus; Will Varley manages to be Dylanesque, but be his own man at the same time – a poet with a bullhorn voice; Jake Morley writes more complex songs, has a gift for melody and is a percussive, propulsive guitar player who reminds me a little bit of Cat Stevens with his off kilter rhythm. But most of all, they were very funny and had none of that smug, preaching to the choir earnestness that sometimes plagues folk music. Check out Grace Petrie below:
And here’s a reprise of a poem, I post every year at this time.
One hour into the folk festival
and a mellow, minor key, melancholy
is seeping into Slim’s bones,
he feels it like an arthritic ache
and he wishes that someone
would duck walk across the stage
shooting staccato bursts of distorted guitar
at the chill, Tilley clad audience
who, unlike Slim, have a default mode
other than anger.

I re-discovered this post just the other day. It was written back in those heady days when Slim and I thought that slimverse in all its 12 syllable glory would sweep the internet and replace the haiku as the verse form of choice. Needless to say, this hasn’t happened and I have to admit that even this blog has succumbed to the luxury of those extra 5 syllables. I’m including the interview with Slim from the original post to re-capture the innocence and optimism of that time.
The Universe Can’t Be Explained
1
The engine
does not know
where the car
is going.
2
like a frog
down a well
we only
know the walls
An Interview with Slim
So Slim, what inspired you to write this poem?
Well, I was watching the Stephen Hawkins bio, “The Theory of Everything”, and it got me thinking about the Universe. By the way, I’m also thinking about writing a book called “Managing Expectations – The Theory of a Couple of Things”.
Very droll.
Indeed.
The poem is in this new form which you are working with, are you excited about this?
Yes.
You don’t seem excited.
I have a condition, I’m auto-impassive. It used to be called ”acute solemnity”. I’m incapable of showing emotion, and in my case, the condition is limited to positive emotions. I can display anger and irritation as you are well aware.
Is it hereditary?
Yes, on my mother’s side. Half of my family has it, that’s why in family photos one half of the family is smiling and the other is not.
Fascinating. Now tell me more about the poem.
Well it’s quite simple, four lines of 3 syllables each. I look on these poems as poems for the 21st century, the smart phone era, the era of distraction. Something you could read on the bus, on the subway, something that can be enjoyed without too much effort. Like a small square of chocolate with your morning coffee.
Cadbury’s Milk or Hershey’s?
Cadbury’s or maybe one of those artisan bars, you know, 70% cocoa, or a peak from the Toblerone mountain range.
When did you first get the idea for this form?
I was out drinking with a group of fellow poets and one thing led to another and I got home at 4 AM and sat down and wrote “Magic” which was blogged a week or so back. It’s a clumsy attempt, I think we should trash it.
What were you discussing until 4 in the morning?
Enjambment.
“Magic” has an uncharacteristic cod-mystical feel to it, were there other substances being abused?
I can’t remember.
What do you call your group of poets.
The Poet’s Circle.
Really, isn’t that a bit literal, a bit prosaic for a bunch of poets. It’s like saying “a party of plumbers”, “a coterie of carpenters” and that at least would be alliterative. Very disappointing.
Fuck off.
What?
Fuck off!
Okay.
Photo: Laptopia.
struts across the lawn
with a cleric’s confidence
tail cocked and cocksure.
This is an alternative version of the previous post (I don’t know how people write novels, seventeen syllables gives me enough problems). I think this version is more musical because of the alliteration at the end, and because “sphincter” is not a very musical word. Comments, opinions are welcome.
struts across the lawn
with a cleric’s confidence
tail cocked, sphincter primed.