SHIT HARRY, YOU DIED
Shit Harry, you died
and suddenly
there's nine years of corny jokes
i'll never catch up on
and pain
probably more pain than i'd
want to forgetif i knew
the ultimate painkiller signals
and you're carried off the field
won't be rebroadcasting
your fears next season harry
Doctor Dee will be darkening other doorways
visiting other lame comedians
Once, you were as bad as your jokes,
you stood up when the world
was changing a nd you helped it change
hope you knew i was proud of you
now you've left this aching plane
you and change have become an identity
become twelve million particles
of love and struggle
timelessness finally teaching
and old dog's bits new tricks
(interstellar space travel maybe
or oxidation, the sure-fire way
to a slimmer waistline)
see you in hell old dog
save me some salsa calliente y mucho tequila
you loved your daughters too much
and so did i once
Hornby Island by Goh Poh Seng (for Billy Little, who shared loved spots and fond friends)
Here on the headland by Downe's Point
we case dreams to rise
synchronous with eagles and gulls,
all make-believe, egocentric,
near to fanatical,
else aim true to roam deep
with Leviathan in the ocean's mind,
free from perplexities and profundities
such as bind the scheduled self
Here is the arbutus grove
whose trunks and branches tighten
like nerves, twisted witnesses,
victims of shapely winds
which blow in always unseen,
sweet from the south
or coming cold from the north,
from every direction
the prevailing force of nature
Wish I could emulate the arbutus
slough off my thin skin as easily
as these natives trees their bark
from abrasion, disdain or design,
unveiling the bare beauty
of strong, hard wood beneath
Over on Fossil Bay
the rot of herring roe
strewn amongst broken clam shells, dead crabs
on dirty grey sand, exposed bedrock,
thickened the morning air,
but gave no cause for bereavement:
these millions of botched birthings!
And none also for the Salish,
no open lamentation for a race
almost obliterated without trace
from their native habitat
save a few totems, some evidences of middens,
a score of petroglyphs of their guardian spirits
carved a thousand years ago
on smooth flat rock by the shore,
of killer whales, Leviathans again,
to guide their hunts,
the destiny of their tribe.
Having retraced them
gently with finger tips,
they now guide mine.
Halo by Patrick Herron (for Billy Little)
half of love
plus half of half
is halo and I
don't believe
in angels, no.
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