Puddles


I’m as blue as a puddle

as blue as the puddles

by the side of the road

as blue as the puddles

that gather ‘round

like lost soles,

solitary left shoes

with nowhere to go;


pattering on the stairs

gathering like night

in a heap in my room to stare

at the blue snowflake sailor

who never reaches land;

blue as the fallen that

get buried with the rest;

as blue as beauty begettin’

more like itself; not from

hopes hung on the well-lit moon;


but from the muted cry and muddy hue

of ephemeral puddles

growing like perennials

and shoes with tongues

that alternatively rail and bless

the lacy night that hangs

like a noosy blouse

o’er the miry ground


where Edna and Neil

walk hand in hand

in the garden mist;

whispering about the

latest harvest;

love like apples fall;

chuckling once at Newton

then are gone


Like a shoe in a puddle

by the side of the road

I dip barefoot toes

into the wet earth

neither to rage nor rhapsodize

only to trace the steps

of the passing night

O Canada

Though I'm not real fond of the idea of nationalism, I'll use any excuse to celebrate brotherhood.

Thanks to Steve of Riley Dog, Doug of Dynamic Drivel, The Kid of Negative Velocity, Milli of Camillia,Mike of Views from the Outside, Raymon of If... Tony of Abuddhas Memes and the Big Daddy of All Bloggers, Mark of Wood s lot-- and of course Mr. Leonard Cohen, from whom this humble blog takes its name.

Oh, and I'll forgive Toronto for beating Atlanta in '92, if you'll forgive us for flying the Canadian flag upside down in '96 ;)

Music

The sounds of construction are trying to compete
With the noise of deconstruction on my street
Don’t really care who will win;
Crowded and empty, this head of din
How unexpected to find this space
A place just where I could not say
And though it was to sleep akin
It was more like a disappearing
And an awakening;
No, not to wisdom or truth then
No Platonic petals falling slowly
No sudden epiphanies red and glowing;
Give me no plot, theme or sentiment;
No darling metaphors or images bent
Let me slide into the paint;
And glide over the inky page;
Beyond the visage and the voice;
The moving hand, the human chorus
To where light to Time it skips a beat
Instruments and I merge then cease:
Softly obliterated and with no trace;
Unexpected as always is the space
where music like grace begins;
Oh do let us go unexpectedly again.