runner

runner boils the lungs and heart
in her own blood
making a funny pot of lyw
to burst her lid
and hit the sun
in his curious head
with the whistle-blowing steam
of her hot, carbon efforts
claiming her place
as part of everything
under the sighing breath
of the vaulting sky;
the pleasure of being small

running in circles
is called endurance training here
training a clarity of mind
that makes children, pets and wild squirrels
stop and wonder
as she blows by

runner should stir with fire
this inedible pot of stew
under and over the privilege
of running in a beautiful park
where heaven and earth attend her
butterflies race with her
in suspicious reconnaissance, dragonflies hover
and a court of trees
dappling the sunshine
with the rustle of their leaves
raise their arms
as happy cheerleaders
to her puff and pump
on the red earthen track

runner should run the freedom
of being able to stand on two legs
run, not walk, what limit of strength and height
she can fly under her weight and gravity
to feel distance
disappearing
rapidly behind her
for as long as she is so blessed

for her, always
a pretty violent form of meditation
complimenting her kind of humanness

running in circles
always to stay
as well as go
far away

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the ya helu poetry chapbook, which was crafted as a poetic self-portrait of myself at the time that I turned 40. It’s a series that created poems about unusual and important characters in my life at that time, as well as my greatest concerns and ideas.

ya helu

o my sweet

life and body

blood and breath

o my sweet

hydro electric system

playing that strange song
to the end of my days
with the thump of your valves
to the pump of your bellows

tuneless percussionist
wordless singer and
folk dancer without folks

my greatest romance
is this call that you raise
from the boney cage

indifferent to the meaning
of passion and love
reward or praise
pensions or benefits

giving all, and the same, allowance
to the endless organ-grinding
of your charismatic melody

ya helu,

teach me work
that i can love
like that

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the ya helu poetry chapbook, which was crafted as a poetic self-portrait of myself at the time that I turned 40. It’s a series that created poems about unusual and important characters in my life at that time, as well as my greatest concerns and ideas.

Ontario farm

you would answer to
the thousand tree branches
swaying soft, green and happy
under the unabashed sun, city-dweller
as you have never seen this light trumpet
through the jagged horizons
of your downtown core
though remember
like a kiss on the lips,
that somewhere in your own
foreign country
there was this same glory
though you called it by another name

and you would forget dream-chasing
to build, rather than find, your treasure here
with a hand open to receive and offer
an honest conversation with God
your gold will be what you can create not hold

and your story would not end
with a return to a rose
from the edge of some lost desert
for you need to walk
to discover what wilder blooms
exult on the edge of cultivation

and you would return from your river-watching
though Samsara bites on its borders
to work these fields of sheaths and vines; gold and green
to feel these berries and fruits
burst with their juices of red and peach
drinking deeply the salt
of your sweet labour

not because you shun the peace
of quiet meditation
that removes you from the flow
but this hopeful earth calls for your hands
to delve within and make rich
the beauty of living colour; the strength
of deep roots

traveller, there is this bouquet
of other wisdom and laughter
that you need to bring back to your true love
though you will need to ask
the driver to let you out
where there are no stops on the road
somewhere between
your past and your future

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the ya helu poetry chapbook, which was crafted as a poetic self-portrait of myself at the time that I turned 40. It’s a series that created poems about unusual and important characters in my life at that time, as well as my greatest concerns and ideas.

Hephaestus

the symbol of our
romantic garden bench
continues to grow leaf and branch
dreams of great hoary trees
and the happiest way of getting old

for, after all
we are living work
if not living art
the reality of our love
has been in a dusty and sweaty craft
hammering out these past few years
like a pair of lame gods
because the pictures and poetry
to which we aspire
are crude tools
for shaping the rough wood of our skins;
tempering the rust in our veins
no brush or pen
could make the frame
needed to bear the fat and bone
of our irregular bottoms
beauty and imagination alone
could not fathom the plot
needed to hold but not impede
our living tree

helu, don’t despair the disfigurement
from our fall from myth
for we learn
when all vanity is lost
that only the craft that hones
the vigour and muscle
of titanic plates
could persuade our proud wars
to sit down

we can still have
the classical music of your rich oils
if, for me, we can still let
our bench sprout legs, sometimes,
and run a little free

we just both needed to grow up, it seems
to appreciate a higher finish
race out of abstractions
and find in our most prosaic text
the simple truth about love
and sweetness

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the ya helu poetry chapbook, which was crafted as a poetic self-portrait of myself at the time that I turned 40. It’s a series that created poems about unusual and important characters in my life at that time, as well as my greatest concerns and ideas.

helweh, the troll

helweh, the troll
trolls through websites
for opportunities
after being dislodged
from under her retro-spective bridge
by the unanswered riddle
written from a flowing black-inked hand
on a parched white ribbon of paper
thrown down upon her head
with a fist-sized rock:

how do you earn a living?

who could stay, comfortably
damp and dark, after such
an uncomfortable question?

helweh, the troll
thought she should first
deal with the thrower
the way a troll should
and began her first step out
from under the retro bridge

o how this poor light
has blinded her way from any family return
o how this bland richness
has spotted the granite of her lovely skin
and o how this gold greenness
has coloured the eloquence of her stiff grey tuffs

get a job, was the clearly broken Oracle advice
a job that will never give
the right to live but pay
for the privilege to file and claim

in her first job
she sorted the granary
of a million executive needs
into their own departments

in the 2nd, she played the keyboard
with all the right and left songs
to lull the hungry beasts
into a fitful sleep

in the 3rd, she coordinated
the next general meeting
and learned to carve the flat presentation
into the fragile boardroom wall

she was also told to save herself daily
to the company USB stick
but poor helweh never could
get herself to quite fit

like this, she will never be more than
spotted green and knobby knuckles
grasping for broken bridge bits
to throw at the rude offerings
of those who have already been overthrown
and too rude to know it

helweh, the troll
needs to make a trade with Dante
on the more suitable forward path
to get back to where she came
because it is in the burbish homes
of the cute and wayward children’s room
where she must steal her way inside
without getting arrested
or scaring anybody
even though, children do not like trolls
no matter how sweetly she asks

and she must ask them
to remember her name
the name that names the gifts
that came with her beautiful monstrosity
deep within the storybook pages
that her clay parents made

and she must escape with
these original house keys
before the security alarm rings
open the stage to start the finish
earn the answers, not the time
to soothe her wrinkled and weathered riddle

and in this old theatre, she will be frankly told:
do not dig at a given spot for buried treasure
do not wait for heralds to unravel your mystery
do not make a meal of your richness
consume today what will be hungered for tomorrow
do not barter any of it for payment

helweh, the troll,
simply needs to take her gifts
and make a gift

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the ya helu poetry chapbook, which was crafted as a poetic self-portrait of myself at the time that I turned 40. It’s a series that created poems about unusual and important characters in my life at that time, as well as my greatest concerns and ideas.

a reliable friend

you should meet this
pear-shaped and female text
who sends her consistent chance
through the tangled weeds of day;
emptiness of night
to wake the most sleeping or muted screen

a brown and staccato-haired email invitation
for recreational boxing or rock-climbing
when our meanest labour has failed
to warm our blood
or remember our names
with these soft human hands
we practice being
a challenge to be challenged
with whatever height or gravity
weighs on the strange pleasures of our day

she is that bright conversation,
with eyes that say ‘ok’ in every possible way,
on how to finish the job,
despite those jobs –
crazy, executive IDs and Egos —
who do not value
work that carries us all the way home

and she will say
it’s no big deal to be a reliable friend
poetic intention did not move her
to be there, there and there
nothing sexy in consistency
for we all show up eventually
in what way that we can

only twitchy people
would make beauty and heroes
out of calling a twitchy girl out
once in a while
for fried chicken or noodles

but this twitchy girl will say
only the champion of regularity
can stumble upon the forgotten lairs
of tattering toy writers
frighten away the herds
of fat and woolly silence
with the shrill of a phone
or sapphire bright
of a minor text vibration

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the ya helu poetry chapbook, which was crafted as a poetic self-portrait of myself at the time that I turned 40. It’s a series that created poems about unusual and important characters in my life at that time, as well as my greatest concerns and ideas.

Protection from Undead

today, I live a life that has never
fought in a war, nor had a loved one
fight in any war, and I watch
from the distance of documentary
what looks like madness
from sweet boys and girls,
led by mothers and fathers,
everything is black and white
photography, or interviews
in a multitude of digital colour

our civility paid for by those who won and lost
why do we wonder, in our modern day,
that we cannot keep the dead from rising
when our farms and foundations
are built on battlefields too deep
in somebody’s grief and pain
to be rightfully cleared

my generation has inherited
a peculiar fascination for
zombies and vampires and werewolves
between the evening news and latest
entertainment, some kind of
desecrated body, bloodlust or
inherent savagery
frequent the streets
of the screen

maybe this is
a symptom of past generations
reacting to what the wars did to them
or what war allowed them to be
creating these games and action figures
somewhere between Freud and Jung
for their children to play

a desecrated body
a bloodlust
an inherent savagery
always buried away in a tomb
always imagining one day
a brave young hero
unstained by the past
who can deliver
the final kill

no, none of us are immune
no matter how ignorant we are made
this generation with a strange
fascination for sequels

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

the Pilgrim’s Stranger

if I decide to walk
down a given city road
full of people protecting theirs
ignoring mine
can I trust that a stranger
gift
will meet me somewhere
along that path
when I no longer know
which way to go
and have foolishly dogged on
as far as I can
with just that
forced to rest and wait, weary
by some roadside
for benevolence
to hand me a clue

and if I start following
this path, dropping
one after the other
everything that becomes
too heavy to carry
on
can I trust faith
that a stranger will be there
to lift the loneliness
that has refilled all my
empty shopping bags

what stranger will stop
to give me the time
so that I can understand
that I can go on
when I faithfully know that
all strangers shun strangers
in my world

there is a land, I am told
to the west
where people are
bold and curious
they make it their business
to know stranger business
even to the point of being
rude and invasive

bless the brutes
with the arrogant chivalry
who will follow my dreams
just because they like them
and persecute my crimes
just because some things
have to be,
how ever the
dust, wind or shine
may confuse our
crossing lines

will I brave this path?
to meet this neighbour
knowing I will most likely
have nothing left of me
by the time I get there
to offer my host
except a few good stories
and, maybe, some jokes
oh, and there is that
old dream I had
the one that told me
to go looking

shall I, pound this dream
into one of your tenacious stones
and prove its
strength and endurance
or unfold its delicate
petals and flavours
into the evening meal
and prove its
rich abundance

and when you have
met her, was it worth it?
to send this pilgrim further along her story
beyond our known borders
and give hope that one day
she will return with nothing but
a few more stories and bad jokes;
a wandering friend’s embrace
and whatever happened
to that old dream

will it have been sufficient
payment in kind

(a poem inspired by a mashup of Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress and Coehlo’s The Alchemist)

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

Thanksgiving at Lot’s

Thanksgiving
another great story
that has an angry twin
another great word
its basic meaning
changed by a capital letter

the Past –
we are not in that time to reflect
though you’d think, by now,
we would be
not when we’re still fleeing from it,
still needing to escape to a mountain refuge
and hide with what remains of our family
old horrors still threaten to turn us
into pillars of salt

and still, even then,
we need to find the other side of this unhospitable rock
find a better place to build a better town,
before we can stare into that abyss
without being transfixed – prejudiced –
by despair and fear. learn a better refining process
for time to drip so that maybe, just
maybe, we can learn to save
a few good seeds
from that old, damaged crop

for now – now – and now
**** the word
how about we just
give thanks
together
for what we share
whether we like it or not
this air, this space
this time; a grand table set for us
in our modernized and high-tech
makeshift refuge
where we
are all invited
to sit and serve

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

be civilized

accept that we are still very wild
despite our libraries and schools
offices and sections

a creature that thrives on war
is confused and sickened in captivity
needs an adversary to excel

learns all sorts of pathologies when
no longer able to roam

accept this wildness
before writing the contract
to evolve better

for by now and at the very least
we must be sick of playing
the same damn songs
15 times in the same war

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

a new working hero

a real one, too,
not some screen or paperback fiction
lazy-ass symbol, emoji or icon
but a breathing, time-sensitive, warm-blooded real
kind of legend to shine on that
one and simple direction
the return to the true hero’s path
to follow after death
lest we continue
to spin our wheels against the sky,
continue to play that other way
of pause, rewind, restart at will

today, we need a hero
not to show us
how to face death
but to make this life exactly
how we want to leave it

a new hero, since all the old ones ….
left, in one way or another

and what greater source
than that brave frontier as it
shakes and rattles itself out of a
particularly stubborn
old and mottled skin,
and what better time
to remember
how to make the sun
rise in the west?

yet even I
need her
to remind me – of what?
myself?

as even I
forgot to include her
in the making of this new lead

no greater proof that
this new design for a hero
ain’t nobody like me, or her,
and maybe that isn’t the problem
with heroes today, for sure,
but, maybe, this high art
of making new heroes
is a little too much like the old
to be Great Again when we already know
about history repeating

even in the past
some things were clear
there will never be royalty
in the West,
and the likes of Skywalker and Gandalf
couldn’t be imagined far enough from here,
and the body counts of wars
have taught us what to think of politicians

it is difficult to return to innocence and faith
God is personal, separate from the system,
the lucky ones can still use those
antique, auto-pilot buttons
the rest of us have to think
or agree to non-think

this new functional hero
cannot be like the dysfunctional old
for that reason
i think it might be a good idea
as a good start
to ask my big sister to return
not from the past but
for my future. remind me
to remember, on this
brave new canvas,
hero or not
a job
for myself

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

Give me Water

i confess i did not know
really, what the atom bomb
on Hiroshima meant
until mid life because I wanted
something to watch before bed
before another work day on the importance of
repetition, consistency, punctuality
vs. the importance of me
i could barely close my eyes that night

what does a middle-class girl
in North America do, when she finds
herself again so deep
down that well of ignorance

write an abstract dance film script, of course
because i didn’t know how to translate my horror
into a live action story
and all i had were stories, after all
so many versions

and had to do something
with what i felt
like i was in a bizarre game of hot potato:
that documentary threw me their atomic ball,
and i either get obliterated
or throw it to the next person

a middle-class girl
who grew up North American
needed the abstraction of art
to buffer what it feels like to be slowly burned alive
or watch your children fall apart

ah, and I’m a terrible throw

but I had to try. an illusion of power
over the horror
to take a little of it into myself
the idea of some relief
for that moment of suffering
that seems to have passed
into the innocence
of sunlight in the sky
on this present day

does atomic radiation just go away
eventually become safe again?
does human anguish just go away
with that generation? the past is not a dumping ground
even these landfill sites must be dealt with
even theses things become an environmental liability

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

educate me

never been a fan of graded writing
don’t dumb down my readability
or teach me to actively confuse
simplicity with stupidity
small words with less meaning
and that the big ones are too expensive
it ain’t true

if something takes a little more effort to read
simply because it needs, or should,
need a kiss,
an embrace
or that smile
to last a little longer
than a business casual affair
then let it! if i can

what am i so in a hurry
to get to
other than this?
eating, sleeping, working, * like i did before
and will do again, over and over
geez. we can take the time. trust me
there is no hurry
time is just as well spent
stopping
looking at the words
those that want
to spin my hamsters
right out of their wheels

and yet, a great poem
like a great Langston Hughes
needs to spend
the mind and body
like utter exhaustion
as more than
a different way to fill time

it would be truly dumb
to continue sharpening
upgrading, and admiring
these shiny tools
that we don’t ever
ask ourselves to use

© lyw

from the Bitter River
Langston Hughes:

In the snake-like hiss of its stream
Where I drank of the bitter river
That strangled my dream:
The book studied-but useless,
Tool handled-but unused,
Knowledge acquired but thrown away,
Ambition battered and bruised.
Oh, water of the bitter river
With your taste of blood and clay,
You reflect no stars by night,
No sun by day.

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

a Christmas in North America

the remainder of us who celebrate
being very liberal and loving Christians,
secular or otherwise
for at least one week of the year
ugly sweaters and the hot iron branding
of carols on the brain,
family and friendly obligations
whether we still like each other or not
and ice-skating or snow-sledding
for the purpose of properly
enjoying a cup
of real hot cocoa
with marshmallows

are these the assets to society
that we risk losing
because we have let ourselves adopt
other reasons and traditions
or strayed from them entirely
so caught up in our daily grind
or is it because somebody
replaced my hot cocoa
with synthetic palm oil and
ten different kinds of sugar
somebody has dried up my snow hills,
said sleds are for children
called my North American soul back inside
this office building of work-life-integration
at the hint of the slightest chill
to play on the nose

when i try to explain
to new immigrants to this country
the value of a condensed fever
for excessive sharing; the sudden compulsion
one week before the date
to bake cookies and treats
until exhaustion, just to give it all away
without any promise of reward or gratitude —
it does sound a little crazy

ah, the real value is
to know the emptiness
that fills you and leaves you
hungry for that effort
in the year that you decide
you don’t have the time or energy
to do it again; marvel at the
solid shape and density of
all that is missing

that effort
to deck everything out
and risk spending all
that we hope is good in us
on a passing moment in time
as if that was all
we get

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

the beauty of possession (intermission #2)

enjoy her beauty
like you can buy or steal
a beautiful painting
plant, pet or even person
and desire becomes synonymous
with frustration, maybe even cruelty

don’t make love to a painting

don’t go humping no trees

don’t delude yourself into thinking you
could ever have
what isn’t her entirety
the jewel that lifts to the surface
of her dark pools, once in a while

do as all natural creation does
and stand as close to that
which lights her
and all that stands near her
beauty is incidental to
the main function of being
like the sun rises
simply to end the night
a moment in time
that must be allowed to pass
and certainly not locked down

the beauty of possession
is the same passion
that makes us want to secure
our own lives
from age and sickness; trespass and death
we, our own selves,
pieces of beauty
beyond possession;
imperfect bodies
moments in time
at risk of going out

the beauty of possession
is that you cannot possess beauty;
one of greatest human pleasure
always close friend to pain
when we agree to struggle
and hold onto
something or somebody else’s
and fail to share our own

let beauty have its time
and when it is time
have the courage
to let it go
as part of the privilege
to be allowed
to ever be this beautiful
even once

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

Don Quoxites Run Amok!

we all get up!
and chase after windmills!

cuz ain’t no giants!
in this metropolis
don’t really want
real giants, anyway
cuz that would be crazy!
pixel-based is better!
digital is better!
virtual is better!

we are Quixotes!
we build custom windmills!
to attack as giants!
cuz attacking real giants!
would be crazy!

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

anti-intellectualism

i’ve had lots of friends and strangers
not think much of my
liberal education but to think
in some other world, some other time
they’d’ve killed me for it

anti-intellectualism
would be the intellectual word
i’m just guessing, of course
please do not persecute me
for abstract thought
I swear that I cannot help myself

i’m just a poor farmer
of a different kind of crop
who continues to plow
an indifferent field
that has no single nation
religion or land mass; it is any place
where a dream
cannot be removed
and where we think
we can actually choose
what happens next
can we?
together, can we
find the bitter humour
that at the end
of most of our past campaigns
both of us almost starved
and both of us almost knew better
in different ways

together, can we
learn to produce
something
that both of us
can eat?

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

automotive plant

when a motor-vehicle plant
is no longer moving anything
but the virus of an ever-faltering step
and its drones have already abandoned
its queen, for richer cement grounds
watch how those bright dandelions
push their heads right through the concrete
and get back to work
filling what we abandon, growing
where we only saw death

inside one of those
vintage industrial gardens
where we grew machines
that ran on wind and wheels
itself, such a curious plant
that by its nature should avoid
becoming stagnant, but did —

how hard would it be to convert
a broken factory back to a growing state
when even the dandelions are way ahead of us
on how to dig between the cracks
where the soil wants to return
to a wildness that rejects
strengths that always need resuscitation

and because we’re so smart
we can agree to let Nature
have back the lease
that nobody wants
let the beaver pat down
the R&D departments
and agree to teach our new partners
how to use the production line
join the committee and
together reconstruct the river and river crop
a better design for finding
better destinations

a plant to move us
on a tireless motor,
to somewhere
between us and Nature
with a new sound system,
some stylin’ wheels,
and a few fresh roads
as compliment

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

cooked or raw

our rock stars replaced by chefs
our anthems cooked into
consumable pieces
the recipe for the Beatles
become nostalgic indulgence
no longer any power to pump
the pulse of our human culture
so divided in carefully fermented samples

watch Asia follow after
the peak of our middle-class
while more of our doors close;
walls planned
vaguely recognizing mutations
of some forgotten recipe or tradition
and also the evidence that
they’ll do things differently
how does it roll on the palate?
does it taste like
new hope
or an old threat?

better, worse
or same, but different
is irrelevant
when learning to eat
— digest — today;
what will be our global flavours,
because technology has
accidentally united us
before we can admit it
with a logic that cannot see
human dividing lines
when we feed so massively
from the same digital air,
wave and currency;
and more than just a common
desire, to live well

and then
and when, asked
what do we have left to add
to the future, not the past –
humble pie not being
one of our specialties
writer, it is you,
more than chef
that i wait
to kiss my lips
with my today
and raise me from
a less heartened life
not back to an adolescent flower
but forward to the finish
of our awakening
mythology, a bedtime story
that was set aside
too long ago
to pursue
consuming goods
and services

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

An American Muse

I: An American Muse

hard enough being a black American ballerina,
during the rise of Western consumerism and its slithering hydra of racism
then to be beaten, drained and marginalized
by that American hero, artist, frontiersman
who showed the rest of us what to do with talent
but had no room to value hers, or maybe he
did and just wanted to lock it up and
use it to heal his own damage
over the city roof-tops
on a starry night, aiming that
one high note right through the bullshit
of historical rage and grief
he was that American hero who gave us a look at true wealth
beyond this earthly game
in a note, in a note, a note
that teacher of how to draw music from
every possible form; to always be
in a process of creation
always moving, renewing
our American anthems
just not for this woman he tried to marry

a girl born of beauty and colour
another set of jewelry to weigh down her wrists and neck
heavy lessons on an Aerial spirit
before she even knew language
that a commercial look was all the power
she would ever have – and should be more than enough
to satisfy her
stupid lessons that should have been
so familiar to her husband, but wasn’t
O dear Francis, how you could have shown us
what it means to rise and stand with the tallest grace
for a nation, for a people, for our moral salvation,

and why not, balance all of that
on the finest of a lady’s legs?
for there isn’t any girl who can stand on point
during the rise of Western consumerism
and its slithering hydra of racism
who doesn’t know
strength, discipline and I’m getting up anyway

have to be crazy to beat on a beautiful swan
and she was like a caged bird
never offered much of a story for herself and made one anyway
if he is one of our American hero stories, lyw
than what is she?
she, my dear, is the survivor;
the American muse

II: Miles Away

I don’t know what it feels like
to be a genius,
this man,
this black man growing up in a racist
middle class American society
this man who abuses women
this addict
this person with chronic pain
but he looks like
a human
with eyes electrified

American monster both good and bad,
a human in the past; a legend in the present
and a way to understand the future
male, black, brilliant, violent, angry,
juvenile, ageless creator of new music,
new paths to take us; new paths to make us
as flawed and perfect as we can be; monsters both good and bad

lit on music, on sound, on sending out his note
into his crowded world,
young men could find their own way in his shadow
women, too, unfortunately, in a different way,
was he so afraid of love, don’t tell me he didn’t understand
feelings; then, again, maybe he knew them
but never quite caught them
beyond the music
because he was so angry
for things that didn’t have
words in English, so he cussed and attacked like Caliban
an earth-bound spirit with one channel to let out
what can only be his untouched soul
moving through the soft and hard cancer cells
holding back the din
of the cities of consumption:
of wanting and having and needing
a domesticated, yet insatiable,
middle-class hunger

his humanity stumbled onward with crutches;
music cannot cure your psychology
when you use it as another drug;
a fleeting high, a live experience,
pure improvisation witnessed or even missed,
by a small room,
then gone, when gone,
who will remember when
the room goes cold

a man can’t play forever,
even and when with the first note,
he can invite us to take the same high with him away and away
again and again, forget our own wounded bodies and minds
into that perfect and untouched soul

more important,
we cannot play forever,
cannot play this man’s judge, though he lived so big
we need to accept ourselves
as we truly are, outside of heaven,
on this planet Earth;
bring to our flawed heroes
bring to Miles
a little peace of our own

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

a new song for eleanor rigby (intermission #3)

After all my past has promised my future
i am ok today to be Eleanor Rigby
a version who steps out of the song
loneliness that has moved to solitude
and a chance to breathe
away from other people’s professional prescriptions
of what i should want and have to have
in order to be young forever,
warm and passionate forever, beautiful
once and forever but in a song
that always laments what wasn’t enough;
what must always be slightly sad

Ah, breath,
the singer meant well
as they all do; no harm to let me
take the song a little further,
after all these years
and finally live, let go
of those long past hymns
let go of letting alone
be such a lonely thing

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

What do I know about being Mark Twain?

Stay in character until the end of the story
And when the adventure is done
Only then, look back

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

sharing the lion’s den

in this wild prison
that we cling with our lives
and share with a predatory beast;
an armed idiot stalking the rim
for a type of survival
in the form of a crown
the only thing
he seems able to grasp

i must be candid
i must be a candid
friend

candid to make sure he sees my lines;
mark what trees and corners
with whatever scent he can recognize

i must be honest not just
to protect my life but
just in case i need to
remain and remember what honour
i will need to carry before
exiting this prison

my honesty will show my strength
not because i bristled and flexed
but because
the beast must know me
before the end of our exchange

and my honesty must extend friendship
to recover my compassion
because I know I cannot defeat him
on the terms that he lives by, I must make use
of older wisdom that generally
has not been mine

the truth is we need to share
yes, share — a better vision
because of all the futures that we can imagine
we only get to have one

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

meditation can be creepy

in this stillness,
a room behind my eyes
no doors, no windows, no light
all my senses removed
why wouldn’t i be afraid?
where I cannot see or know
if this room presses in on me
or abandons me to a void;
or if there is anybody else
in here with me ….
this room inside my head
that takes somebody else’s
lessons and maps
to find myself
suddenly within

peaceful?

all this sanctuary needs
is the smallest grain of fear
and it will imprison me

all i need is a hint of invaders
entering this blind space
and it will possess me

make me choke and claw
to find a way out
of this damn calming breath
and seek only the light from without
make reason
something to hide behind

before i freak further out of here
there is another room
pull the attic light
yeah, there is one,
because i say there is. it is
no more than a swinging bulb
hanging from a wooden ceiling
with a simple cotton string
attached to its switch

go downstairs, modern girl,
go down your old spiral staircase
to the bottom of an equally dark
cavern; a vast belly of
enduring and patient stone
the sound of a drip
falling into a pool not far off
wonderfully cool,
potentially creepier
than that so-called sanctuary
but go ahead, wander further away
from the stairs and the light above
find the dark glistening waters, discover
glowing mushrooms, flowers, foliage
pulsing softly, swaying content against
my breath and darkness — greyed,

funny place to imagine hanging out,
for a girl who loves the sun
and bright, green, open space
but here, no one can see me
not even me, here
I can wash and rinse my sense
of sight and touch,
hang them out to dry for a bit,
as I lay my body aside, too,
and float ethereal
over this strange garden

maybe, when i miss the sun too much
i might want to check out
the chamber of the heart
yeah, there’s another room,
cuz i say there is,
this one is a really nice, warm boudoir,
with red velvet curtains,
firelight from a hearth
and small kitchen
desire needs to be fanned
in many directions, after all,
and it’s in the hearth
that i will find spirits and voices
faery folk, if you will, and
they are mischievous, child-like,
unconsolably sensitive and i will
listen to them, counsel them,
love them, but mind
that i must rule the heart and
not let the heart rule me

and somewhere in this temple
my piece of God
floats and flits around
my talisman and guide through
any way i go into meditation
and i fear no evil
as frightening as i can be,
she and i are one and
she and i will rise
when i need to defeat myself
it is with her shield
that i beat raucously against the night

and now i can return to my creepy attic
turn off all the lights,
give myself a chance
to open my mind, allow myself to see
without sight, the joy and light
of what infinity looks like
as it spans out before me
so wide

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

i am on a balcony protected but close

to a thunderstorm playing
an orchestra over me
rain falling; raising a chorus
light still visible above rolling clouds

need new job, maybe new body
new mind, new future

yet, i probably could be
happy right now
if i chose to be

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

the drawn line

why do those fine arts draw,
brush and carve classical David
so commonly standing on
or dragging
his decapitation
like a trophy, frozen
in the anguish
of human sin

our royal beauty and heaven’s choice made
sensuous and naked
raw and sinewed;
all that human body
filled with a single determination
to bring swift punishment and
the glory of justice
to our monsters
what point of his long, bloody sword
are these artists trying to make
about this once, young and agile king?

maybe it is only as i get older,
i want to see David forever done
with the lesser of purgatory jobs
take, instead, a cut of
his softer talents
the lyre and the love
for the healing psalm

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

were lambs ever wild?

were lambs ever wild?
did they ever not have an owner
made to be led and eaten
do they dream?

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

mi peludo dulce

why would God make such a peculiar treat?
a sugar so rough and difficult to taste?
then again, what other dessert can
take me in his arms
and make me feel softer than custard and sweeter than honey

there is an art to knowing this delight
my mouth must search through
the little blades around his face
to discover his kisses taste like
melted chocolate
while my hands must remove
the cotton and denim wrapping
to uncover the longer hairs
that will tickle my skin and caress my legs

i believe this to be the most peculiar sweet
one that i could not buy
at any restaurant or store
this is homemade confection
stirred and prepared
with many secret ingredients
over many histories and many, many dreams
and perhaps this is why God
protects and hides him
in such a fuzzy and furry porcupine disguise

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

civilian defenses

fit yourself snugly
into that
and this
flimsy dress

that imperfect body
this mad song

further contained and falling out of the
stories
from our brick and mortar multiplex

Bandmaster, raise your voice
to the roof and sing
with the warmth and passion of your species
even though a storm is howling
and pounding on the door
never falter for the ones outside
who have not yet answered your call

Musician, move this mysterious night
with the colours and shapes of your
bright vibrations
though a winter is spreading
a famine to our door
never falter for the ones who endure inside

Dancer, step lightly
over the minefields
and travel through the hills and tunnels
of the breaking song
discover the path to freedom is
a winding, twisting circle
leading us back
to where we began

and if nothing else,
let salsa
occupy
the murderous mind
long enough
for us
to disarm the hand

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

my dad needs a story

tell this elderly man, who is my dad
that he needs a story
about what it means to combat
loneliness in the order
of staying together, when life
has moved on

my mom was my dad’s
co-conspirator, in how to keep
crusty and comfortable

he never reads novels and definitely
not poetry, it is no good giving him
the Alchemist

but if life still lingers, in this conservative body
something about us that makes him stay behind
i will still ask him to learn
the sweetness of imagining
meeting mom again, for that first time
and telling her who he was, where he began
and where he wanted to go
how would he convince her, unconvinced then
what a gift their life would be

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

what to say about death today

what to say about death today?
there is always one more
and it will all add up on another?

feels like,

the soul and the love
though they never die
get terribly disfigured
on trying to return
in the best possible way

till then we are both just left with the bodies
momma’s and mine,

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

the lamb and the tigress

this lamb held curious flowers
for this old tigress,
on a day that somebody has
hurt her feelings
saying no paws, please
but maybe we could watch a movie together;
even tigers need protection from predators

what is my true nature, she asked
as she settled down beside him
on this cold Asiatic grass
when it has been so long since
we’ve both been on native land
butter tarts are now my meat
and there is nowhere to sink my teeth
in this creamy brown pool of
sweet masala tea
do you want one?

the little lamb, rather, ate the flowers,
and let the old tigress,
walk him through the night

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

this fight is light

this fight is light
lighter than emptiness

this violence is kind
kinder than walls
and electric fences

this work is sweet
sweeter than victory

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

long stems and a potted plant

Red roses are firm
stately in their length
reaching for nothing
in their infinite and
perfect redness

the white ones are soft
in their paleness, a breath
that surrenders to my care,
reaches for my kiss and
opens to my touch

and there is a smoking man
standing between these long-stem gifts
a chimney of remote and serious
military elegance
a little charred by the fire; and
chilled by the outside
and his name is Mohammad,

a sweet and curious boy
covered by time, a roughness
sanded down by the academies
the sun of Salt; the winter of Toronto
and in his beating heart, the
romance of Arabian horses,

So, warm the lamps, with vanilla oil,
and awaken all the roses,

in a kettle boiling, a stew bubbling
a hot shower running, a bath waiting,
in a tiny teacup; a wise black tea

Rise a steam to lift us, and
through which to see,
the comparison to her

strange potted plant
covered by time,
a strong dark coffee blossom
and a stem, cream-white,
curving up for the roots
of those that are artfully cut,

a climbing, long-limbed, flower
who loves to pursue the story
from which his strong body grew,
and will grow, for what?
to chase the bright and sombre
contemplations, framed by his soft eyelashes;
and search the warm hands
that make his world and have changed mine

the red roses are perfect
and the white ones are reaching
the red ones need nothing, and
the white roses still beckon for
somebody’s care

between this hard beauty
and the soft resilience
is a warm earthen bed
for this curious boy
and that strange flower
as thunderstorms roll by and
lightning strikes the sky

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

girl, on climbing

girl, it appears that we find ourselves
in mountainous regions
and although i am more inclined to dig
you would rather climb

both are easier with company
and since i would rather not
stay here any longer
i will follow you for a bit
though i don’t know where you are going
do you?

girl, do you think that perhaps
we have seen these walls before?
are these stones, these vast empty spaces
between us and the ground
really asking to be remembered and redone?
are you seriously enjoying this,
or are you just seriously stubborn?

since i definitely would rather not
stay here any longer
i will follow you for a bit.
though, where you going, girl?
Do you even know?
why don’t you come down to my left
and i will rise to your right
we can then hang ourselves
somewhere in between
moments in suspension are always easier
with a little conversation and encouragement.
especially when you keep
spare granola bars in your pack,
and i, a little chocolate

i see that these mountains have all been redone
in well-constructed hooks and holds
to fasten the glitter of both our accessories
and insurance policies

these are the times, you say,
to trust that this line holds me
not the other way around
and to reconsider the face of the wall
that i have braved to release
i say it’s frowning at me, but
that’s not quite what you meant

girl, begin again a little ahead of me
and i will follow for a bit, where i now agree
i may have been before
though i dug deeply from the other side
of this body of rock

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

English as an Other Language

the work week was slowly bleeding dry
despite the aerobic effort to keep it pumping
run a little further to the Lawrence Market
and buy cheese and custard tarts
to spread over tonight’s English lessons;
the thick and breaded fiction-kind

between me and a Mexican friend;
NAFTA be a living natural child who
does read fiction and Jung
practicing for the real story and now

Haiti’s Relief concert resurfaces Hallelujah
and pulls off the shelves
almost forgotten, almost human
Cohen, Rumi and Hughes
opting for the language of the ancient honeybees
instead of modern multi-grains.

a different kind of English lesson from
poems i hadn’t heard in so long, focusing us
more on our lovely flower children
rhythm on rhythm on what do you mean?
and a slower reed on which to play

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

tumbling out of yin

press play, and force the ears
to tumble us out of yin
accept, darling
that the day is hot around our
cold, vast caverns, and that
if the mind should wander –
recall the body
what do i have?
a lost rhyme that had us banging in the 80’s
ah, fashion-forward late eights
on the alarmed radio
to wake the soul
pop music flowing down to our watering pot
let our arms flower us upwards
until the Sun clasps our wrists
pulling us out and asking us to marry him
where we’re homeless and free
darling, you better wake up if you want to take that kiss and have enough
to come back from this adolescent romance,
stretch long the spinal column, and wonder at how the hips unroll,
the Sun needs our resistance
to make real strength work
the undulating roots, further down

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

Mr. Eden Everlasting

let this unbooked girl, who aspires to write
slap you hard in the face
and arrest those noble suicidal tendencies.

Again! and force this pain to raise roses
against your sun-god cheeks
if you wish to remove or abuse me,
you will need to regain that ambition
that should have made you want to die better
you will burst open all the wounds, in this act
with a fury of red petals, finally surrendering to yes, unlearn your intellect; remember God
and then we can get back to this most unfinished work

Again! how did I find my way into your rooms?
you fool, you had yourself printed
where no laundry press could ever
straighten you out

Again! How did we meet here?
i am the Weakness and Failure
that prevails your Mythology;
who bought your Story to help me to write
and all i found was this beautiful mess.
no more tricks! to any class or study
to neither your Self or your Others
nor to your limbs or your organs
let each petal explode with laughter
and let’s reshape this ambition into remembering
that no class of merchant or fool, you or i,
can measure all what must be done,

yesterday i was still not a genius or a writer
and i called you my brother
you remember me that writing is not my punishment
i do not write for love but with love for you
Martin Eden everlasting

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

dinner at God’s

when this life is done, i hope for that
long-awaited conversation with God
a welcome invitation to his place rather than his office
by a great hearth where we can sit
and finally explain, deep into the night,
all those things I’m clearly not getting.

what in the world, would i bring to such a table?
other than boxed questions and broken answers

what wine, what bread to break
with Love that i have tried and tired
for what has been a single, woolly, silken yarn

i think i shall have to settle for something funny
God knows, Love has a sense of humour.

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

the ferry woman

---

if i could be a conduit
for life on the river
a vessel on direction
and cradle from the swiftness
how could i keep my sentimental heart
from wanting to save one or two passengers
to have for my very own

and how would this ferry woman
victim to attachment
keep those ones or twos
from collecting on the banks into
hillsides of everything
wanting absolutely, to remove it all
from the flow
for just a little while longer
in the most perfect stillness; Love
safely asleep in my arms

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the mi peludo dulce poetry chapbook by lyw.

fighters

we are surrounded by good fiction
padded down with the burning leaves
that reflect, in little embers, something about our lives
plugging into the Jungian metaphor
in a bed, suspended

and now I have given away all my favourite books;
left the others to be torn or worn away

we are surrounded by good forest
as we find our way through this city.
MP3s filled with any song between
the wind and the trees;
the echo of sunset and sunrise
returning again and again, often rising to thunder

and now we have locked ourselves up
in this tight little room and
refuse to release our finger from
the electrified page until everything
is saved; proof archived
that we had data
personal, professional – phh!
so susceptible to a kind of toothless language
relish in yet another
interpretation of the truth
time runs; beauty fades
and we push and pull the dream;
taste it in our mouths
undiluted, the true
essence of our bittersweet lives
while our water evaporates,
the vibrations slow down
in our sedentary bodies
if the dream is frustrated,
don’t blame the dream

are we just fighting to
at once
wake and
fall further in?
with a sense of somebody, if not
together

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the lyw variations poetry chapbook by lyw.

gould variations

hands of a newborn
press upon my lips
a thousand gasps and giggles
over a thousand and one years

keys of the piano
dance a thousand raindrops
before I knew rain
despite a thousand and one showers

Male murmurs and a tuff of soft hair
Brush over the smooth polish
Coax out a thousand rivers that push through
This only kiss

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the lyw variations poetry chapbook by lyw.

going home

the thin boy was laughing when she gripped him
wrestling with her, when she shook him
and he went still
his eyes cast to the dusty floor of
the convenience store shop
she was yelling and tightening her grip on him and he went quieter
more lifeless

finally he cried out and pushed away
and asked why?
she didn’t know
the store owner asked them both to leave

they went out together

she took him home

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the lyw variations poetry chapbook by lyw.

china witness

(* a poem for Xinran)

she paints the nails pink
leaves one bright red
so all the terra cotta ladies must dissolve
enough to cluck at the clumsy finish
and take her small hand in theirs
a place where they will
recognize a child
denied the privilege
of being left behind with grandparents
as these soldiers climbed out
of the cultural trenches;
stone hands that cry
beneath the defiant art of smoothing the skin
cutting the cuticles and keeping in the lines
saying, family is our privacy
and we need you to know why

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the lyw variations poetry chapbook by lyw.

strip the boxer down

strip the boxer down
of all the epic battles and film noirs
cuz these secret pacts between you and the hearth
are always going out

what’s there left to fight with then?

a starving man with knocking knees
who can’t hold up his gloves

a weeping rag cowering in the corner
who can’t withstand the blows

a naked woman, not ready for pretty
who can’t block the lights

sure don’t look like much, does it?

but you have to strip the fighter down
to those weaknesses that endure
and teach them how to box
for those bones will shape the knife
that will cut through
these fatted, weathered centuries
into one and glorious day,
though boxing is never worth what it should be
we still finish our work
on this worn stinking canvas
in this older than old gym

listening to Coach remind us
the sun actually does
rise and set in you

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the lyw variations poetry chapbook by lyw.

the Minotaur on Being Cubed

---

every storyteller needs to be a story, retold
over two thousand years

so says all his lovers who balked
at the loving painted portraits
that feast on their comely parts

every monster needs to be a hero, torn apart
over two thousand years

so says all the wars that blushed
at the loving painted portraits
that froze them to a piece

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the lyw variations poetry chapbook by lyw.

painting picassos

there is a girl who paints the portraits
of travelers walking by
though, she confesses, she is really trained in
food, philosophy, boxing and espionage

not every traveler stops
for the time needed to decide
what kind of picture they are
and where their brushstrokes should fall

but with what she can do
she tries to repay them with
one seriously fine dish
two maracas for their noodle
several fights for their dreams
and a total invasion of privacy

the picassos are, of course, hers to keep

one day she painted this boy
who stopped to look at the city view
saying he didn’t know anything about painting
but liked to see things done well
well, she confessed, she wasn’t really trained
though she believed
every idea needs a good frame
not a fancy one — just a good one
to keep it all together
cuz paint will swirl, move and change
and, sometimes,
she got more on herself than the canvas!

he said the first part sounded right;
the second not so much
but might as well keep going
and see where it all ends

this boy was abstract, for now
with primary colours and nameless shapes
pushing in waves upon the edges
of his good simple frame

and when he tried to convince her
to add some lines and angles
she asked, should we really aspire to geometry
to draw our finer points,
when our brushstrokes did rather fall
on a more syncopated rhythm?
a rustic Cumbia, in fact,
from this makeshift Baroque
shaking and lifting out Plato and his stories
from the dancing kaleidoscope of travelers’ dust;
a magic tambourine

better to stay in time
than keep it in the lines,
she said.

but with what she could get done,
she paid him,
one herbal tea with honey
three salsas and a tango
several bites on that need
to decide what this fight is for
and a scratch on his backdoor

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the lyw variations poetry chapbook by lyw.

rainsong

in the next downpour, in the next big fat cool rain,
listen closely to the rush coming down to earth
strength without violence, like laughter
amid the thunder and lightning
a million notes in that one big sigh
of God trying to tell you something
for those caught outside.

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the lyw variations poetry chapbook by lyw.

miss good morning

finally On Time for Work
one day late
took me ninety-six days to get Here.
To Be On Time – T-BOT

remake what’s been making me
fifteen minutes later, everyday since
starting to
work
OUT
&
OFF
a page nobody wants to read

fifteen more minutes between Home and Here.
is fifteen more years
of resistance training
needed to be up to the job of
Good Morning, Lillian

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the lyw variations poetry chapbook by lyw.

language lessons

paint these words in Spanish and French
because this old English Maid
is having a mid-life crisis
a safe purchase for twenty dollars
in the basement of the Business Depot
my yes, my no, my hello
pressed against my eyes as
my tongue, my mouth, my lips, fight thick,
peanut butter and jelly words of
where did i go? what did i do? so long ago?
to make such sounds — break — forward
Escape!

laid down low, in a tight apartment
with these three magic CDs
and return to that moment
where we just tried to understand
there will be no direct translation

for this old English Major
never fought in any of the Modern wars
ignoring the call from
the coffee shop flyers
that wanted to tear into my
starched, white private hour

where only the good soldiers
get to witness the passing
of the Renaissance banners over
wide, open fields
i interrogate the Spanish and French
for what they might have to say about me
spouting tree poses and promotions
in the business, the financial, ultimately domesticated warrens
where lovers ask me to straighten their noose
and the Canons spray us with rich, colour copy

© lyw 

This poem is a sample from the lyw variations poetry chapbook by lyw.