What do we do when the waiting is over?

Depends on the waiting and the what

for, I suppose. Depends on the leaving

or the returning, coming or going, here

or there.

It really does

Depend

On what we are waiting for.

What will I do now that the waiting is over?

I guess, we’ll just have to wait and see.

morning observation #97

for you

I am

as always

To Garth and Yvonne, wherever they may be

We suspect that it didn’t end well. That she
came from a long line of short lives that ended
badly. That he was prone to missteps and bad
ideas. Like champagne flutes with embossed
name plates. That they celebrated in white veil
and gray tuxedo, toasted their good fortune by
tapping pewter and glass against pewter and
glass. We suspect that things didn’t go as planned.
How else can we explain these flutes abandoned
then purchased at a Goodwill for 25¢ each? They
weren’t among the divided goods. That they didn’t
rate as high as the pool table or dvd player. But
we suspect that things will be different this time
around. That we’ll give Garth and Yvonne a good
home. That we’ll toast our good fortune with more
than pewter and glass and veils.

I am suspended with you

I will keep my wrist watch
on Vancouver time, ask you
to leave my pillow in its place
save my scent on your sheets,
hoping you will remember, the
hawk overhead, paused in midair
steady against the wind.

The Hibou

On November 21, 1936 at 4:50pm, the Hibou sank in Georgian Bay just outside of Owen Sound harbour. A small collection of poems marking this occasion, recollections, memory, time and water can be found here.

Morning observation #80

I am waiting for you
to wake up, waiting
for your first words,
wondering if they'll
arrive in a whisper,
voice cracking
slightly. I am waiting
for you to wake up,
watching your mouth,
slightly parted,
holding each moment,
discovering the
warmth in a pause.

You asked me to write a poem about zen pants and serenity sweaters

It was a passing comment between
bathroom & bedroom, you pulled

your shirt over your head, ignoring
buttons, tossing it on a chair, dis-
missing protocol & laundry hampers

adding, Then I’ll know which poem
is for me, and you flopped into bed.

I wonder what else you’ve missed
the trail laid out so carefully before you

no tricks or twists, I thought, only

a well placed chair, clean shirts in the
closet, a soft bed to fall into, a place

to start again.