| most of the time 'most of the time,' the broken poet quoth, 'i'm half a epoch removed from the modern day it wearies me, the ceaseless stream of trepidation i'll open my eyes if my fears you'll allay' a delicate balance of power not unfamiliar to the man left watching his final sunset fade away a gentleman and a philsopher who says only 'every man's conscience is bound to betray.' at the quinte hotel at the Quinte Hotel, the tall man with the pursed lips speaks of yellow flowers, taken from purdy�s pages. al purdy � yes, a Canadian icon, it�s said and another of the same presenting his work reading from 36 year old pages in the bar of the Quinte Hotel perhaps this means something more than what I witnessed? There were people there, to be sure, but only one who spoke a word the rest drowned in silence (slowly drowned, as drowning is known to occur slowly) Gord glared at the man in the blue shirt in the bar of the Quinte Hotel Gord shouted out above the crowd though he didn�t speak loud; his words did that for him �you shouldn�t have knocked over that beer With all them beautiful flowers in it.� it seemed so astonishingly honest, the way he spoke, as the words of a legend fused with his own and he danced with the language from one deft analogy to another though the bartender, and the man in the blue shirt, laughed, I don�t think they understood him. I walked, with neither side of the room in mind, away from the man who spoke of Purdy�s yellow flowers And I sat down at the computer and I thought: if Al Purdy can, in this day and age, say such things why cannot such a commoner as I? But it was a passing thought, a passing thought, (it passed in a moment) and I was left to wonder if perhaps those yellow flowers held some truth for me; at the Quinte Hotel, they hold truth for me. of love and murder Tell the tale of a hundred years Of men who fight against their fears Of men who walked into this place Of men who did betray their peers Tell the tale of men who died Of sorrow, love, and murder Tell of those who outlived their victims Of men who walked a mile further Tell of trials of the innocent The history to repeat the darkest events For men who rest in dark places Waiting for the end to come to repent Tell the tale the world must know Tell them before you turn to go Tell of men who've lost their way Who will reap in jow if in tears they sow. canada never looked like this I'm choosing my characteristically eloquent words There's so much to deal with Something's changed since history rewrote itself Because Canada never looked like this.... troubled phantom I move across the earth like a dream without worth The fires freshly stoked Searching for the sensation of the congregation And the sweet fragrance of the thunder & woodsmoke I move across the ground like a storm without a sound The solution merely tentative My inspiration I find in the congregation And the inverted rosy hues of the negative. belize beach, midnight I. Sparks fly across the deathly still night Travelers lost their way Harbingers Of no particular fate. II. Cascades of cinders tumble Towards a slowly falling horizon Skyward, earthward; A deadly dance with perspective III. A game of chance with the vast expanse The victor perishing into the startling void The child of the darkness returns to the ashes From whence it came A silent, barely visible spectacle that plays itself out Night after night. parting gift (for sarah foley) I've never let myself believe she meant what I heard I know she wasn't reaching for that foothold There was no reason to speak what I dared think And let these eclectic emotions seem merely for show There's no consequence for these conversations As far as I could ever tell After all this time I've a visitor, But she hasn't come to wish me well. |