A Poem a Day

I resolved last November to write a poem a day for at least the next month.
Here in reverse order are those poems, which reflect my job in Advertising Features, my running and my life:


At the Ichiban, the Last Sushi

Joshi kept the little sushi,
didn’t care if it got mushy.
He wrapped it up
and took it home,
so sushi wouldn’t
be alone.

---------

Politics

New Year’s Eve in Rochester
at “Charlie Wilson’s War”.
Full house and disbelief.
Woman, seat behind:
“We haven’t heard
of that before.”
$3.5 billion to help Afghans,
mujahideen and Pakistan,
That’s what covert operations
are for.

--

My Mother likes Jos. Louis

My mother likes Jos. Louis,
carrot cake and Twinkies too.
She smiles as she eats
her ice-cream
and offers some to you.
Six months ago
in hospital
she couldn’t even move.
The doctor scheduled surgery
to put in a feeding tube.
No, we said, let’s wait,
we’ll see
and now we are amazed.
She’s happy, stronger,
speaking more,
and turns 89 in seven days.

-----------


I Remember Benazir Bhutto

When I heard her speak,
beautiful, well dressed,
so poised and smart,
I was impressed.
‘You can do it all’
was what she said.
‘You can do anything.’
Unless you’re dead.

-----------

Before New Year’s

At the office
on a quiet day
we pounce on work
that comes our way.
An e-mail, yes!
A chore to wake us
from our sleep.
We’re here;
we want to
earn our keep.
--------

Boxing Day Shopping List

Pickles, toothpaste
Mushrooms and more
Pot and tea ball
from the kitchen store.
Peppers and tortillas
for the quesadillas.
Also, there’s a need
for different kinds
of grated cheese.
Pasta (gluten)
and non-gluten.
And three cans
of salmon or tuna.
And if there’s time
for that:
Small or medium yoga pants
and two small saucers
for the plants.

----------

Boxing Day Boo Boo

Run ahead to Bulk Barn
While Naomi waits
in Tim Horton’s line.
Get the cinnamon,
granola, dried blueberries
and salsa
and think that all is fine.
Settle down later
and read the bill,
I’m as bad as Conrad Black.
Bulk Barn charged me
for currants instead
and I didn’t turn around
and go back.

--------
Next time ask

We each picked a dish
- so I picked fish.
When it came,
we said ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s pork,’ the server replied.
‘Of course, the fish and bean curd dish
has lots of pork inside.’

---------

Christmas Day

Children sledding
on Mooney’s Bay Hill.
Sand bags tied around
all trees bases.
Helmets frame
the happy faces.

A propos, Naomi comments,
‘old-fashioned sledders
on Tim Horton’s cups
are now wearing helmets.’

-----------

Bus of Life

Christmas Eve bus to work
and I’m back on the bus
to Saffer Advertising
up Bathurst to Wilson,
the end of Toronto,
at 21 the beginning
of my working life.
Can’t see out the window
Can’t see the path ahead
Until I’m back on the bus
at 60 plus.
------

Little Tin Soldiers

Party small talk on the couch.
He’s in Marketing
for an engineering company.
Used to be in sales.

Question following ‘what do you do?’
is ‘what do you like?’
His eyes light up.
He has hundreds of
little tin soldiers
and books on Napoleon.
-------

No Poem for You

In lieu of
the cost of
paper and ink
for this poem
I’ve made a
donation instead
to a charity of
my choice.
Hope you like it.

---------

4 P.M. In the News Room

A paper plate
with a piece of cake.
15 Citizen umbrellas.
This is the date.
It’s buy-out time,
good-bye and thanks
for all you’ve done
from all your friends.
Some things begin
and some things end.

--------

Snow Again

He headed out for home
Running very far.
We had the same route to go
‘though we were in the car.
The traffic was so bad
our drive was a horrid strain.
Next time we’ll stop
for supper first.
We won’t do that again.
The runner was
the one who’s smart,
the one with half a brain.
He got home first,
with an energy burst.
It’s driving that’s insane.

------------

Advertising Department Potluck

Ribs and shrimp
and salsa dip.
Salads of rice
and everything nice.
So much food
you go back twice.
Then the desserts you consume
‘til it hurts -
cookies and mincemeat pie.
A fountain of chocolate
for marshmallows and fruit,
with eggnog standing by.
And the surprise
of the times is this -
men did the cooking of recipes more
than the women
who guiltlessly
went to the store.

-----------

Night skiing at Terry Fox

Nature’s magical miniature
A souvenir snow globe
surrounded by traffic.
A fortress of solitude.
Unique and irreplaceable,
so the City will close it.

----------

Blizzard of 07

Climbers stay in the tent
until the weather clears.
No matter how long it takes.
Be patient.
--------

Bachelor of Arts on a Bus

‘B.As - Bugger All,’
the bus rider scoffed.
‘They aren’t worth a dime.
‘These days you need a Master’s
to do anything, any time.’
‘Ha, ha, that’s right,’
her seatmate agreed.
Quick to concede.
Hiding the trauma
of her Basic-level high school diploma.
Aching to be part
of the world
of the smart.

---------

Partners in misery

It’s easy to feel dumb
Packing clothes, coat and boots
for the 30-minute run.
As I run along Iris
I question why
then laden down
for the change room,
I loudly sigh.
But talking to another
who does this feat
Makes me feel a lot better.
Birds of a feather
flock together.

---------

Pinecrest Creek Ducks

They swim beak to beak
in the unfrozen creek,
While I run by,
cold hands,
cold feet.
If I gave them some food,
they’d just want to stay,
C’mon ducks,
it’s December 13th -
fly away!

------------
Commitment

Dashing through the snow
on a warm but snowy day.
Sidewalks are not plowed,
City doesn’t want to pay.
Run on the street instead,
Dodging cars and spray.
Oh what fun it is
to run
30 minutes every day.
Ho ho ho...

---------

Touting Teamwork

Morning:
Publisher’s Town Hall
talks about ‘teamwork’,
‘ideas over the fence’
between Advertising
and News.
Afternoon:
Al in Printing
gets a fruit basket
from Gilmour.
Gives it to staff
in Desktop Advertising
‘Couldn’t do it
without them.’
----

The Book Sale

Thousands of books
piled high.
Thousands of authors
seeking Citizen reviews.
Ways to happiness.
Ways to weight loss.
All by
Suzanne Sommers.

--------
VIA Sunday 8:51 p.m.

Painted on the concrete wall:
‘greatplacetolive.com’
Cars lined up, headlights on,
exhausts exhaling.
Strings of Christmas lights
dancing in the darkness.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,
welcome to Bellville.’
Beside me, the policeman
from Mississauga
- ‘actually a detective,’ -
finishes his beer,
closes his Securities textbook
and texts on his cellphone.
He’s retiring next year,
staying tonight at the police college
where he’s taking a course.
‘Tough for police departments these days.
‘Minorities have degrees,
and don’t want to join them.
‘So they’re all white,
and criticized for it.’
He’s never been on a train before.

--------------
Slow Motion

The train starts slowly,
like a treadmill warming up.
Ten minutes later,
the concrete pillars of
the Gardiner Expressway
still loom outside the window.
Unlike the morning train,
no children shriek or sing.
We try to sleep
as cellphones ring.
‘This is she. I’m on the train to Ottawa...’
By Napanee, we pick up speed
through the darkness,
then stop to let of
Nap-a-nee-ers.
Fortunately, not many.
------

Who’s Selling the Ads?

How many ad reps
does it take
to run a big newspaper?
Enough to fill
the Empire Grill
with some at Baxter Road
for later.
---------

Is Spelling Like Shopping?

‘Shop in Canada’
our section blares.
Reader calls
to say he cares.
‘You made me laugh,’
he phoned to say,
‘by spelling ‘neighbour’
the American way.’
--------
Ottawa in Bosnia

Eppo’s in Ethics
but avoids that word
outside, day to day.
‘I’m in ‘conflict of interest’.
They don’t get as excited
that way.’
‘That’s ‘ethics cleansing’,’ I say.

----------

Motivation


100 runs
in 100 days
Yes, I’ll do it.
Commitment pays.
December 1st is
starting time.
So I’m already
two days behind.

--------

Dim sum.
So much fun.

---------

Charles Dickens
Leonard Cohen
Bob Dylan
Paul Simon
Thank you.

-----

Get it right

Weather forecast
full of gloom.
Stay indoors,
ice pellets loom.
Later on
into the night.
A wasted day,
no pellets in sight.

-------

Instant gas fireplace.
James Patterson novel.
White crocheted blanket.
The perfect workout
for minus 26.
Pass the teapot.

------

Trivia Party Game

What’s your secret...
‘At my first race,
I came in last...’
‘There’s a criminal record
in my past...’
‘My favorite color
is chrysanthemum pink...’
My secret is this:
I’m not what you think.

-----------

Stroke Improvement

Hips high
Body roll
Reach forward
Don’t make bubbles.
Why’s it so easy
for a fish with no brain
when learning to swim
drives me insane.

----

Just Show Up

Frozen fingers
Frozen toes
Wind chilled forehead
When it blows.
Snow and ice like
mille-feuilles pastry.
Why I do this
is a mystery.

-----

Winter clothesline

Hall be-decked
with loads of laundry
Towels and tee-shirts
hanging smartly.
Big brown tablecloth
blocks the rail
Swimsuit dripping
on the stair.
On the rack,
some socks by pair
Adding moisture
to the air.

-----------

End of day

Whales up for breath,
my knees rise and fall
circled by lacy continents
of bubble bath
in a lukewarm ocean.
David Suzuki on CBC radio
says ‘don’t give up,
think local.’
My toes wiggle to the surface,
worm-like sea monsters
on the cloud gray tub wall.

-------------

The Real Oliver Twist - a moving book

I spent the holidays reading a book that has continued to haunt me, The Real Oliver Twist/Robert Blincoe: A life that illuminates an age, by John Waller (Icon Books, 2005).

The author is a historian who lectures in the department of history and philosophy of science at Melbourne University.
In 1832, John Brown, a British campaigner to release young children from the servitude of the textile mills, wrote a memoir of workhouse orphan Robert Blincoe in a popular pamphlet.

The author of The Real Oliver Twist uses that memoir and a 22-page bibliography to re-create the times of poor Robert Blincoe, born in 1792 in rural St. Pancras Parish and abandoned at four to a “work’us” (workhouse) never to see his family again. At seven he was sent 200 miles north to work in the horrendous and unrelenting abuse of the cotton mills.
“The Memoir details the cruelty of masters and overseers, the weakness of the law, and the harsh realities of a child’s life dictated by the relentless rhythm of machines and the clanging of the work-place bell…He was remembered, if at all, as somebody who fought bravely against the cruel vicissitudes of life. But his own hard work and his devotion to his family eventually achieved for them a degree of respectability beyond the wildest imaginings of anybody who had known him,” writes John Waller. “as a bruised, lonely and desperately unhappy parish apprentice.”

According to Waller, there is strong textual evidence that Charles Dickens read Blincoe’s Memoir shortly before writing Oliver Twist, and the parallels are striking. “Blincoe’s Memoir must have had a deep impact on a man who had been sent to work in a bleaching factory aged twelve and never reconciled himself to his family’s loss of gentility,” he says. “And it would also have yielded rich background material that Charles Dickens’ own life didn’t provide but which the plot of Oliver Twist required.”
He writes that “making children like Blincoe work was almost universally agreed to be a good thing. Schooling, on the other hand, was seen to have its dangers. Juvenile, sweated labour inured poor children to their ‘inferior offices in life’, but education threatened to give them ideas above their stations. This was a real concern in the highly-stratified world of 18th –century England, in which everyone was meant to have their place upon a vast hierarchical chain stretching from the most degraded humans – beggars, actors and minstrels – on to artisans, shopkeepers and tenant farmers; next to bankers and merchants; and finally arriving at the dizzy heights of squires, barons, earls, dukes, archbishops and, at the very top, monarchs.”

And as bad as the work’us was, apprenticeship as a ‘sweep’s boy’ and indentured work in the mills, was worse.
“When Parliament set up a committee in 1816 to inquire into the ‘State of Children Employed in the Manufactories of The United Kingdom’, it was revealed that few mills worked their child apprentices for less than eleven-and-a-half hours. Many forced them to labour for fifteen hours, with minimal breaks for refreshment …Lunch eaten next to the machines.”

As the book continues, “only at nine or ten o’clock at night, after more than sixteen hours of work, and with less than half an hour to rest, did the wheel finally come to a stand. The absence of milk in the diet, combined with near-constant standing during the day and the awkward motions required to operate the machines, took a heavy toll on Blincoe. At the age of fifteen, as he entered puberty and needed proper nutrition to build up healthy bones, his legs began to bow… Continuous standing and monotonous movements ensured that for the remainder of his life Blincoe would walk with difficulty on buckled legs.”
It would be nice to think that the world has changed, but in so many ways it is evident that it hasn’t, as the children suffering throughout the world in child labour, the sex trade, orphans of AIDS in Africa attests.

This book, about a time hundreds of years past, is a reminder and an impetus to care about children still in need of advocacy now.

The Orange Juggler

The following story I wrote won first prize winner in the City of Ottawa 55 Plus Fiction Writing Contest in 2002:



The Orange Juggler

“... May I reach
That purest heaven; be to other souls
The cup of strength to some great agony,
.. So shall I join the choir invisible
whose music is the gladness of the world.”
• George Eliot

He loved that she quoted poetry all the time. When it wasn’t her own poetry it was George Eliot, or it was Elizabeth Barrett Browning... “How do I love thee...I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”

Like a massive ballet troupe, hundreds of runners were stretching against trees and walls and lying waiting on the grass. Music from a radio station trailer clashed with loudspeaker announcements. He wondered how she would have described the chaos.

Grabbing his left running shoe in his right hand, he stretched lightly and alone, alternately bending each long leg behind him.

He managed a wan half smile, a soft little ‘hmph’, sort of a laugh, his closed lips curling up at the corners, straight into his prominent cheekbones.

A beautiful big grin, she described it. Like punctuation between his ears.

She loved his smile. He loved her poetry.

He loved the wavy bangs she was always brushing out of her round, sad eyes. He loved her favorite lemon yellow sweater that smelled of her perfume. He loved her laugh. He would laugh for her.

He leaned against the tree to steady himself.

“Sorry about your wife.” A runner in a red jacket, a staff member he knew from the Y, stopped in front of him. He nodded back, his heart pounding. What could you say. He’d only decided to enter the race last week, because it supported the Breast Health Centre. The running would be no problem, he was certain of that, but he was so afraid he’d be paralyzed by thinking about her.

The ‘five minutes to start’ warning startled him.

Bending down, he pinned the race number on his white singlet. 404. Daniel Allan Stone. Male. 36. Then he hurried back outside and waited for 9 o’clock.

The air was a damp combination of spring mud and wet grass. He shivered and shifted his weight to keep warm.
He glanced at the timing chip on his shoelace, then at his watch. At 12:30 he’d be done.

An instant later, he was gone, swept away in a sea of runners. A huge quiet mass of arms and legs, heading down the road.
The grass was so green, shockingly green.

There were few spectators, just the beat of a solitary boom box under a little gray tent at the side of the course.
11 a.m. He stared ahead, already battling tension and fatigue. Perspiration and sporadic drizzle matted the thick brown hair around the nape of his neck. His chest heaved, his lean arms and fingers were too heavy to lift. His salmon shorts clung in wet wrinkles to his body. The runners had long ago strung out, and he had his own space.

11:45. Ten kilometers to go. “Just 10 kilometers. Just 10 kilometers.” Shaking his head, his dry lips shifted to mouth her words instead, as his aching legs churned along, fighting the urge to stop:

A moment in time

Drifting. Drifting.
A bittersweet interlude
Hanging in the air
In the damp heat of summer
suspended in time.
A perfect note of music,
a red canoe
going nowhere.
No future, only memories.
Knowing it will never end.
Knowing it will never be the same.
• Emily Stone, 1999

“Knowing it will never be the same,” he repeated, picturing their last perfect weekend on the lake. “Knowing it will never be the same.” He had memorized so many of the poems she had written just for him. She taught English, and wrote for others, but the poems were just for him, and he knew them all by heart. One good thing about being an actor. Just a year ago she had come back stage to meet him, and they were together ever after. Noon. Grateful for the distraction, he continued reciting her poetry, reliving their time together...

Bike Path

Bike path
Life path
Through the woods
with the yellow line.
You slow to lead me
Then you’re gone.
Down the road
Round the corner
Up the mountain
Out of sight.
To bike with you
To run with you.
I never dreamed
and now I do.
What better gift
Can ever be
Than you have shared
your path with me.
• Emily Stone, 1999

He blinked back tears. He felt she was with him, and she understood what was in his head. Always. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she’d say when he was filled with worries. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” And he knew it was. He knew she would be saying that now, gazing into his pale blue eyes and gently touching his lips. He marvelled that someone could be so serene and yet never waste a minute. She was always planning a trip, always thinking of some great adventure they could share together. She hated being stuck in the city on a long weekend. She wouldn’t have wanted to be in town now, and would have persuaded him to skip the race.

Urban tumbleweed

Scrub grass lapping unevenly
at the old metal legs
of a scratched park bench
placed optimistically
under a sparse, struggling tree.
A small circle of nature
in a mall of asphalt
ending abruptly
as a torn plastic grocery bag
blows saucily by.
Urban tumbleweed.
A blunt reminder
of where we are
and where we want to be.
• Emily Stone, 1999
•
She’d been sick so long, they both knew from the beginning their relationship had no future. They knew they could do nothing about it; and knew the pain of goodbye was the price they would have to pay for being truly, wildly in love.
He had imagined over and over how it would be to part from her - like visualizing a race - hoping that by creating her leaving in his mind he could somehow alleviate the leaden lump in his chest. Home for the last time, she had asked to put on his socks, closing her eyes as he rubbed her feet.

He was wearing the same socks now, the way she had wanted him to. They were keeping him going - through the blur of mile markers, drink stations, sweat and pain.

The mantra of poetry was a link with Emily, propelling him on.

It was the second time around. The home stretch. Then why was it so hard.

He plugged along.

Eyes downward as he came around the corner, he saw a piece of orange peel on the asphalt.

She always loved oranges.

He willed his throbbing legs to keep moving as the orange imagery flooded his mind. He was 12 years old, back in the bedroom of his parents’ house, light-hearted and light-headed, knowing what he wanted to do. He had seen jugglers at the circus every year, and he yearned to be like them. Maybe that’s what made him become an actor.

He had stayed in his room all day, practicing juggling three Mineolas. He was the smallest in his class back then. Though he’d been over six feet tall for so many years now, he was still that little boy inside. “I picture you tall and strong your whole life,” she said in disbelief when he told her, rubbing her fingers up and down his long arms for emphasis. His mind went back to the juggling as his legs strained on.

There had been so much to learn. He had wanted to quit. Who needs to juggle.

Who need to love. The oranges fell to the floor. Over and over. He was feeling a little better now. Everything seemed a little brighter, sounds a little louder. . .

He concentrated on finishing the race, juggling the oranges. The little boy had skipped supper to continue juggling the oranges... Daniel thought of the food at the finish line. He wondered if there would be oranges. One kilometer to go...Don’t move forward as you juggle...Don’t stumble as you run...His arms felt lighter as he imagined the three oranges tossing through the air, but he could barely breath. Focus. Focus... She’d always loved his juggling. She’d laugh and clap and say it was one more thing that made her love him.
He felt dizzy.


As you leave

I ache with envy
future dreams
Your strength
When I have none.
And see the world
Through your bright eyes.
Too late.
You show the joy
That all should taste.
Embrace the world.
Don’t cry. Just live.
I’ll know. I’ll feel.
I’ll be the same
And care as much.
I won’t be gone.
• Emily Stone, 1999

He gasped over the finish, ignoring the numbers on the large black time clock. He stumbled to the grass. He’d done it. He’d done it. For her. He had thought he couldn’t live without her, and now he knew he wouldn’t have to.