Memoirs of a Praying Mantis, Turtle Moons Press, 2009, is a collection of poetry addressing a variety of topics, be it the preservation of the environment, legends of the past, or the horrors of wars. The poems take the reader from everyday life and events, linking the concepts from art and literature, to science, to history.
In the palm of your hand
among the spear throwers
and beads and pendants
I spotted her.
Sculpture in the round, you proclaimed.
Venus of Willendorf, I said.
With your sculptor chisel you carved
her bone, wood and stone
while she danced her bulbous oval shapes
evading the searching blade.
A spear of light set a high relief from an angle
and I saw her.
Burin scars shadowed her face.
Your eye cast on her, on me with fury
shaped, sanded, filed, polished
her rhythmic arrangement of bulbous oval shapes
while she danced her Paleolithic steps
in a mammoth rib cave.
She is made of marble
every sculptor’s dream, you said.
I’m of limestone, I proclaimed.
Cannot be polished.
AS THE UNIVERSE BLINKS
We crawl through the labyrinths
as the icicles of stalactites
touch the pedestals of stalagmites.
in a musical sigh.
Let us pause
marvel at Her beauty
as the universe blinks
before the calcite dripstone fills the cave.
HIGH PARK GRENADIER
You are not there, I said.
An embodiment of my primal self
incarnated want, failed aspirations
longing craving ache
is in your eyes, in mine.
Deep and green your subterranean womb
of muddy peaks. Your eyes are mine
adorned in oak leaves.
Yes, I said, and followed you
hand in hand.
“A Grenadier I am, entombed in an icy scab
and if you scratch your corneal guard
and peer through my sodden skies
your vision, mine
your eternal botched self
mine mine mine.
The war of 1812, the Battle of Fort York
I a Grenadier of the King’s 8th regiment
plunged to my throne of incarnated want
failed aspirations, longing craving ache.
Your stomping grounds
your dog-walking trails
your lovers’ stroll
willow crowns luminous in icy rain
swaying in their mint overcoats.
I gaze through silken moonlight
from muddy depths of my sleeping eyes.
Give me your hand my forlorn bride
and I will be your eternal lover
a soldier of your incarnated want
failed aspirations, longing craving ache.”
A shroud of snowflakes
we stand on guard, hand in hand
my Grenadier and I,
gazing through silken moonlight.
Look down into murky depths of our sodden skies. We’re there, eternally,
skaters on thin ice, paddles rippling along the corneas of our sleeping eyes.
His eyes mine.