Warmly with your two hands hold me

lonely, let your voice unfold me

whisper to me, want me only,

slowly lead me, love me wholly.


Let me lay thee, lust unwinding

trusting fate and love unbending

send me unsigned text for mending

end thy lines by pining rhyme.


Lead me closer, keep on laughing

graphing fear in gilded mapping

almanacs of love are baffling

trapping tastes of love in time.


So sweet as summer, slyly fool me

slide betwixt thy two loves dually

truly tell me something soothing

leave your love, or fear to lose me.


Slowly, coldly, you behold me

lonely fractured words unfold me

falling warnings start to bolden

scrawled to poems, soon to olden.





. O Canada!

. Our home        native land!

.             patriot love in all                       command.

.                          we see thee rise,

. True

. From far

.                          we stand on guard

. God, keep                                        free!

.                       we stand on guard

.                                   we stand on guard

This City is Melting



In the end,

icicles dangle off the edge of the roof, regardless.

Frozen striations that point to the ground,

sharp as the tip of a thawing pen.

Winter’s just a pressure change–some warm air

to make glass knives cascade and shatter on the sidewalk

that floods the road where whiteness combusts in thuds

on a blank blanket that seeps into the greys and browns of grease and gravel,

so icebergs islands of last month’s snowfall

float in the briny lagoons of this afternoon.

This is the beginning.






All poetic form is political.

The sonnet’s agenda is to confine

the writer to aesthetics: critical

exemption in meticulous design.

This strict structure lends to language floral–

devises “truths” to fit the form. Discern

the smothered urgency NOW, since moral

trust takes experiment and time to turn.

I will escape meter woven tightly–

let ethics argue democratically

(colonial echoes written lightly

still condone oppressive authority).

From candid thought all discourse does coerce;

refinement’s fundamentally in verse.








against the setting

plush sky

one last gasp of voice, choking

in wet salt, emerges

from the waves of

the Georgia straight

is suffering seen, but never

fathomed, in the wind

trees brush against


memory  monopolized

like a game,

where tears as the deep

as the Salish Sea

cannot be inscribed

on the monolith of time



Lord Stanley’s Park




In the summer night’s shade

of Lord Stanley’s park, we

brush the velvet sky backward

tips touching



and tumble, hitting

the infinite

expanse of fragrant metal earth

below us.


In Lord Stanley’s park,

when the dark is spread evenly, we

dream of morning

of drinking the sunbeams

and pretend that our foliage

will radiate in young green illumination

in visibility.


Creaking in Lord Stanley’s violent silence,

we sway helpless in the artistic melody

of the copper plaques, the daguerreotypes.

our only allies are our alibis:

the mute mosquitoes’ hum

and the drone shattering of every lost wave.


In Lord Stanley’s Park,

the mid-afternoon sun has always burned darker than night.