The Summer Storm

The storm clouds were brewing
The summer heat built to boiling point
And the hot sticky feeling that is Southern Ontario
Caused nerve endings to spark blue murder
Sweat poured through me like maple syrup
Maybe that is why my clothes
Gripped my skin in a steamy, feverish, inferno.
But the clouds gathered slowly
In their various shapes and shades of grey,
Some even black and threatening
But the only true threat is that the clouds
would only pass right on by
without shedding any relief
Even making the heat grow more intense
More humid, hazy and stifling.
This heat slows your pace
But I stick it out underground
In my basement I stay
But with the first clap of thunder
Echoes through the air
I emerge from my midsummer hibernation
from this torridity I cannot bare
these furnace like conditions that stress me
to my very core and strip me of my humanity
For this I plead to you, oh god of thunder, Thor
Don’t tease me with the roar of static electricity
For my anticipation for this cloudburst
grows ever stronger within me
And then
It happened
A drop of moister hit my cheek 
Quickly followed by many
More in very quick succession
A torrent of dampness pelts me over and over
it dazzled my senses with the
Cool fluid sensation of ecstasy surrounded
And I held my hands up high above my head
And gave thanks for the water that soaked me through
Making the weather, all that more bearable. 

Used Book Shop Coffee

There is this bookshop in Belfast
That I go to sometimes
Especially when I don’t want
To be found
I sit in the back
Where the coffee shop is
Just a few old tables
A few game boards
A few pictures on the wall
Done by local artists that
Probably gave the store the
Picture for a cup of coffee
Be worth a million when they die
Now it’s only worth a cup of coffee
I don’t know about that though
The crazy old woman that runs
This place has no problem
Giving out free refills
Letting you pick the used books
Off the shelves, read them
Put them back and have another coffee.
She smokes thin long cigars
Coughs up a storm with every puff.
There were a couple of artist types
Sitting out in front on the patio
Discussing who was the better artist
They probably had to do a painting
For the old woman
So they could get a cup of coffee
Could even be that they get a few coffees
Every time they come in
But they might some of the soup
That is cooking on a hotplate
By the coffee machine
Great coffee though
I can’t get enough of it
But the soup is good too
I think in was potato and leek today
Could smell it before I even made it into
The store.
I bought a book there the other day
And it smelt like the soup
Some kind of split pea
I think
Couldn’t believe how hungry
It made me
Feel.

Wine

The red splashes forth

Like a tidal wave

As it pounds the

Bottom of the glass

Just off centre

It gathers height

Curling towards sides

Licking the curvature

As it slowly folder

Back to the clam

 Of the pool

As the waterfall

Ceases its deluge

Before the well

Can after flow

The tide is tipped

Slowly sipping

The flavour bursts

Drenching taste buds

Each on firing

With different flavours

From smoky, woodsy danger

To the smooth fruity

Of the purse, fresh grapes

Picked as for the gods

A nectar that releases

The emotions into another dimension

A seam state of escape

Away from the stresses of the day.

The Streetlight

I stand at my window at night
Second floor, facing the street
A streetlight illuminates
The corner across the street
I used to stand on that corner
Watching the world
Pass me by
It’s half three in the morning
And the corner just shines
Like a spotlight on a stage
But the stage was empty now
The actors were the passing crowds
Each with their own story
The light comes in
Through the window.

Stiletto Heels and a Red Dress

The Saxophone blows
A cool, cool breeze.
Throughout the Dizzy,
Wind swept night,
The stars twinkle
A melody,
That hits deep
Inside me.
I wander down
The melting,
Summer streets.
Piano pounding deep,
Within milk pouring sky.
Cloud drenching the glow
Of heartbreak.
I see you,
There alone.
Bathing in the shower
Of lamplight,
Maybe I could build
Up enough courage
To step up to you,
In that red dress
That you wear.
Blazing into
The blackness,
Sculpted legs that
Transcend Reality.
Grip me tightly
Around the waist,
In a shade of
Majestic dream.
Where you know
Me.
But the Saxophone
Keeps going.
It’s message flowing
Along the airways.
The piano still keeping
The tune alive,
There’s a screech that
Glistens
On the water.
As the stars ripple
On the waves,
The red dress
Strolls
In Stiletto
Heels.
That curl
Of your calves,
In a gentle motion.
Holding those curves
In that derrière
Package,
As it enters
The bar on the corner.
As the door opens,
The laughter, songs
And stories
That spill
Into the street
And quickly recede,
Back into
The bar
Again.

Starting something new

I decided this morning

That I would no longer

Write words that express

The futility of life.

It is time that I grasp

At the straws of hope

And express the joys that

I feel.

No longer will I wallow

In that self defeating

Vein of thought.

It is a new year

And I realized that

I

Was doing myself harm

Everytime I wrote at those

Times

Those thoughts that

From inside my

Head.

I’ve come to grips with the

Thoughts

And I feel that they were

Expressed

The best that I could

At the time.

Were they therapeutic?

The poems that I wrote?

I think they had their

Place.

They had their time

In my history.

But now,

I have to move on

I need to write

About what is real.

Not forgetting the past

But living for the

Future.

So many times

I felt that today could be

The last.

Now that I know

That I have a future.