Occasional Chaos

Along the Rio Tejo

He came riding towards me
amplified music for entertainment
eliminating the need for a bell
to remind me I shouldn’t linger in the bike path
which I felt was too subtly marked
for the occasional tourist strolling in subdued awe
of unfamiliar yet unremarkable surroundings.
Slouched forward, his right hand held a mobile phone
which probably showed a map tracking his progress
or maybe a text message from someone important.  

I was reminded of my father
or more accurately of a story he told me
riding his bike through open prairies 
one glorious autumn day
singing at the top of his lungs
with no one to hear him
this being rural Saskatchewan in 1944,
and while I know this is probably an embellishment
I see him riding with his arms outstretched
looking up with joy to embrace the endless sky
like Meg Ryan in City of Angels
but without closing his eyes. 

What if my father had kept on riding west
instead of returning to southern Ontario
to marry the young woman who would become
beloved mother to me and my three siblings
instead meeting a farmer’s daughter
or finding his calling among the Cree?
I certainly wouldn’t be here in Lisbon
scurrying out of the way of bikes
or of anything else for that matter
such infinite coincidences that result
- among a few other things -
in a statistical improbability like me
grateful always to be the son of someone
who looks up to beauty and light.

Goddess of Solana Beach

You were my Aphrodite, beautiful and enchanting
rising from the Del Mar shores in spirited waves
of temper and tenderness
eager to set me down and to mock
my eager illusion of passion.

Each month you’d dance into my world
enticing me to the cliffs, then
receding into the folds of my dreams.
Time and again we begged for just one night
first you, then me, but never us.

Now all that remains is a kiss.

That moment

when you slipped
your hand
with sudden
surprising confidence
into mine - 

we were walking away
hoping to escape
the crowds
the noise
looking for where
we could be new
and happy
consciously forgetting
it couldn’t last

- that moment
spontaneous
a spark
turning in an instant 
into a fading hum
too subtle
I could feel it
slipping away

- has won out
against the erosion
of the years.
And I hold it
even today.

Our House

It was my mother’s home, after all
her sway disguised
in soft mist and filtered moonlight,
in the songs of the mockingbird
and the late-summer crickets.

In the wake of an excitable boy
lay cracked mirrors and broken toys
late-night cries, for light or just pique
were transformed at her will
from anger to peace, from harshness to grace.

Though the mist’s long been lifted
and the mirror’s still cracked
I know now what I saw
as a long-reckless child
was the reflection of what I was not.

(with some inspiration from Lola Ridge, 1873 - 1941)