Born back east, in Quebec, I have resided on the left coast so long, I’m practically a native, most at ease surrounded by ocean. Here are two more poems from the forthcoming untitled book.

 

WILD WEST/COAST

 

No lotus eaters we

Swelter pepper,

Swig beer and bitch.

Cook up the rent.

 

barbecue / cauldron.

steak / prize.

gavel / tenderizer.

We grow enormous,

 

Righteous, meting out

Beach justice, from our camp,

Our point. Our peninsula.

With less mitigation

 

Than an island, its

Star gardens, clarity

Of marine life, surround

A Sound of silent crime.

 

THE HUMBLE MURALIST AND THE REPROACHFUL BUDDHIST

 

Island roads are only as long as the island,

invariably leading to the vortex every island hosts,

the village or burg hugging the cove or bay,

the place where sweaty, unrepentant

cocaine and alcohol consumers

wind up, gurgle down, to rub

elbows with the vigorous Tilley-hatted,

swamping the gentry

with their nasty habit stench.

 

Island roads rove lowly

through swaying grasses, expansive elms,

lambs, cows, horses, llamas.

Do not be lulled.

Anxiety stalks the dales and hollows,

tamped down, concealed behind neat

rustic wooden fences,

skulking in the cottages

despite a glut of acupuncture outlets,

yoga, meditation and pottery classes.

Here there is much intestinal discomfort,

ceaseless aspiring, straining

toward the light.

 

Dolly for example is the biggest Buddhist,

baddest, blackest sheep

herder on Paisley Island,

happily bending over

for regular shearing

as long as the taxman

is tranquil about it

and she’s back at the ranch in time

to inject herself

into the tête-à-têtes.

 

Her resident good egg Greg studies

the recommended sutras,

working on his anger,

moving past it, out

of his townie flat to create

murals in the great outdoors.

Grandiose depictions,

towering trompe l’oeils.

 

Ostentatious? Yes,

but they have provided

our meek hamlet with an angle,

a tourist attraction.

Indeed, they sustain us.