Vertigo in the dark. Depths spinning between these hutches of glass and light. Vancouver cityscape, a self referential precipice, divine and infinite.

“These,” it’s eyes twinkle, looking up from a kit model of the golden gate bridge, “are the ghosts of old friends, waiting upon the hour of their reunion.”

Gibson reflects “Every object of desire is a found object.“

And your voice echoes down the razor wire, through the tin cans of your childhood, “Everything about it is love…“

happy new year mother
and I’m late in my “thank you”s
worn through like old skin
a toss me not of reminiscence
oh the days been gone so long
so long long lullaby
another rainbow to remember you
and I do in my heart’s
half treasured innocence
I do in this thought filled
thank you

the snow returns to us
from silvered skies
as a great exhalation
unfurling winter
when will we forget
to blanket the world
with clarity and the
full breath of dreams
not just yet

was it the gas or the breaks
you embraced during the accident
flying into the great vehicle
crumple zone unfolding
unrelenting death
was your breath “not just yet”
or “thank you”

Floating down the slope,
Cutting deep groves
Through the illusion of control.
Flying into the unknown.

I went snowboarding this week on Mt Washington. It’s the first time that my body has “got it” as far as snowboarding is concerned, and I was finally able to go mostly where I wanted without falling down. It helped that the conditions were absolutely perfect for snowboarding.

It snowed all the time we were there, so the runs were covered in beautiful fresh powder. If you just went a little “out of bounds” you could carve through pristine untouched snow – with the only real risk being that your momentum would fail and you’d have to swim through snowdrifts back to the run.

Today I return home.
I have made the bed,
And swept the floor,
So the house will be ready.
Light candles in the windows,
And set out the welcome mat.
I will make the way clear
In this perfect house,
So I can return home.

I wrote this in New Zealand on the ferry several years back, and thought of it again taking the ferry from Vancouver Island to Saltspring Island this weekend. There is something just magical about being in transit which I can not describe, but it may be related to what I love about living on an island.

In other news I’ve been lax meditating these last few weeks and started whole heartedly again today. My thoughts were were all over the place and I had fun with being all “out of shape”. So the poem is also about that.

draw the curtains
upon old strings
memory pays melody
in burnished coin
y entra la luz

draw the breath
between strangers
the weathered road
flickers in recognition
que todo lo quema

the sun sinks through grey skies into a grey sea
lights glisten from the boats in the harbour
and these towers of glass

distant purple mountains
and the hulks of oil tankers
loom against a peach sunset

cherry trees bloom on vancouver’s streets
affirming every brush stroke
of every poet