At Dusk in Dundarave Park, West Vancouver

Strolling along
The leisure-paved seaside walk
I find myself lost amidst human shapes
Constantly shifting
Into and out of one another
As they appear and disappear
Larger or smaller in size
Striving to linger one day, one month
Or even one year longer

Here and now
Within one of the bodies
A poem is taking shape, so is
A vision within another, so is
An evil plan within a third, so is
A bitter memory
A yearning
A bubble of consciousness

While I stop to stand still
Watching the vast sea view
Which is nothing but a view of the sea

The Boy and the Gull

A chubby gull is pecking around
On the bare beach
Like a curious child
Hoping to find a magic shell

While a little boy is picking pebbles
Trying to throwing them into the water
Like a mischievous gull



At the Talent Show

Every one of them is rationed
With a bowel of flour
Nothing more or less
Than a bowl of wheat flour

John baked it into plain bread
Jill baked it into tasty cookies
Joy made it into a birthday cake
Jake made it into a pizza
Jake tries to refine it into gourmet powder
And Joe will brew it into Dovka

They look and taste so widely disparate
Tho they all come from the same bowl of flour



What Goes in the Front

You are someone else’s cat
Stalk, and you are behind your owner’s back
Jump, and you throw your kittenhood on desktop
Sit, and you watch the child toddling along
Your long whiskers stretch beyond your solitude

You long for nothing but this moment
You understand only what goes in the front
You meditate the way a cat meditates
You shrink into a thick pile of dreamy cloud
Ready to drift out of that locked house



Picture

You hate to be confined within a frame
And hanged up there on a dusty wall
When a lively picture is taken out of your life
You want it to fly into heaven like a bird

You would rather stay in a worn-out wallet
Where you can feel human warmth all day long