wind borne poems

the wind was something. I could hear it rattling outside and at least little parts of the sky blue showed themselves. I had a problem with the boot laces and changed them, using a lighter lace, a running shoe lace as I forgot to purchase proper laces. but I remembered going to Seneca College summer hockey camp and they showed us a video of Gordie Howe giving a few suggestions on equipment. he tied the lace before you do the loops, not once around, but twice, saying that if you do that it won’t come loose. I picked up on that then and always did that and felt I knew some secret about laces. Think about it and you will probably remember seeing someone in life holding down their laces with a finger or fingers in the middle of tying them. That’s because they can become loose before you are done. better to do Gordie Howe’s trick. I wonder how he learned it or discovered it himself. the old time people and figures sometimes know much. 

I ventured out and made my way to some

fields. I saw some leaves on trees and they seemed lonesome and strange, burdened by life. I imagined, a pure shameless projection, that they would rather be in Florida on a beach. I myself would have been. I imagined verdant palm fronds in a warm wind, talking slightly in their own way. How would it be? I would walk down some place and easy landscape and read campy pulp novels for fun, enough big thinking about literature and philosophy, spirituality and ideas. but sometimes I’d read a bit of Alexandr Solzhenitsyn and things to remain soulful and as sharp as possible. I’d head back to a patio and order a turkey club sandwich and a diet soda if I was getting hungry. maybe the next day I’d choose to eat at home and fix a sandwich myself. Outside I might hear the sea, and then take a break from eating that lunch, and go glance at the wondrous and whimsical ocean and coastline. 

but I had to concentrate on the present and brought myself out of my daydream about the southern shores. I kept on and went over a small bridge. one could hardly discern this bridge from the ground as the snows that had come over the weeks of the middle winter were that high. but some planks wooden were still there, confident and reliable. I stood there for a bit and the wind got stronger, almost vexatious, and I took a few big gulps of it. I had read that Knut Hamsun had gone on top of a train when he was sick and was gulping all the air and helped cure himself. whatever the case, fresh air couldn’t hurt and could only help. then I composed a more ‘verse’ poem in my head:

those leaves/

crinkled and old, staying/

nobody notices such/ and beyond the

winter wind makes the evergreens move/

the working boots talk their talk I see/

and the white collars too/

a bird appears/ somehow displaced from home/ looking/ not at ease like the birds of the summer poet/ no/ looking for something lost

I didn’t have a title for the words then. but I would end up calling it simply, Leaves 

there was a series of hills and I went up and then down them, bumps in an otherwise pretty vast and plain area. there were some spots near the far purlieu where some wild sumac lived, retaining that deep inspiring colour in all months. the snow had stayed on some of it, and the white/red made an interesting picture for its juxtapositions. when I had begun nature walking everything looked the same. as time went along I learned that there were hundreds, probably thousands of pictures and poems and stories to be had from woodlands and fields, even the sky and water. we had become friends, and my friends seemed to teach me through time not only photography and writing, but mysticism and maybe…do you know what is beyond mysticism itself, all forms of mysticism, and is the true and most noble and important goal? it is Enlightenment

, Moksha, Freedom, Awakening. Pick your word. I walked and walked. I had to take my time as the snow was deep. The main paths were too busy though. I’d take the snow. Like in life, the main path is easier but paved with mediocrity and predictability. I would make it my own way, somehow, in the snow, in the arts w/my work, and in spiritually and life itself. but, though on the monomyth journey, and the fool’s journey of the tarot, that entire seeker’s trip, i was also no fool, and so would remember to tie my laces like the great Gordie Howe did. 

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