John C. Goodman
waters of discontent
beneath
               the piano
                              there is
                                             a door
a door to shadows and depths beyond ken
darkness is not the same as absence of light
a door between deserts
               there in the swirling truth
                              of the dream
a hand reaches from the ink
               narrow eyes
                              piercing teeth
                                             padding silently through the night
in the turmoil of a shipwreck
               in the jade deep
                              in the gasping grasping
clinging to mountain sides
               a storm of sun
               angular momentum of snow drifts
and when the grip can no longer hold
               the long fall into a short future
dip an oar
               into the waters of discontent
and sing happy birthday to the dead
time enough
why is there not enough time?
               no time to read no time to write no time to talk no time to sleep
                              clocks suck all the time from our lives
                                             leaving only memories of moments
                                                            and things undone
               As a child I tried to catch dragonflies
               With nets and hands and honeyed sticks.
               Always they managed to elude me.
               Today I sat quietly by the South Shore Trail.
               A dragonfly came and rested on my knee.
several layers of life flow beneath the layer of love
               the blood that is deepest reddest
there is no one to tell us what to do
               when things fail
“pick yourself up start again don’t give up make an effort
when one door closes another one opens”
when one door closes another slams shut
                              and another
                                                            and another
slipping away
               down mindless corridors
                              of inevitable accusations
claustrophobic chainsaws
               reacting to idiosyncratic parasols
                              in adamant closets
in the end
infinite in time and special orientation
               infinite in the stretch of activity
                              limitless in our ability to screw up
and make things worse
               Buster the black Lab
               slipped his leash
               and danced off to find the world
               returning amid shouts of angry neighbours
               red geranium petals
               clinging
               to his black fur
it’s a long road
               from morning to night
               from night to dawn
               from slime mold to locomotives
but it all comes out the same in the end:
               – huh?
John C. Goodman is a Canadian writer and Pushcart Prize nominee. He has published four collections of poetry as well as a novella and a novel (which was short-listed for an Arthur Ellis Award). John is the past editor of ditch, (www.ditchpoetry.com), an online magazine of experimental poetry and is the current editor of Trainwreck Press (www.trainwreckpress.com).
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waters of discontent
beneath
               the piano
                              there is
                                             a door
a door to shadows and depths beyond ken
darkness is not the same as absence of light
a door between deserts
               there in the swirling truth
                              of the dream
a hand reaches from the ink
               narrow eyes
                              piercing teeth
                                             padding silently through the night
in the turmoil of a shipwreck
               in the jade deep
                              in the gasping grasping
clinging to mountain sides
               a storm of sun
               angular momentum of snow drifts
and when the grip can no longer hold
               the long fall into a short future
dip an oar
               into the waters of discontent
and sing happy birthday to the dead
time enough
why is there not enough time?
               no time to read no time to write no time to talk no time to sleep
                              clocks suck all the time from our lives
                                             leaving only memories of moments
                                                            and things undone
               As a child I tried to catch dragonflies
               With nets and hands and honeyed sticks.
               Always they managed to elude me.
               Today I sat quietly by the South Shore Trail.
               A dragonfly came and rested on my knee.
several layers of life flow beneath the layer of love
               the blood that is deepest reddest
there is no one to tell us what to do
               when things fail
“pick yourself up start again don’t give up make an effort
when one door closes another one opens”
when one door closes another slams shut
                              and another
                                                            and another
slipping away
               down mindless corridors
                              of inevitable accusations
claustrophobic chainsaws
               reacting to idiosyncratic parasols
                              in adamant closets
in the end
infinite in time and special orientation
               infinite in the stretch of activity
                              limitless in our ability to screw up
and make things worse
               Buster the black Lab
               slipped his leash
               and danced off to find the world
               returning amid shouts of angry neighbours
               red geranium petals
               clinging
               to his black fur
it’s a long road
               from morning to night
               from night to dawn
               from slime mold to locomotives
but it all comes out the same in the end:
               – huh?
John C. Goodman is a Canadian writer and Pushcart Prize nominee. He has published four collections of poetry as well as a novella and a novel (which was short-listed for an Arthur Ellis Award). John is the past editor of ditch, (www.ditchpoetry.com), an online magazine of experimental poetry and is the current editor of Trainwreck Press (www.trainwreckpress.com).