MONTEREY PORTRAIT

I remember Monterey,
while sitting here with my coffee
in the far north,
her hot sun on the bay
solar cooking sardines and creosoted
dock pilings from “Cannery Row”,
or “Travels With Charlie”,
by Monterey's own Steinbeck
who painted brilliant oils
in his books about the place
with his word laden palette knife.

I remember Monterey,
a poet with dusky skin
browned in the sun
Mediterranean blue flashing eyes,
soft pink lips
a portrait painted
in primary colours
with long curling hair,
flowing pacifically
belonging there,
a portrait on the gallery
walls of Monterey memory,
tanned arms and legs
exuberantly entwined,
undulating kelp
climbing to the California sun
through dappled ocean,
or semi-tropical vine
encircling dreams.


by c van gorkom

WIND SAILORS AT DUSK

The swallow soars, dips and dives
sailor against an evening sky
scooping dinner-wise mosquitoes
or other edible flying fish.

Robins sing
twig-planted
from the bleachers.

The world darkens,
a river rushes between banks
to the heaving sea
through spruce, poplar
cottonwood and willow trees,
aspens tag along,
running on the grass.

Robins sing
twig-planted
from the bleachers.

Flowers close the world down,
quietness grows,
a cool breeze follows shadows
rising as robins redouble
their efforts,
venturing vespers.

there is a settling in the world,
a smell of cool grass,
a growing chill on salt air
waves reflecting harbour lights
warm nests at home invite
wind sailors everywhere.


by c van gorkom

THE BAKERY

There is a small
northern pacific island
ninety miles from mainland Canada
where deep in rainforest mystery
along a narrow road of sand,
stands among spruce and cedar
a bakery-coffee shop
made of driftwood and logs

No electricity or town nearby
no running water
a wood stove always warm
baking bread, buns,
pies and muffins
all stirred and kneaded
by dim forest window light
by purposeful hands
of a kindly lady
with long grey hair gathered
and tied above her neck.

Someone else is always there,
sitting on the polished log slab bench
at a table made of split sitka spruce
polished and varnished
with a massive tree stump
rising through the center,
the coffee always on,
people come serenely
from beach dwellings
through dark trees
leaf canopies
to gather in friendly neighbourhood.

I know this is true,
as I have been there recently,
wrote a poem about missing you,
bought a book.


by c van gorkom

THE COMFORT

The Comfort

A drop of rain falls streaming
from high clouds to my roof,
gathers there with others,
then drips drop by drop
onto the aluminum flashing
above my trailer skirting.

A bird lifts from the feeder house
outside my window,
flies into the glass thinking
it a path to the clouds,
knocks himself out with a thud.

There is no wind, nothing moves
but the rain, the twitching bird,
and the flooding brown river
with cargoes of torn trees
rushing by.

Rain taps,
bird thuds,
river destroys
with a soft insistent rushing,
a whisper of a kidnapper
holding a gun to your ribs.

In dark spruce shadows
under trees along the river,
an old rusty black truck
with an orange snow blade,
a large sagging flat-deck trailer,
also rusty, with plates twenty
years old.
Lawns around them,
between the tires,
freshly mown.

A horse in a pasture nearby
lifts one leg, shifting his weight
as he grazes.

Still, the rain drops on the flashing,
deliberately, with dramatic pause
and emphasis,
the bird now staggers about
in the feeder,
the river still furtively rushes by.

I am comforted by all this as I sit
warmed by glowing birch coals
burning in my creaking wood stove,
Warmed in the knowing
you would be here if you could.


by c van gorkom

MY RIVER AT RUN-OFF

I awaken, not knowing
what I will find,
throwing back the curtain,
I see my river wild,
but still barely coursing
between his banks.

Angry at flood,
he undercuts his enemies,
circling roots,
surrounds them shouting,
topples them,
trunks and branches,
trusses them,
sends them rolling
to the sea,
clutters them
with the bodies of foolish
and careless along the way;

breaks houses and barns,
does not stop for bridges and dikes
his the grace of an angry whale,
there is no boat can tame him,

no pretty scenes in his wake,
but a gift to those who call
muddy, twisted violence
beautiful.

In a few weeks
he will repent,
he always has before,
the willows will hang
withy wands and weep,
flowers along his banks
will bloom in long green grass
again.

flowing clean and tired,
he will summer sleep.

by c van gorkom

SCRIBBLE

for us, a gift,
the scribble of love,

life-lines
curved and straightened,
joined, intersected,
bone combed,
fearlessly curled,

life-lines
entwined, overlapping,
hand brushed, caressed
sun-stroked,
plucked, crushed, treaded,
bottled like wine
moon-painted
in circles, sailing swirls,

braided, plunge twisted
poured from coiled rope
made of twine,
our every written line,
tied, knotted and tossed
spinning to its own music,

folded on itself, unfolding,
pounded in damascus steel plys.
holographic snarl of two,
impossibly tangled,
inseparable, undivided,
flowing in love’s scribble
we are coincided.



by c van gorkom

A LAMP, A LIGHT

When history is unknown,
the neglected map finally lost,

when ghosts of old things,
dimly glimpsed,
flicker behind lidded eyes,
before and beside,

When we must commit
to a fork in a mountain path,
miles from anywhere,
no sign marking a destination,
no return to try again,

When these are modern times,
no road less travelled
to lend a clue,

Then even at noon we need
your foot lamp,
a path more lit.

Your resonating word,
sign shining,
poured upon the path
in liquid light,
brighter than noon,
undimming from now
to forever.


by c van gorkom