An Empty House

By denny bastian  1972

This cold;

of empty house

is devoid of love.

This sound;
of door jam

proves my

entry is alone.

This smell;

of stale air leaves

a lonesome taste.

This silence;

of muddy echoes

drags my eyes

‘cross barren floor.

This cold;

of empty house

is not my home.

So turn;

my heavy heart

and hurry

out the door.

Small town Halloween

by denny bastian 2012

“You can’t go out until it gets dark,” Mum says emphatically.

“and it’s cold so you better wear your warm coat tonight.”

The excitement is almost too much; I surely will pee myself.

Pirate costume pulled over heavy coat, cold air nipping ears,

long country blocks lit by streetlamps far apart casting eerie glow

on narrow asphalt street.  I would be afraid of the dark

and scary night but I fear nothing for Mom trails close behind.

Scuffling through fall leaves in every yard to lamp lit door.

pillow case for booty thrust forward with a “trick or treat.”

Large faces of neighbours bending over to smile and greet

“What a scary pirate you are.  Aren’t you so sweet?

Here is something special just for you.”  A casual toss of candy,

my quick glance in the sack to see what it was. “Thank you,” I say

and on to the next almost on the dead run. “hurry up Mum!”

Chewies, hard candy, and gum, Tootsie Rolls,

 little bags of black or red liquorice, and caramel apples.

 Eyes the size of saucers in eager anticipation of a full sack.

A stomach that does not suspect the upset it will face.

Oh but there is the one that makes my little heart thump,

 my hands shake, and my greedy mouth waters, CARAMEL POPCORN BALLS!

“Mum, can we go home now?  I think I’m going to pee myself!”

Okanagan Suntan 

by denny bastian Apr/2012

Face down in the sand on coloured beach towel.
Summer's scorching sun sears fair skinned back.
Toes dug in the blazing sand, awakes with a howl
from the raw burning skin on now lobster red calf.

Springing to feet, sand too hot upon arch.
Running on heels like a fool to water’s brim
grateful feet on wet sand from lake wave’s march,
‘tween welcoming toes. A person dives in.

While young girls model the latest swimsuit
sit cross-legged in shade; so alluring and sweet,
avoiding the lake lest their clothing might ruin.
They chatter about cute boys they want to meet.

Bare chest young boys flexing while tossing a ball
sneak peeks at the girls who are admiring their skills.
The wayward throws planned, no accident at all
in hopes the boy meets the girl for new summer thrills.

Little girls build sand castles with bright plastic pail
so communally made. A twig crowns atop for a flag.
A naughty brother’s purposeful stomp makes it fail
as Mother lifts her shades and looks up over her mag.

“Leave the girls alone,” she calls out with mum’s duty
and goes back to her reading, sunglasses returned,
while brother runs off with a flag as his booty.
The young girls rebuild with lessons they’ve learned.

Alas, the dark cumulous clouds moving up from the south
cover the sun for long stretches of time as windswept waves
smack on the sand, yet discouraging no one to hurry about
and leave the beach, for these are the sun tanning days.

Pikeshead Fishing Trip

by denny bastian 2013

The chilly air smells of late fall today.
The brown leaves of autumn like crumpled
onion skin float carelessly in the light
breeze from their various resting mothers
that surround and lean over like custodians
of the bulrush shores of Pikeshead lake.

I sit on the cold metal seat of a rented
twelve foot aluminum boat, hunched
shoulders, coat collar up. Levi jeans
and a heavy plaid shirt over long johns,
an insulated fisherman’s hat decked out with
multi-coloured flies, and a satisfied smile.

A battle scarred pair of oars lies on the ribs
beneath the seats. A testament to the certain
failure of the blue blowing, smelly old gas
motor that coughs and putts as if in some
kind of pain. I mercifully shut it off and coast
into my favourite south end fishing hole.

Standing up, I spread my feet to counter-
balance the rocking back and forth while
casting a fly line. My chosen weapon; a nine
foot Fenwick fly rod, sinking tip wet line,
50 feet of nylon backing, a 52 Buick fly,
dark green, yellow, with white wings.

The line loops behind me, then forward, to and
fro, swishing, flicking off tiny droplets of water
before landing perfectly, near the bulrushes.
Then an insect imitation of short jerky strokes
to allure the unsuspecting Kamloops trout out of
the safe and dark shadows of the thick bulrushes.

Peace pervades, I feel gratitude to be part of;
as a red sun sets over the western hills. Fishing
becomes secondary. I decide to give the old timer
a break. I’ll quietly row back to the dock; listen
to the steady drip from the oars as they fall to
the now placid waters on Pikeshead Lake.

This is obviously not one my own poems but I just had to post it here. It is a remarkable collection of words that creates colourful images inspiring me to think more about my own writing which pales in comparison to this.

On Disappearing

by Major Jackson

I have not disappeared.
The boulevard is full of my steps. The sky is
full of my thinking. An archbishop
prays for my soul, even though
we only met once, and even then, he was
busy waving at a congregation.
The ticking clocks in Vermont sway

back and forth as though sweeping
up my eyes and my tattoos and my metaphors,
and what comes up are the great paragraphs
of dust, which also carry motes
of my existence. I have not disappeared.
My wife quivers inside a kiss.
My pulse was given to her many times,

in many countries. The chunks of bread we dip
in olive oil is communion with our ancestors,
who also have not disappeared. Their delicate songs
I wear on my eyelids. Their smiles have
given me freedom which is a crater
I keep falling in. When I bite into the two halves
of an orange whose cross-section resembles my lungs,

a delta of juices burst down my chin, and like magic,
makes me appear to those who think I've
disappeared. It's too bad war makes people
disappear like chess pieces, and that prisons
turn prisoners into movie endings. When I fade
into the mountains on a forest trail, 
I still have not disappeared, even though its green facade
turns my arms and legs into branches of oak.
It is then I belong to a southerly wind,
which by now you have mistaken as me nodding back
and forth like a Hasid in prayer or a mother who has just
lost her son to gunfire in Detroit. I have not disappeared.

In my children, I see my bulging face
pressing further into the mysteries.

In a library in Tucson, on a plane above
Buenos Aires, on a field where nearby burns
a controlled fire, I am held by a professor,
a General, and a photographer.
One burns a finely wrapped cigar, then sniffs
the scented pages of my books, scouring
for the bitter smell of control.
I hold him in my mind like a chalice.
I have not disappeared. I swish the amber
hue of lager on my tongue and ponder the drilling
rigs in the Gulf of Alaska and all the oil-painted plovers.

When we talk about limits, we disappear.
In Jasper, TX you can disappear on a strip of gravel.

I am a shrug of a life in sacred language.
Right now: termites toil over a grave.
My mind is a ravine of yesterdays.
At a glance from across the room, I wear
September on my face,
which is eternal, and does not disappear
even if you close your eyes once and for all
simultaneously like two coffins.

      A six year old

and the Barber Shop

by denny bastian 2013

Things like………….

red and white tiles on checkered floor
chairs lined up, inside the door
fedora rack and rain coats slick
mirrors, and clippers hum and click.

shutunk, shutunk, the chair ascends
shush and clunk, the chair descends
hair on floor random patterns make
changed each sidestep a barber take.

nylon jacket over short sleeve white 
thinning scissors held at angle just right 
worn out feet in worn out sole 
glasses perched at end of nose.

clatter of shaving brush in soapy cup
slap of straight razor readied to cut
scratch of whisker, the stretch of skin,
heated white towel on tender chin.

fat grey cat, the patrons ignore
waddles like a queen across the floor
jumps up on my lap, curls around twice
forget her night job of catching the mice.

we watch together, a brushcut short
the smiling barber, his weather report
his youthful smile that lights up the room
worthy memories not forgotten soon.

....that remind me of my father.

Moon

by denny bastian 2012

Light of night

I am at your beckoning.

You shatter my

inner silence with wonder

when I see you.

I wonder

off the record now

if you’ve gone somewhat mad

when you take your beams

and grace with you

while you hide

like a timid mouse

behind a partially clouded sky.

If you should decide to

show yourself

as you lie

inside the black satin sheen 

you may ask yourself 

if it’s all worth your effort

or maybe just

forget about it

until the morning brings

daylight.

A Quiet Winters Night

by denny bastian 2012

A breathless wind

a quiet winters night

I roll over to snatch at

the woolly blanket escaping

like a thief from my iron bed.

You are like a wayward child

trying to sneak away, but

I shall grab for you because

you keep my backside warm.

Aha! I have you now you

rebellious little bandit 

with the itchy skin. Come

comfort these chilly bones

like a behaving child.

Black Crows
by denny bastian 2012

Black crows
at fading light
dipping and diving
at each other like steel balls
in an arcade game
stopping to rest in a tree
like a brief incursion into
the prized centre hole
where the game pays out.

Black crows
in the street lamp darkness
curiously quiet on alder branch and
atop the fast food promontories
by the small waters of Still Creek.
Like the black fruit of Eden
forbidden to disrupt
without squawking irritation,
a noisy consequence.

Black crows
at morning daybreak;
first light arguments
over who gets the mall, and who
gets the dumpsters at the
University and who is left to 
salvage the garbage left by the
druggies, the hookers, and the
vomitus drunks on skid road.

The Bootleggers

by  denny bastian   2012

Burpee was a bootlegger, so was his brother Lee.  I know Burpee was not the name his mother gave him but that’s the only name I ever heard anyone call him.  I never did ask why.  The two of them were throwbacks to the hillbilly era.  Each wore the same brand of khaki work pants, dirty and faded, held up with wide red or black suspenders over heavy checker shirts.  Both were as skinny as fence posts.  Partially pulled over his rather large ears, Burpee wore a bright orange oversized hunter’s cap indoors or out, summer or winter. Neither held a regular job nor wanted to; they lived off the land so to speak.  They shared a small vegetable garden between their two houses which they most often neglected.  Somehow enough of the garden survived each summer to provide a few carrots and potatoes for stew.  They shot deer in or out of season to fill the freezer and the profits from the bootlegging business provided the rest of the income needed to survive. They drank almost as much product as they sold. 

Each had a one bedroom house on a dirt road out in the county about a blocks distance from the main highway.  They lived on the same piece of land about 100 yards apart from each other.  Even though the brothers were born less than one year apart and grew up being more like buddies than brothers during their younger years, that would not be the case in later years.  Being bootleggers in very close proximity to each other, understandably there could be tension between them.  After all they were competing for the same customers and a limited number at that.  Most people that lived in the county travelled to the city every day to work where they bought their liquor supplies at the government store where the product was much cheaper than purchasing from a bootlegger.  However there were those times, usually weekends, when emergency supplies were called for because no one wanted to drive the 30 miles to town just to pick up a few beers.  That left Burpee and Lee the only game in town. 

Neither home enjoyed indoor plumbing.  A well travelled path led to a common outhouse set back 50 feet to the rear of their property.  Neither home contained much for furnishings.  Each had little more than a cot to sleep on, a wood stove for heat and cooking, a beat up old fridge, a mismatched collection of strong wooden chairs for customers, and a worn out metal and laminate kitchen table which was always covered in empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays. The linoleum on the floor was worn away in places exposing the cheap spruce wood floors below; especially around the table where heavy boots shuffled back and forth during raucous laughter at oft repeated stories while chugging back beer.  In the kitchen on a wall opposite to the wood stove and near the door, was mounted a wide wooden rack containing several rifles, no doubt at least one fully loaded so went the rumour.  The rifles were intended of course for storage and display but somehow intimidated none-the-less.

My little white house on the hill was less than a football field away from the boys.  I like everyone else in our county ignored the illegal goings on. After all, they didn’t seem to be hurting anybody.  Every once in awhile the RCMP, knowing full well that something illegal was going on, would pull a surprise visit on the boys.   No doubt an angry housewife or righteous lady in the community would have tipped them off.  They were always too late.  There was a very good reason for the RCMP lack of success.  One so called luxury item that the boys kept in their homes was a telephone and they had many friends who would warn them.  By the time the cavalry arrived, the booze was well hidden in the woods.  It was not my habit to purchase bootleg beer on a regular basis but there were occasions.   I never once purchased from Lee.  There was no significant reason for this except that whenever I went to buy it was Burpee’ kitchen door that happened to be open.   I tried to sneak quietly away before Lee noticed me.

 Burpee sold quarts; never in pints which he referred to as “baby beer.”  Most often I purchased one half dozen quarts and immediately left for home but there were a number of times I, at the urging of Burpee, sat down to drink one with him and share a few stories.  I recall that on one of those days on a beautiful, sunny, Saturday afternoon that a middle aged, redneck, fisherman named Ralph Mason drove up to Burpee’ house leaving his wife Muriel out in the car. He asked Burpee for a dozen quarts.  Burpee went to his bedroom at the back of the house and came back with two 6 pack cases and set them on a chair.  Mason paid him and had started to pick up the cases when Burpee asked him to sit down and drink one with him and me.  Ralph said, “Aw, what the hell,” and traded one of his warm beers for a cold one Burpee kept in the fridge.  Ralph had told several long winded stories before Muriel, obviously getting impatient with the wait, started blowing the car horn.

Ralph looked out the door and shouted at her to “quit getting your knickers in a knot.”  He’d be out in a bit.  This apparently didn’t satisfy Muriel for she kept right on honking the horn.  Ralph leaned out and told her to knock it off.  A few honks later Burpee went to his rifle rack and pulled out a shotgun.  He loaded a round and marched with purpose out to the car.  Muriel quickly locked the car door as if that might save her and sat in wide eyed horror, shaking like a leaf. Burpee walks to the front of the car and yells at her, “Ralph told you to shuddup, didn’t he?  Now shuddup!”  He fires a loud, reverberating shot over the roof of the car which causes Muriel to unlock the car door and run off down the road screaming while Ralph stood at the kitchen door laughing uncontrollably before sitting back down for another cold beer.  Burpee served a few months in jail for illegally discharging a firearm but was soon back trying to gain back the business he had lost to Lee while he had been away.

Of course, Lee was not appreciating his brother efforts to lure his new customers away.  They had several heated arguments over this as well as a couple of drunken fist fights.  Usually no one got hurt in these fracases because both men would be to drunk to aim their punches well anyway.  Most often they would give up after falling down several times and simply go home to their respective houses however on one occasion that was not the end of it. The two houses were barely 100 yards apart with bedroom windows facing each other.  Burpee went home and loaded his shotgun, stuck it out his bedroom window and shot away taking out Lee’s bedroom window and leaving a scattering of buckshot holes all over the side of his house.  Lee, not to be outdone, loaded up his shotgun and did the same. Several shots more from each of them left quite a mess on the walls of each of their homes.  What’s worse, they both were arrested and served time in jail once again for illegally discharging a firearm in public.

Fortunately no one ever got hurt in these incidents, not even each other.  I myself was a safe enough distance away that, despite the occasional gunshot, was generally unaffected by the crazy goings on.  However there was this one incident that affected me directly.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, Lee had been on an extended booze bender to the point that he had been suffering from the DT’s (delirium tremors).  Early in the evening my wife and I were sitting in the living room watching Don Messer’s Jubilee when a loud and panicked banging was occurring on our porch screen door.  “What the hell is that?”  I said jumping up anxiously from the couch.  I cautiously opened the kitchen door and looked across the porch to the screen door.  Lee was standing on the other side with crazy eyes, wet from head to foot, hair flying loose in every direction, and waving a huge butcher knife in his right hand.  “They’re coming Denny,” he yelled. “Lock your doors, they’re coming!” Then he left.  I locked the screen door.

In the end, no one ever actually got hurt from a Burpee and Lee escapade.  Not really. 

Fire and Ice

by denny bastian 2013

You and I were

two peas in a pod

stranger and mate.

it was fire and ice that

first opened the gate.

We were

drawn to each other

opposites attract,

both yin and yang,

some rumour, some fact.

We were

rising and falling,

sharing, holding out

speaking in whispers

always ready to shout.

We were

proud parents of one

still single by choice

living as one yet

losing our voice.

We were

a family complete

yet bored with our lives.

So sad for the truth

while living the lie.

We were

separated for years

the countless miles

still drawn together

for the love of our child.

We were

two peas in a pod,

stranger and mate.

it was fire and ice that

first opened the gate.

Night Sky

by denny bastian 2012

Like an arrow shot into a night sky
I know not where I will travel, 
nor where I will land; it is 
a matter of trust I place

in your sweet arms
that comfort me
when I can't see
my own way.

Woodins River

by denny bastian  2012

Below the narrow wood bridge that

smells of malodorous tar and creosote

beside the contradictory knoll

of sweet-scented purple lupines,

the little river chatters joyously

over the mossy rocks and shallows

that conceal the sneaky trout; ever

on its way to greet the proximate sea.

Sitting upon a large rock

where the river meets the cove waters

I place a cheap artists canvass upon

my summers lap to start my first acrylic.

I begin to put spirit to brush,

brush to paint, paint to canvass,

trying to mimic the foam and frothing

wavelets where fresh meets salt,

the swaying kelp atop the low tide,

the grand spruce surrounding, and

the little red and white boathouse atop

the weathered planks of Hubley's wharf.

My heart sings, my restless spirit calms  

nonetheless my eyes tear in recognition

that my hand is entirely incapable

of describing what my eyes understand.

Jazzy Night

by denny bastian 2012

The city sounds of jazz saturate the rainy night air.
From a metal bench beside the cobblestone street
my eyes capture neon signs, the reflecting streets, 

the yellow cabs, and trolleys splashing curbed puddles.

I see her there leaning against the brick nightclub wall.
She casually dangles a long cigarette between her

red painted nails. The young club boys lust for her
but she seems oblivious to their intense stares.

An old guy in a Porsche pulls up to the curb. He rolls
down a rain streaked window and leans out his arrogant
balding head. Smiling mockingly, she tosses her cigarette
to the sidewalk, and hip strolls back inside the club.

A musician stands in an alcove across the street
blowing lonely notes on his alto sax, interpreting
the sounds of the dripping rain. His donation cap
sits wet and empty on the sidewalk in front of him.

The jazz man is unconscious to earthly things while the

young men hurrying past rattle their drunk and empty

pockets for change hoping to make one last call for

alcohol and a lover with whom to spend a lonely night.

I watch until the clubs close and the streets are empty
leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sounds of
the neon signs clicking, buzzing over my head and the
soft rain washing away the passions of a jazzy night.

Expectations

by denny bastian  2012

One-by-one,

night lamps

clicked off

kitchen through

creaky floor

living room

hopeful pace

to secretive

linen bedroom

expecting behind

sleeping door

sexual healing.

Grampa and Gramma's House by denny bastian 2012 My 75 year old Grampa sits melancholy in the back yard beneath the purple grape canopy. He stares absentmindedly off into space as he rocks slowly back and forth, in his old weather beaten chair. A chocolate brown pipe rests lazily in his right hand resting on the knee of his thick woollen pants; a wisp of tobacco smoke rises from it. He is caught in a younger man’s dream reminiscing his younger years when he farmed the black, fertile soil in the old country. Breathing deep, he imagines the sweet smell of new cut hay, the organics emanating from the horse barn, the chicken coup, and the pig sty. He smells the fruit and vegetables being canned on the hot iron stove and the cool dampness of the root cellar where they will be stored.  He smells the purple grapes being pressed and bottled to make homemade wine which will be aged and generously shared with his neighbours after the harvest time. He will recall the happy music of the accordion, the food, laughter and dancing, and the sharing of weather stories in his kitchen.  He will remember too, a harrowing escape from the marauding Bolshevik army who will steal his land from him. Within the little two bedroom white stucco house on the corner of Spartan and Fairview Streets, Gramma’s cherished cuckoo clock tic tocs away but sadly it doesn’t cuckoo anymore, the little cogs that opened the door and let the two wooden children out to dance finally wore out. It really doesn’t matter though, because when you are a farmer there are many more important things to look after than tinkering with the old clock.  After scattering flour so the dough won’t stick to the counter, Gramma pushes, pulls, pushes, and pulls, kneading it with her rough and calloused hands shaping mounds which she will soon place in rectangular baking pans ,dark brown, almost black from years of use, then slide them onto a rack in the middle of her spotlessly clean oven. Just before they are baked through, she, with brush in hand, will slather their tops with butter to give them a crusty golden sheen when they are done. Then perhaps she will make coffee cake or dozens of peppermint cookies sprinkled generously with sugar. I will drool all the while and follow Gramma throughout the kitchen. This home has the odour of sweet organic pipe tobacco and fresh baked bread. It has the sounds of fresh laundry on the clothes line snapping in the wind, the tic toc of the old clock, the creak of wood floors and the sound that an old wooden rocking chair makes when it crunches the linoleum. It has the rattle of the water pump handle and the suction sound as water is drawn into the kitchen sink.  This house tells me stories of ancestry in Grammas own words as I sit beside her at the kitchen table following her finger as she points to the newspaper clippings she has saved and carefully pasted into her scrap books. This house explains the struggles of the past, and the joy and victory of being new immigrants to Canada.  Yet, some stories will never be told, they do not have to be explained at all for they are written in wrinkles  lifelines on the faces of those who live here. I love this place.