Moon Is innocent

What shines as moon is
dead rock,
in science theory coalesced
of material cast from earth
by the violence of ages
past.

Its surface cold,
at core, like earth,
the moon boils hot.
That is, perhaps,
why Shaman, priest and Gypsy claim
the moon has soul.
It does not.

The moon’s an empty mirror,
round, reflective…
staunch opponent to the
over-heated sun’s
hurled invective.
Between these two
are push, pull and season,
jealousy, love, myriad
treasons.

Revelation

Tired summer stripped off,
quitting the trees earlier each day
until a disguise of green dropped
in bold patterned,
bright coloured skirts down
around bony knees.

The hidden places are shown.

It now appears to the naked eye
that beast and bird, by nature knowing how,
built nests high,
collecting bunches of warm things,
dry twigs, torn fur, used feathers and,
stolen from the nearby grocery,
shards of a plastic bag or two.

Approaching winter, and its Ermine coat,
bold,
suffices now as dressing-screen
while the whole scene makes
changes, gets ready for tender
beginnings. This process works
as if to plan, so

have no fear of a cycle’s start or end.

Know that all the busy while of time,
innate skill does push and bend,
duck and weave,
foster, nurture, laugh, grieve,
and was,
before the lazy sun sloughed off to shine,
unseen.

Regarding Bill C-11 in the Canadian Parliament

The Internet Streaming Act or Bill C-11 is causing a major stir amongst service providers, less so among service users. Youtube claims that the act will cause Canadian content creators to lose their audience, not increase their audience as is the stated aim of the bill. Since the Canadian content creators have larger portions of their audience off shore than within the boundaries of Canada, I don’t understand how that is possible. If youtube is forced to change algorithms within Canada that promote Canadian content, how does that affect algorithms outside of Canada? The answer is: it doesn’t. Youtube claims that bill C-11 could potentially regulate the entire internet. That is hyperbole, the specifics of the bill are in regard of and in respect of Canadian content and streaming services in Canada. This is not the entire internet, it is not censorship in the sense that Youtube is implying, it is changing a promotion algorithm, not a content moderation. The content will still be there, in its original form but it will be farther down the feed if it is not Canadian created.

Everyone involved in this legislation is being untruthful. That means this legislation is bad legislation and should probably be avoided. At the core of the bill is a good idea that politics ran amok with and screwed up. Sigh

I don’t agree that politics or government has any business regulating what we may access via the internet with exceptions. Examples: without express permission granted, a person’s or an entity’s financial or health or other private, intimate information is off limits. Encouraging others to violence is off limits. Publishing falsehoods as truth is off limits. Otherwise, the internet should be wide open and offer free access to information that is not privately owned and under copyright. The information that is privately owned should be compensated for when it is distributed – in other words, no artist should have their work distributed without being paid. It is Youtube and other streaming services business model for said company to distribute work that is not their own property and for which they pay nothing. The regulations around that are what need to be addressed. If content creators or artists were compensated for the use of their work on the internet, the current unprofitable state of the music and art business would be avoided, we would have a wider choice of music, literature, art to enjoy…the little guy would be happy and Google would have to do something useful for their wages.

Revelations

Flagrant summer strips off
and the hidden places are shown,
collected bunches of warm things,
dry twigs, torn fur, used feathers and
a plastic bag or two,
floated from the nearby grocery.

Beast and bird, by nature knowing how,
built their nests secret, high,
out of sight,
safe against dark times, yet

no matter how innate construction skill,
all hopeful gathered homes are
make-shift, temporary,
not always to be
concealed by easy trees,
whose rich green
drops as bold patterned and bright coloured skirts
down around bony knees,
gets covered by a soft white.

After a time, in its turn,
winter surrenders that ermine coat,
exposes last season’s underbrush
where decay’s ancient tongue licked,
until heartbeat’s freshness could re-ignite,
flicker,
glow again seen.

Parameter Study

I thought I heard the
poet sing, the chanteuse
and the preacher, too.
Harmonic moments, I supposed,
held music that had much to do
with love.

I posited love’s point might be
where song and heart collide,
far from me, a mystery,

beyond, below, above, outside,

for
under my researching lens,
the heart turns into meat
that only electricity can
ever urge to beat.

The Finch

I saw one Finch dressed sweet grey,
belly puffed white,
face of crisp dark charcoal,
today.

The whole
of some minutes,
I watched the bird
clutch a nervous branch
of nature’s nondescript tree,
ten feet from me.

I did not know the bird
as an individual,
its self and shadow new
to me,
but the image
of all fast beating hearts
and warm plumage
softened any brutal
suffering.
For a paused moment,
I was free.

It was then I dreamed the bird
gifted of a pleasant
life line, where
he or she spent time at wing
and song,
never longing
to be fish or dog
or butterfly.

Who Is The Foolish One?

With typical obfuscation of fact,
though no sea is near,
we call these sea-birds
who drop sudden with
a satisfying, compact splash
then
reappear,
shaking water from wing
to flap upwards again.

It is one final feast day on the great
lake and cooling shallows reappear
where choking boats recent were.

Summer has reached horizon,
making the vast water and all else
apprehensive,
yet
appetizer fish
swim easy.

Why?

Are the shiny, slippery, silvery,
quick creatures stupid
or do they flow together,
rejoicing their negotiated moment
at last unimpeded by propellors, motors,
din,
accepting the contract
and it’s fine-print conditions?

Baby And Bassinet

I dreamed that, as day rose
above the window-sill,
an old clock radio
danced to life,
spilled
bad news,
woke
me
up.

I lay then in bed
some minutes
when
I had an idea for
making a film, so
I made a semi- rectangle
with both hands,
the way directors do
and looked through..

The scene
was of a baby comfortable,
awake, but not distressed
in a basinet, foreground.

A landline telephone was ringing.

In background, a mixed group
of folks relaxed,
engaged at their
cellphones and such as that.

The telephone rang again,
no one moved.

Ring.
Ring-ring.
Ring.
Ring-ring.
Rrrrrring.

This continued until,
with a sudden shout,
the baby cried,
“What the hell is that all about!”
jumped up
and answered the phone.

“Hello?”
he said, balance unsteady,
diaper crisp – neat – tidy.
A nasal voice came
on the other end, claiming,
“This is Joe’s Better Duct Cleaning,”
and …
the baby slammed the phone down.

At that point
I woke up,
the radio was on,
I listened to the news awhile…

The Anti-gravity Tie

Each face dissolves at last to dust

then,
from graven images alone,
the fabled person rises,
elusive jinn of anecdotal lamps,
set smoking by a reminiscing hand.

Dear Grandad dwells in black and white,
his tie,
right angled on stiff breeze,
defies staunch gravity and will,
until the chemicals of capture
release, becoming again

sand.

The sphinx who conjures Pharaoh’s day,
with both paws
weighted by great age,
just like this man and photograph,

will fade,
as a lost amusing moment spent
leaned against a fender, next to Grandma, in the wind.