We are lifting

I served my regulars

Dean the electrician and Dan the

Man who had the bags of groceries set

Out when I went down to his end

Of the great open space, the lot

Everyone with lights at night

Motors of diesel and gas, high test

No espresso, just plywood countertops

I never got it at all anyway

Coffee is .05 the Baker told me, flipping

The giant horse faced mixing bat.

So here I am.

After work, sunny fresh cups and


Oh, I didn’t bring a book but I have the

colored glass of which one is decaf red.

I see myself in the line.

It’s not compression, it equalizes.

I’m out there too.

Captured in warm florescent.


A Young Man’s Game.

Inspired by some of the photographs of Brian Griffin on “The Worker”

I never know if I’ve ever got poetry. I like to try. The greats seem so effortless like one of the Marsalis Brothers on horns.

Did it in university to mix feelings. Still, I say do it anyways.

Go with your gut.

That’s all this is.


Rainy ride

Bundle up and

Get something warm and

Get your keys and

Stand and wait sip your drink and look out traffic

Pull your hood close and

Wave your pass and

Wait in shelters

Bleary burn stained glass

Look for the white white roof of the

Crosstown connection.


72 northbound is

Mixed blue skies, luggage tags, deep

Accents of distance, like my

Dad’s blue measuring tape, now

stepping lightly through boyhood and


The world climbing bright with

Soft flickering sun

And left

The mountains down

From the remaining ghosts of trains

And ravens over Lochside.

Was just talking to a neighbour about this…The Pogson family first moved to Saanichton in 1987, so even though I wasn’t technically born in Victoria General this is home. Added bonus, my mom was and that’s where she met dad who was a Hydro man like his father. I think that’s a bit of why. He didn’t want people to think they were getting special treatment and some new work came up in Cranbrook, BC. Also they had a baby named Tom there.



That Aforementioned baby.



Interesting watching the building crumble across the road.

Hauled down by men with thick gloves, defiant to frost a foreman’s rough speech, the old

taskmaster.  They break center first, cutting, smashing

breaking and then sweeping, clearing away what was there before.

They spread to the wings.  It’s still going on now.  You wonder if it will ever

ever end, but it will.  And as it falls you know it will.   That part of the city

is alien land.  You see what’s it like when it’s cleared, when it’s fully cleared, before we.

ever set our devious plans.


One day the last stone will be swept

away.  It’s just a memory.  They’d have to convince you that you

drank coffee, bought that book on Vaudeville’s

fall.  New memories will be shaped

on the place the stones became powder.





This is my refuge but it’s also my study, my factory.  Here I build for better things to come.

Dreams are dreamed, coffee gets shared and things are at their softest and least diffused.

I work here with music on, seeking the truth, elusive as clouds and you can find me writing, playing, rewriting, waking up, cooking.

Memories find tin boxes, plastic containers with dusty lids and new ones get their little births.

Everything I’ve ever done sprouted from the walls of home.  Sitting on the floor with a guitar and an old Panasonic tape deck.  Silly thoughts pass here like fish in a stream.  Some sparkle so bright you can reach out with your hands.

Show must go on


With lucky socks and left hand shoe
string tie smell the curtain singe beneath
searing red lamps

Piled together, motley freaks clammy
in off stage nausea that’s
when I text her x’s and o’s
It’s all break a leg or not
And I switch off.

And I switch on
to that creature born
of makeup, smokes and stale coffee
pacing thin leopard

I will pull up the boards with my friends
Raising each riser and rafter
to each conceived end

With plastic stars in our eyes
and blue camera flashes

Tungsten tears and sweat
without ceasing or backing off
We rise and challenge as to battle
to fight for other sad clowns

Our pulse rising to heights of curtain falls like an angel’s blaze in flight

On with the show.

Poem in memory of Wolf Rick Patterson, dear friend and passionate showman.

Created by TomPogson.com