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.
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.
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
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
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.
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