Keirle, Gordon; Guardian of Sleep; Leicestershire County Council Artworks Collection;

I suffer so from poor sleep—

Interrupted sleep, to be precise.

(I can barely keep my eyes open after nine pm)

And once again, last night,

awoken by noise and movement,

I found myself staring at the digital display

on the clock radio:


(I was unlucky, it’s usually more like

3:10 or 3:30 or even 4:00)



When this happens, I know

I’ll toss and turn for a long,

time-devouring stretch,

awash in thoughts of everything

unresolved in my life, feeling flushed,

ants of anxiety under my skin.

Sometimes, if four is antemeridian, and

I find myself awake, I forfeit the sleep

in exchange for time alone which

is nothing like lonely or uneasy,

but feels rather more like time stolen,

appropriated from the Universe and

made mine.

There’s a cost to this brazen shoplifting

of minutes and hours—a penalty.

Research shows that the hours unslept

are snatched from the end of our lives.

(I learned this only this week)

This seems unjust, and yet

While I covet the dream of deep and vital sleep,

I’m caught red-handed with the irony

that I did in fact fall back into sleep sometime

after 1:30 this morning, held on tight till

7:02 and have felt cheated

and pressed for time

ever since.

Selway, John; ‘As I rode to sleep’ Fern Hill Series; Amgueddfa Cymru – National Museum Wales;



I hear and read a lot about

our enslavement to technology—

especially to our smart phones.

I call them that without irony in spite of what people say.


There’s a photographer who wanted to

show us how lonely

we’ve become, how alienated from

each other,

by having people pose—couples,

families, friends and lovers—

holding invisible phones.

He called his project Removed.

Seeing the cleverness in his black and white photos, people began

sharing them on Facebook, on Twitter,

virtually every which way;

which did seem ironic to me.








I placed my smart phone on the kitchen counter

after work today, while I was preparing supper.

It didn’t take long for its black screen to light up and then

it buzz-buzzed as it vibrated.

It was one of my three sons, messaging in, interested

in the day I had, and wanting me to look

at something he’d written; happy to HAHAHAHAHAHA

and emoji in response to

a funny photo I took of the inside of the dishwasher

(there’s a private story there)


We were conspirators in real time,

he in his apartment and me in my kitchen, and I just know

that we were both smiling in real time, and I thought

how wonderful my small black phone is to bring

my beautiful son right into the kitchen next to me,

and just then, his younger brother, working way up

in the Arctic, at 72° 15’ 00” N / 80° 30’ 00” W,

(which is easily found on your GPS-enabled phone)

began texting me too. Bzzz-buzz-buzz


Thanks to my smart phone, my sons

were no longer at

any remove at all.


August 29th 2017



It’s foggy and soggy.
It’s weirdly, unnaturally warm.
I have one son on a train, Toronto bound, meeting up with his past and his future;
Another in his apartment, taking it easy (I hope so: he comes by rest so rarely);
And the other son—his voice full of worry on the phone—nursing a sick child, my darling grandson, back to health.

Already this morning, the internet has brought me images of pain, violence and terrible drama;
Of heroism, courage and grace.
My feelings have moved up, just under my skin;
The world is Pain and the world is Love.
And I have the time this morning, precious and priceless, to witness it all.
To know that I’m happy. To know that I’m afraid. To know that I love.

Watts, George Frederic, 1817-1904; Love and Life
Watts, George Frederic; Love and Life; Tate;






Written January 26, 2015 ·and just recently rediscovered:

Penelope’s Heart

I believe that my granddaughter Penelope’s heart bears no secrets.
It is as open as a smile,
As glorious as the sun,
As knowing as the stars,
As tender as tears,
As fierce as a lion,
As gentle as sleep,
As expansive as a dream,
As sudden as lightning,
As sensitive as a flower,
As boundless as the ocean,
As natural as life,
As sacred as a shrine.

picture1 Penelope, October 2016



Painting by Alyssa Monks
Painting by Alyssa Monks



What can I do when
there’s nothing I can do about
our neighbours down south and the mess
they’ve made in their yard
already rank and infested
with rancid matter that attracts
the rats and scavengers who survive in
the dark places that the light
can’t find?

I can turn my gaze to the north and
the east and the west and hold up my
light and you can hold up yours and
then you and then you and then you and
then you and we’ll outlast the
dark and the rats and the scavengers
who’ll grow old and weary before
their time and we’ll clean
up the mess they’ve made.

November 9th, 2016


Edward Potthast. Starry Night. 1918

I stood under a sky like this once in my life.

I think I was 6 or 7. We were in Mestachibo, Quebec, visiting my mother’s aunt and uncle. This was at a fishing camp. During the night, my father opened the door to the bedroom where I slept with my sisters and when he heard me move, he whispered: “You awake?”, and when I whispered back, he said: “Come with me.”.

And he took me in his arms, outside where all the adults were standing, looking straight up. It was a perfect and perfectly quiet night in July and the sky looked just as it does in this painting. It looked alive with light and texture. Even my imagination couldn’t have come up with this wonder. My dad was very relaxed and he was happy.

My relationship with him would only get more fearful and complicated over the years, but that night, I saw the boy in him; the poet in him. I understood what he knew to exist out in nature but never got much of a chance to experience, settled as he was in Pointe-Claire.

It was a transcendent moment. I’m so glad he came to get me. I know for having looked up that there are that many stars just waiting to be seen.

[Thank you, Mikhail Iossel for introducing me to this painting]