I start to write a poem
About the low
Grey ceiling over
This northern
City,
And the silver orb
Eye
That stares unblinkingly
At all the little people
Rushing to buy:
Buy for the artificial
Holiday, created
By money men;
Fueled by fools,
Confusing gifts and money
With love.
Replacing respect for this
Land, this earth, this planet
With the need to buy
Bigger
Better
More.
Home, hearth, health,
Hearts fulfilled.
The world thanked
For its provision,
Its bounties.
This is what
I need
To celebrate,
But instead,
I am too the fool
Rushing and
Buying until
I see
The moon’s unforgiving
Eye on me
In the low
And inverted
Prince George sky.
I don’t write
The poem then,
And when I do
Get a minute to
Think this poem through,
The sky is blue.
The sun, the lesser orb today,
Has burned away the
Silky grey covering,
The protective shawl
That so often wraps
This city.
Now only a slight haze
Blocks the view of
Trees,
River, cutbanks.
And my wallet is lighter,
My load is heavier,
And when I steal time to finish
This rough poem,
I am more conscious of
The cold concrete
Under my butt cheeks
Than any poetical
Device, or deeper meaning to seek.
That thick shawl is
Back again;
Covering me;
Protecting me,
Even as I poke
Holes in the soft
Grey matter, trying to
Figure out what matters.
I celebrate the day;
The day of death,
When dark overcomes
Light, and I begin
To know which
Corner I will
Turn, on this
Rotating, freefloating
Orb.