Interlude.

Auschwitz-Birkenau.

visitation stones  – oświeçim, poland

I step onto the same white stones
into which you’ve tucked
small notes of reminder:
despair in 21 languages.

Even with time, I’m cautious
to not turn right,
although, for many,
memory has already calcified.

I want to chip away at each
so recollection doesn’t become
just another stone
kicked down the road.

But there are too many
for one to pick up. 

Interlude.

history sighs – along the beach, okinawa, japan

Heavy guns grunt
a still-living oral history
over the waves
and over the graves.

Power is unforgotten
amidst mountains
with shoulders stooped
in a culture
that does not forgive
failure.

Today, the guns still thunder
like a belch at the dinner table.

2022.10.21

it is written – okinawa, japan

History is written in the waves:
muffled letters scattered
in the ripples.

The hands have continued
to turn,
scooping up less
with each year.

But history is written
in the waves.

2022.10.20

Interlude.

the hourglass – overland, south africa/namibia

Red hills roll by
between window frames
like film,
taking me forward
and back in time.

The plot is a slow burn,
but with the hours,
a denouement
where mountain faces
are scrubbed clean.

The sands of time
have emptied here.

2016.9.19


pole pole – overland, south africa/namibia

Dust that predates time,
clapped like chalkboard erasers
choking on the past.

Between rocks and sand,
scrub clings to an existence
at the table of
an unwelcoming host.

Its breaths, slow and dry
like the nature
of the millennias' worn-down rock
it is.

Patient boulders await
their day in the sun.

2016.9.19

Interlude.

north bubble, acadia national park
To become so alone
to hear the trees
breathe
and feel air expand
in your lungs,
which heave
in exhaustion
and marvel.

The ocean waves goodbye.

sand beach, acadia national park
Oh, the places I have written:
words on the sea,
on rocks with massive history;
on planes, soaring
with my thoughts,
and dreams;
In lands, primitive
and historic;
all, such beauty.

Oh, the places my pen has seen,
leaving behind
some of my own history.

Interlude.

From the waves, it a-piers.

a line in the sand

Drawn in the sand
and to the tides;
to the currents,
and to pasts, remembered
and forgotten;
the sea washes away
lines previously drawn,
and all this history
that still breathes
inside of me.

Memory curves inside each ripple,
slipping from my grasp;
as footsteps vanish,
it becomes easy to forget
the thoughts that once twirled here.

Interlude.

sands of time
The surf rolls in
like time, dissolving.

Resistance is futile
as the rip current pulls
at the hours:
unwind,
unwound,
sound asleep.

With each wave goodbye,
the sands of time
are carried back to sea
with the etchings of my toes,
to an hour
too soon erased.

Interlude.

The Albania of my existence.

albania: shutter flash in a thunderstorm

The sky, a backlit half-globe
pierced intermittently
by Zeus's bolt, dancing across the horizon.

Misshapen clouds in a blink;
night descends heavily the next:
an SOS sent across the sky.

Nature asserts its dominance with a growl,
and I bask,
a supplicant to its beauty.

Brevity.

Paying the piper.

the sea claims another
The waves rolled in
like a throaty growl
of passion from your tongue,
nibbling at my feet.

Kissed by the mist,
the fog falls over me
and I am pulled asunder
by your love.

Brevity III.

No home, but a boat, no longer afloat, on an otherwise empty lot.

poseidon, enraged
The city disappeared
in spinning ghosts of wind;
half, never to re-emerge
from under Poseidon’s trident.

A softer whisper
carries the mournful cry
of brass,
still strong in its sadness.

Yet now, the ghosts seep still
from the crevices
of lonely, misshapen timber
of homes
since forgotten.

Brevity II.

Far too many homes lay empty like this one.

in frame
Piles of photographs of homes
erased from lots,
lonely,
lying fallow beside
shattered shelter
formerly

what brought photographs
to life
and life to photographs.
 

the cross
Leaning houses, tattooed
like genocide survivors,
a constant reminder
with every cross
of the threshold.

The cross lays crooked
on the living room wall,
worn brown and faded
like the vibrancy
that once lived here.

Stilled, but smiling,
Steeled, but rising.

Brevity.

Rebirth, and destruction, side-by-side.

a relationship soured
Faded colours of a vibrant past
lie muted
and too tired to cry,
scribbled with exes
and numbers from a hissing can;
make-up, faded and smeared
framing windows of jagged teeth
punched in:
for sale,
but unwanted.

Eerie tombstones
of a history that didn't vanish
with the wind.

orphaned
Empty lots dressed with crippled fences,
palsied limbs
folded over themselves
as memorials to history;

Grey and green
for 40 miles
bear silent witness
to 29 feet of water
since seeped away,
leaving but memory
and memorials,
orphaned.

A sad horn cries in the distance.

Hammer Time.

The road ahead is long for the Mustangs.

Jackson Centre, OH - Like a cement arrow pointing to the bayou, 20 hours of road unfurl before and behind us. Now a third of the way in: New Orleans, here we come.

Building on months of preparation and anticipation, the excitement of 39 Alternative Spring Breakers has seemingly been bottled into the bus like a soft drink, shaken vigorously. Soon, the building will become more tangible as we begin a Habitat for Humanity project in the Big Easy.

Despite some apprehension at the border as we waited to see if one of our team members would be turned back because of a misplaced passport, we were left with a relatively uneventful crossing. Exhale. A stunned jubilation took over from there, fueling this strangely exciting road trip.

With Ontario and Michigan behind us, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi and Louisiana still loom lazily ahead. It turns out folding 6"3 into these seats comes as easily as sleeping in them. Which is to say, not.

Several hours in, the chatter persists. Cell biology texts lay strewn across upholstered seats, Shark Week has given way to the O.C. on the DVD player and a deck of cards shuffles between seats. Aces.

And the stale smell of french fries lingers still.

kentucky hills
The sun scorches behind
the scratched-out erasings
that carve jagged brushstrokes
folding over the curves
of these hills.

In darkness,
the lines shine brightly,
a second on,

a second off,
like a light switch
switched
hypnotically.

The beauty of not having to drive,
for once.

Fit to be Tide.

Flagler Beach, FL – I carved this into the sand free form this evening, knowing the words would soon be drowned out, all traces of them erased from the history of Flagler Beach.

My memories of a great evening sitting quietly as dusk and increasing waves rolled in, however, will last far longer.

sands of time
Toes, curled in the sand, | the dancing waves trip over themselves | encroaching on the footprints | we have left behind. | The sky sighs at memories lost | but not forgotten, | stolen by the tide | but not from the mind.

In Cycles.

Flagler Beach, FL – The moon rose majestically over a ferocious tide that crashed into the shore tonight.

Nature: such violence in peace.

in cycles
The naked moon stares down | at white caps, torn | from the puppet master's strings, | frothing at the dunes, eroded | in unchained rage. | In cycles, the seemingly random, | ordered.

Been there Dune That.

Nags Head, NC – With a great gust from the puffed cheeks of a frowning sky, our plan to go hang gliding in Kitty Hawk – where the Wright brothers flew the first airplane – was blown from the air today.

We had registered to be towed up to 2,000 feet by a small airplane and to glide over the coast for fifteen minutes, but the winds were too strong and threatened to carry us out to sea. Better than safe than sorry, they say – after all, my name is hardly Icarus.

Instead, we went hiking in Jockey’s Ridge State Park, which is home to the tallest natural sand dune system on the eastern seaboard, varying from 80- to 100-feet high. With the sun beating down, we climbed (and climbed) and ran across the dunes as colourful kites snapped to attention in the sky overhead. It was a magnificent sight and, remarkably considering the parks back home, free to enter. Bonus.

With the heavy humidity, though, sand bound to sweat and I soon resembled a giant sheet of 60-grit sandpaper.

Despite not being a driving day, we still inadv- ertently ended up covering 500 kilometres in the car as we drove throughout the area and along the Cape Hatteras National Seashore to the Hatteras lighthouse, which is more than 100 years old and, in a major feat of engineering, was moved to a new location in 1999. At 208 feet, it is the tallest lighthouse on the eastern coast. What is it with us and ‘tallest' places today?

Throwing an ‘oldest’ to match, we had dinner at Sam & Omie’s in Nags Head, which opened in 1937 and is the oldest restaurant in the Outer Banks. We also had the best crab sandwich at Fat Boyz in town and spent some time down at the beach this evening.

on nature's marquee

The pelican dances
with the curled fists of waves –
fury vs. finesse,
the rising tide vs.
swoop and glide:

a vintage pugilist’s dream.

vii.29.9

Day 43: Ode to Kitabi.

Kigali, Rwanda – With the amount of rain Kitabi gets, it was appropriate my eyes misted over at having to say goodbye to its rolling tea fields and looming backdrop of Nyungwe National Park yesterday morning. It has begun to feel like a second home, and I am remarkably at peace there.

Look closely and you’ll see that each of Rwanda’s ‘thousand hills’ is covered by slightly different vegetation, the result of human impact, different altitudes, mineral deposits, water absorbance, etc. From vast fields of banana palms swaying in the breeze to forests of coniferous trees, the country is painted with chlorophyll.

Unlike much of Rwanda, however, Kitabi is located in a poor region for agriculture. Its drier soil is fine for producing tea, peas and tubers like sweet potatoes, but tropical fruits are hard to locate. When we did not travel, food variety waned.

It makes me appreciate how hard it is for the predominantly poor residents of the area, most of whom are unable to travel to markets an hour or two away. Moreso, it makes me realize how lucky were are at home to simply go to any number of grocery stores and select anything we feel like having from around the world.

Kitabi: you are more to me
than rolling carpets of tea,
than a silent
forest of green.

You are somewhere I have grown
and grown to love,
somewhere that gave me breath
and took it away.

I am changed by your change,
and changed by your same,
and believe I came to love
my home away from home.

Day One, Morning.

5:01: Start time. We're off and we're wet. 17 degrees and it turns out that the car doesn't have a multi-changer for the CDs. Gas in London is 91.9. Don't need any; haven't gone anywhere yet.
What's Playing: Bright Eyes, Digital Ash in a Digital Urn

5:16: Not messing with what I know works, make it to the highway. Go figure, there are trucks on the 401. And they're snarling at me. I'm tired and don't want to hear it. But this will seem to be a theme for the day.

Blades slice through
the rain,
water colours on the
windshield
painting smudged memory
down the road behind,
a blank
canvas ahead.

2006.08.29

6:01: 101.3 kms in the first hour. Things are humming along, albeit dark. The rain, though, mercifully subsided after the first forty minutes or so. Gee, thanks. Even the trucks have abated for a bit.

6:08: Ambassador Bridge! There goes Canada, here comes the U.S. Michigan: state number one for the day. Gee, let's guess what they odds are that a scruffian traveling solo to Alabama -- where he knows nobody -- will get stopped at the border. 5 to 1? 10 to 1? 100 to 1? Let's go with almost guaranteed. Twenty minutes later, freed from the clutches of the orange form stuck to my windshield and from the raised eyebrows emanating from several rather large, and surprisingly thick-accented U.S. Customs Agents. Just doing their jobs, I know. At least there was no snapping of latex gloves onto overly eager fingers. And now, the sigh of relief. I'm free to go do whatever it is I'm going to do in Alabama and points in between. The odds of getting searched when I return to Canada? Particularly if I have nothing to declare?

7:01: Up to 201.4 kms

7:53: Back on the highway after circling around and wandering aimlessly like a lost school child (albeit in possession of a 2,000 pound car) in Detroit. Those ramps that branch off in three directions are just dang tricky. Especially when you don't read the signs right to begin with. Figures that this is the one city on the voyage I've been to the most. And an inauspicious start. Where's that paper bag again?
What's Playing: REM, Reconstruction of the Fables

8:01: Up to 232.3 kms

8:20: Billboard advertising 'Alcatraz, the Gentlemen's Club'? This is the first of what I discover to be a trend throughout the journey: billboards for strip clubs, fireworks and God. Everywhere. And not always in that particular order.

8:23: Another beef jerky outlet, this one given the stomach-tantalizing moniker of 'Beef Jerky Unlimited'. Alas, it does not open until 9am. Sigh. But I don't want to wait. Hmm, dried pork products. Drool. Traffic ends up slowing for a bit as everyone is drawn like moths to the shiny lights. They're fire trucks, people. We all have them in our towns. A tiny Honda Civic decided to tangle with an 18-wheeler. Well, there was a tangle. The transport, however, was just sitting there, blowing on its fingernails, a ho-hum look on its face. Major plastic surgery for the Civic.

8:36: O-Bye-O! I barely knew you. The Buckeye State. Not to be confused with Hawkeye.

8:56: First voluntary stop of the day. Feeling patriotic, so the call of duty is at a Tim's in Ohio, just outside Toledo. I had forgotten about how many American establishments have midget-sized urinals. Seriously, a foot off the floor. Short or not, the pot of coffee had to go somewhere. First gas fill-up, too: $2.549/gallon for a total of $14.43. Oh yeah, it's still wet, grey and crappy too. Up to 18 degrees though. Much easier job getting back on the highway this time. Yay me.
9:01: Up to 314.7 kms
What's Playing: REM, Life's Rich Pageant

9:46: An all-you-can-eat buffet. Of Kentucky Fried Chicken. When are we going to get that kind of greasy goodness in Canada?

10:01: Up to 424.1 kms
What's Playing: Mixed live album (Cat Power, Bright Eyes, Linkin Park f/ Jay-Z)

10:43: Midget urinal breakshouldn't two. Oh wait, probably shouldn't have phrased it like that. But you know what I mean. You're smart like that. A pleasant Ohio rest stop with an hour to go to Cincinnatti.

10:51: While still cloudy, I can see the first hint of sun, albeit only a sliver. It has only taken six hours.

11:01: Up to 534.6 kms

Evidence that we are finally approaching the south. Even the water tower -- this one in Florence, Ohio -- says "Y'all".

11:09: Lovely Dayton, Ohio. A little hillier and greener than what we've been seeing, though Michigan and Ohio have bdidn'tbeen pretty blah. The weather didn't help. It just made the dirt wet. First jump in the temperature of the day, though; up to 24.
What's Playing: Liz Phair, s/t

11:31: Quite the Church. They like they're churches down here. And their enormous sculptures of people climbing out of the earth.
What's Playing: Fugees, The Score

11:51: Cincinnatti



11:58: Kentucky! Welcome to the bluegrass state. KY. No, not the jelly.