Mimi on The Beach by Denis Robillard

You walk the Erie beach
sea shored rejectamenta on wet sand
-- 14 multi-coloured tampon applicators
--sundry jagged bottle pieces, dead fish
--bits of shell, --fish lines, --twigs
--plastic pop can tops,
--a discarded Sunkist orange.
You continue wrapped in cranial knowledge
each molecule, each meme dancing hermeneutically
between toes and brain.
In your head new cells are exploding
conversing on air and water
while tiny specs of poems tour the microscopic universe.
You seek Recyclement here. Regeneration.
Reforestation of the mind.
The moon is in cancer. The sun eclipses all.
The philosopher’s whet stone holds no answers.
Spears of time atoms piece your delicate flesh.
Every society holds fresh jugs of esoteric knowledge.
Each tide here, indeed an endless artesian supply.
Stay here, ponder
the crustaceans of your mind
Glowing and atomic blue.
above arc sky, gulls cackle endlessly
floating
in peaceful cerulean infinity.

Denis Robillard, Ontario, Canada

Subterranean Adagio by Denis Robillard

Ants perform a subterranean adagio
galaxies of blood burn inside you
night traffic flounders into an aural mess
a conveyor belt of easy amnesia
trees rustle like a leafy woman
adjusting her bangles.
Crickets play their sad black guitars
this late August night
here on the pavement
my shadow looms larger across this parking lot
looking for a better cell connection.
I said a better cell connection.


Denis Robillard, Canada

Tumbleweed at Shining Tree by Denis Robillard

For Luke Wilson

Your freedom of the Odometer covers a lot of ground.
To see the world in a grain of sand.
For what it really is. Outpacing yourself in that
tumbleweed camper. Fading into another sunset.
Tracking the distances in your brain.
Living Outside.
Your second skin. The weathers.
Reading the weathers. Nuance. Nuage. New Age.
How it drenches a landscape. Renewal.
The sun makes another snowman drunk.
Throws an insect into your words.
Like a dog barking into evening
car chasing spectral shadows.
The ills. What ails you, bends you.
It all becomes willow in the weathers.
When the comfort of your heart-shaped
furniture breaks down and
emotions go thread bare
You seek the weathers.
Make a hop pillow for your head.
Lay down in the cocoon arms of Your Master
Smoothing out the rituals there.
Remembering angles of light
the quality of a waterfall.
How everything goes suddenly gray.
And you still perpetually wrapped, trapped
in a west coast shroud rain
and looking for the illusive shining tree
where it’s all written down. The weathers.


Denis Robillard, Canada