Halfway Round the World Waltz I flew halfway around the world I flew half the way around—halfway lost halfway found Sang the song without making a sound Halfway up to come halfway back down I swam halfway around the world Trying my best not to change—now isn't that strange? How despite everything I’ve been shown—how a person will cling to what's known Halfway around—going up and coming halfway around Going up and coming halfway around I stumbled halfway around the world It was nothing at all—just a trip then a fall But the landing felt good just the same Another chance to remember my name Half-way round the sea the sky the ground And you will always be Half-way round the sea the sky the ground The waltz will set you free And now I'm halfway around the world It's not always a test I just needed a rest A little courage to help find my way A wing a prayer and a borrowed cliché And what I’m trying to say in an unspoken way Halfway old half-way young another song just begun With the sky upside down the stars floating around I’ll take the true with the false and do the overseas waltz And if you'll all be so kind— that is if no one would mind Let's go half the way round 'till the world's upside down And do the halfway around the world waltz The halfway round the world waltz

Curving for the Coast, Part 1 You become a straight line—curving for the coast Become a straight line curving—you've never been this close And the light is why you're on this road It’s a weight yet has no load—there's no baggage to unload Yes the light is who you are right here On this road for love and fear—colour blind and crystal clear Yellowy fields, tumbled out, tired and scattered. Scratch and scrub. Everything looking for a name, here. No name needed. Nothing needed. Still, the light. Still the light moves from the inside out … but it's too soon to invoke Grace this early in the trip, it's just the light. It's just that everything it touches turns to … The landscape run backwards now—a strange familiar scene Shot straight through a projector—spooling green and green Just a place between the ground and sky Ours is not to question why—watch the colours as they fly Like a voice you've heard but never seen Like a water colour dream—a place you've never been Papery grasses, held, waiting in windsway … and the sun pouring itself out over everything. The soil: spectacular, rusted. And all the colours in and out of focus. In and out of focus. Unfamiliar forest bears witness: bark, frayed and hanging. Tinder dry. Eucalypt. Paper bark tea-tree, spotted gum, grey ironbark, tall mallee scrub … It's early but you're in for the long haul with tension enough to pull the unsuspecting. Tinder dry and then ferns. Ferns become fragile cover as you sudden-drop down into valley and shadow and then climb back up into parched abundance. Perfection enough to disorient with the line running out and out Right-hand drive, left-side leaning Left to contemplate left over meaning Right-hand drive, left-side leaning Left to contemplate left over meaning The great dividing range The familiar swallowed by the strange The great dividing range The familiar swallowed by the strange The great dividing range: this world, that world, this world, that world. It’s enough to pull the unsuspecting …

Wrong Way Go Back Large sign. Bright red. Miss it: you're dead. Red sign. Large print. Go back: you're first hint Driving too fast. Driving too slow. No in-between. Nowhere to go. Driving too slow. Driving too fast. Driving right by. Driving right past So you're over, down under—your head's out of whack. Over and under: wrong way go back Freeway confusion—better pick up the slack You're on the left side: wrong way go back Now you're all caffeinated—smoked the whole pack You're so over-rated: wrong way go back. Wrong way go back. Wrong way go back. Wrong way go back Bright sign. Dim wit. Short sight. Deep shit. One sign. Two eyes. Wrong way: surprise. Driving too fast. Driving too slow. No in-between—nowhere to go. Driving too slow. Driving too fast. Driving right by. Driving right past Summertime and the driving is easy Concrete surfing—no time to be slack Watch for the road kill—keep the Southern Cross at your back

Curving for the Coast, Part 2 There's colour coming through the trees from such a long way off Colour coming through the trees—it's a hard blue painted soft And the blue is why you're on this road It's a blue that might explode—there's no language there's no code And you're pulled toward this kind of blue Like a spell you can't undo—for the many for the few There’s colour coming through the trees from such a long way off. The air gives itself away. And every ocean you've ever seen now conjured. Inlets and arms are the messengers that send word. There is nothing else this big. Colour coming through the trees. And the long descent. Don't even mention blue. The tides doing all the work. The sound blinds you to any other sense. And there it is. Look as far as you will. Cue the waves … All the words you cannot speak are here: torn away, torn away. Rip tides, wind, cloud-chasing. The sand says, 'walk here,' as far as you are willing. Mystery Bay really isn't. Really is. There is nothing else this big. The towns will try to tell you otherwise. Rooms with views and any number of stars above the door. Contradictions abound. The world held upside down for the tourist with traveller's intention. Climate control and other oxymorons are poorly signed. Roadways cling to the coast with an awkward sense of normalcy and go on and on toward forever—or at least Melbourne. But not you, no, not you, not you. it's your first trip. Your first little trip. Go on and stumble … feel the long stretch of humble because your loop is finite and tiny. The ocean will give way to mountains that shake themselves back out into scrub and outback without notice. Only a faded, 'Give Way,' sign nailed to a post to suggest otherwise. It's your first trip. Your first little trip and you are that small. Unwanted almost. The sun pouring itself out. And all the colours. The sun pouring itself out. And all the colours. The line running out and out. And all the colours …

Lifeline Your horses don’t fit your barn Your tractor don’t match your farm Twice the work and half the charm: hold your own All the while your crops were thinning Paper says the Blue Team’s winning Hard to keep your head from spinning: hold your own All this time gone All this time gone: so long Down a dirt road, the forty foot, it's like a twisting song Your lifeline is in the field You're crazy trying to farm the shield But picking rocks is part of the deal: hold your own All this time gone All this time gone: so long Halfway left and partly right—it's like a twisting song You said you're never going to leave this farm—never No, you're never going to leave this farm—never No one's ever going to twist your arm—never The factory farm is hungry now It’s got an appetite that won’t allow Your life your land your own two hands Or maybe a government with other plans Your tractor don't fit your barn Your horses don’t match your farm Second mortgage and a lucky charm: hold your own

Painted Yellow: An Old-Time Tale Scene 1, Late Summer Dream I'm thinking August. Late August. A still-awake-but-growing-tired August. Late, late summer: the Big Lull. Laneways lined with weeds that won't quit. Rural Ontario. Fields on fields on fields. And corn. Fields of corn. I’m driving, drifting, dreaming. Driving, drifting, dreaming. Thinking impossible thoughts of last March, April, May: those tiny seeds trying to remember what a whole field painted yellow smells like. But now children float in butter-dipped dreams of water barrels that spell August in fields taller than the tallest kid in the whole school. Yes, recess is right around the corner of every mouth poised and every September lunch pail ever packed. Chores, chores and more chores. Chores, chores and more chores. And all the wiry old farmers smiling the machinery back into the drive shed. And why are they smiling? They're smiling because it hurts so much. (Anyone spoken with a farmer lately?) Someone whispers frost but laughter melts the thought of school bells and rubber boots and the summer still feels fatter than a big old moon. A harvest moon—the yellow face of fiction shining right through myth. Scene 2, Harvest (The Big Gathering) Butter and bad jokes (the same ones as last year) … Butter and bad jokes (the same ones as last year) … Dust. Crooked teeth. Paper plates. Dust. Crooked teeth. Paper plates. [Ya, I know, paper plates. They're flimsy. They're pretty much useless but rituals are rituals.] Butter and bad jokes (the same ones as last year) … Butter and bad jokes (the same ones as last year) … Dust. Crooked teeth. Paper plates. Dust. Crooked teeth. Paper plates. Home-baked pies to follow. Scene3: Late Summer Dream, Part 2 The clouds drift without moving and green has painted the landscape so long now that white seems pretty much unthinkable (winter having not yet been invented). I grow these poems, well, I grow these poems because they’re all I know how to grow (all farm hands having weathered storms much worse than poetry, mine or anyone else's). I grow these poems, call them songs, sometimes. Grow these poems, sometimes call them songs. And corn on the cob? Yes, corn on the cob always comes with such a sweet surprise ending, like old Jimmy Grayson who spends the whole summer sitting on the porch resting his eyelids only to pull out a tired old fiddle and dance summer backwards. Nightfall: darkness starts a fire and nobody’s thinking about corn stuck in their teeth or mortgages or wage freezes with a campfire calling the tune … never mind the key or the fancy chords. The dance floor’s just a dirt patch anyhow. Cut the rug, Jimmy! Scene 4: Poets, farmers and heavy machinery Still, I know I’ll never fit in here with just my words to plant. (Hell, I’ve still got all my fingers.) So, I shove some words in the ground when the calendar reads May and watch them grow in crazy rows all summer: tiny seeds trying to remember what a whole field painted yellow smells like. Tiny seeds trying to remember. Trying to remember. Paint it yellow.

Another Year of Song * Jump in my canoe—I’m coming out to see you I’m rolling Jump in my canoe—the sky is in full blue I’m rolling The forest pulls you slide from shore You wave as if there’s something more … The surface holds you in its sway the kind of blue makes the day come rolling Jump in my canoe—I’m coming out to see you I’m rolling Jump in my canoe—there’s mist & rock cliffs too I’m rolling You write it down or else it’s gone You write it down you build a song Cuz if you don’t you’ll never know that this is how your lifeline flows—you’re rolling How many years? Back to back Some like this and some like that How many years? Just like that A glacier bed. A welcome mat The places where the Buddha sat Jump in my canoe—I’m coming out to see you I’m rolling This may nothing new but the day is up to you—you’re rolling Coming back again you bet we will be back again Coming back again you bet we will be back again Coming back again so much more to say The road that curves round Thunder Bay Coming back again the curve the flat Another song carried on his back A borrowed tune says thanks for that Jump in my canoe—I’m coming out to see you I’m rolling Jump in my canoe—coming out to see you … *Lyrics: GW Rasberry Music: James Campbell, GW Rasberry, Rob Unger

Black-letter Stammer Black-letter stammer: for a 1948 Underwood typewriter that lives in the forest. Word machine. Black metal creature. Beautiful monster Twenty-two frogs are making love in the south swamp I swear it’s true. Yes, it's as true as a metaphor For moonlight or black as the paddle’s dip into midnight— Where there’s no need for push or pull. Twenty-two frogs are making love, I swear, and the south Swamp is a metaphor for directions lost. Twenty-two frogs. And the metaphor is love Making itself known. Love making itself. Love-making—where there's no need for metaphor No need for moonlight. Love—where there's no need The words are songs and the songs are poems And the poems are type-written. Type-written and Dead afraid of these metal signposts that point to where I am not. Type-written memos complete with cryptic references and existential font. Maybe to be lost first would suggest a way out instead of worrying About where the keys are on this heavy metal acoustic typewriter Where the keys are type-written and dead afraid. Dead afraid but never better off dead than afraid. A confusion of night with sound Otherwise the gift is completely realized A confusion of night with sound Otherwise the gift is completely realized A confusion of night with sound When metal strikes a chord to pattern the owl It’s like a locomotive waking up the forest Metal-on-metal: a black-letter’d stammer Hammering the night colourless A confusion of night with sound A confusion of night with sound A confusion of sound with night Otherwise the realization is completely a gift Afraid of adjusting the ribbon Touch without touching until everyone guesses a winner— Under the B: Bullfrog. Black. Blackness. Earth stone naked jewellery Tab-keyed night noises. The odd carriage return. Tab tab tab. The odd carriage return. Dark and darker still—words that move downhill to fall Below sunset that has already kissed so many Full and hard and fleeting. Red and orange stains that remember dying And a locomotive waking up the forest Metal-on-metal: a black-letter’d stammer Hammering the night colourless Colouring the night hammerless— Imagine being so awake in the forgetting. I swear it’s all true. I swear it's all true, it's all true, all true, all true. Especially when there’s nothing but metal-on-metal-on-metal-on-metal Could there be more than twenty-two?