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Kafka's Last Wish



Upon his death, Kafka requested 

that all his manuscripts be 

destroyed. The Trial. The Castle. 

Amerika-- ashes. But when poor

Franz died of TB at age 41, 

little known outside gloomy

Prague, his good friend Max Brod

considered his last request. And 

promptly ignored it. So Franz Kafka

became a world-famous author

against his express wishes. 

Think of that next time you take 

thirty seconds to order coffee.

Me Ma'

Me Ma' is slipping from my life

the past rushing behind those eyes

watery blue in the failing light.

And my Irish has gone with her.

The lace curtains, the novena candle

Her brothers singing the Ave in

choir loft, the Lachine spinster aunts.

Who will I tease about the troop 

shows? Or ask aboutthe wartime

telegram saying Burke was gone?

She was raised by French nuns, 

she hated them for beating her.

Now she greets the Filipino nurse

with a look of mad mischief.

On good days she knows my name

when I show her wedding photos.

On others we watch the birds

that fly past her window garden.

She shows me the women she hates.

And the men that she likes. But

the trappings have now failed her.

The sad music of The Chieftains, 

the brandy snifter in her purse

in case of dire emergencies. 

The weathered photo of her father 

reading the Montreal Herald in 1937.

So I close the door quietly behind

while she watches golf on the TV.

The past, I see, is now a distant shore

where I can visit, alas, no more.

Jack Pine

Jack Pine


Standing on the crevasse,

jack pine against the odds,

last honest man leaning on 

the wind, a lesson in survival. 

Like a young man, tilting hard

against timberlines. Battling

elements. Blown by the sky. 


The choice in life lies between

putting out roots in thin soil

or wandering the scree line.

The jack pine on his crevasse 

or the whistling wind. 

Knowing you, knowing me 

Put me down for the latter.

Filling my arms with night.

Orford Lake

When I was a boy, wasting slack

summer, I’d sprawl on my belly beside 

the CNR railway tracks, listening

for the dayliner on its clickety-clak 

from Sherbrooke into Montreal. Most 

days the train flew by. But on special 

July days kissed with mystery the

ratty flag would rise from the back

of the two-car train, and a bundle 

of mail would tumble into the weeds. 

Or a passenger descend, blinking 

against the sunshine at me behind

the tiger lillies and feverfew. Like a 

ferret in the undergrowth. Today, 

the engineer smiles as he passes, 

consults his silver watch without stopping, 

at precisely3:23. His mail bag 

empty of surprise. The train does 

not stop beside the tickweed anymore.

Mr. Parrott does not stumble off

the train after half a dozen pilseners.

nor would I wish it so if he could.