Chad Norman Truro, Nova Scotia Canada - Poems
Moderator 
CORRIDOR TO THE HAPPINESS OF CROWS
1.
To participate,
that is what I have been
allowed to be, participant.
Morning teaches
the human voice
is an interruption.
Above, along my walk
all of them wanted
planets lit accordingly
by our sun.
You didn't leave
or be half the need
to board planes.
(My wife too.)
When poetry asks
the poet
to travel,
to go and share.
We go there.
Nothing questions Time,
it is only a walk
to receive the pay-cheque
and find a gate willing
to open and close.
(The Company says so.)
My badge
opens all of it--
being on time.
Me being him.
A trip over an ocean
to share poems
for Mary Shelley--
another book she caused.
2.
The apples that didn't make it
where small ants
met the big ants
became fruit for History.
So much left to see!
Can the human eye
be there for it all?
A return from travels
has all of them
returning to the wires
above all my steps.
Who, if anyone, other
than who I am
gets it, gets to see it,
the male, and the female?
Hunger brings them both.
All those steps taken
after our vacation
serving the human couple,
each one for the Mystery.
3.
But up on the wires
a black feathery head
tilts upwards like a smile
even though the missing
is clearly passed on.
I am a man, only,
unwilling to worship money--
who understands this?
Crows do. They remind me.
It has been four days
since my hand brought
cat-food and roasted peanuts--
what my voice brings too.
All of this happens now
in darker early hours
where a known corridor
takes on the new frost.
And the happiness of crows,
a swooning like older women
able to cause an ovation
when Jim Cuddy will sing
"Try", alongside his son,
holding an acoustic guitar
in the perfect lighting
I recall being so much
like a recent morning when
four planets shone for the sun.
INTELLIGENCE IS THE CAUSE OF FEAR
A debate may occasionally occur
where the humans are not,
inside the mind protected by feathers
the hawk's hiding spots haven't changed.
Branch after branch
vanish with the sun,
certain hours
it is the lowest one,
chosen for the view
up through the tree
catching what
is intended to be caught.
How good can
a starling really taste?
Perhaps it is best
when snow is the cover,
but looking up through
a beak begins,
the hawk's beauty
no part of its strike.
A stillness
takes over before the kill,
a shared silence
both of them built,
hunger quickly
becomes winner and loser
like a cause
the humans believe in.
Afterwards a
slight movement as snow
falls to
where the ground is covered
with seed
once thrown from a hand,
how it all
began to be the reason.
What's seen by
all of us inside and outside
isn't up to
the glass a window is,
timing interferes
as usual during seasons
generous enough
to share their moments.
The hawk's success
now just a shriek.
The starling never knowing
it is now the food.
The humans left
now share genderless pain.
All of this accidently picturesque--
somewhere else
another intelligent hunt begins.
RIVULETS
A therapy the morning offers for free,
a brief stop caused by the mirror
is how one man who prepares for work
facing who is more than a reflection
accepts he's caught in a one-way dare:
"Can you, who makes me possible,
go out there and enjoy the journey to,
once again, seek a bi-weekly paycheque?"
A distance neither far or nearby the home
he leaves to resume how food & shelter continue
is where the avenue's shoulder has withstood
another sleepless night of wild downpours,
provides clues found in designs left by
attempts of water to flow away from pavement.
Anything to remind him other men have a hold
on the life birth allowed him to begin,
on the cautious steps he takes, careful to
not miss how the water chose correct directions,
successful rivulets he won't let his stride
mess up, or prevent them from what he believes
they formed to tell, ongoing patterns
all the way, like some sandy clairvoyance
beneath his boots, in need of no tarot cards
to show & remind him one day such a walk
won't be required, and if any rivulets reappear
they will do so with what wealth really is
and the chance for him to understand
his pursuit of sanity was always it
and the rain's health will be enough.
WHAT WATER DOES IN A PHOTOGRAPH
A certain lens
the camera wishes
to see with,
chosen to explore
the attempt to alter
the look and
speed of currents,
a planned try
to finally interpret
the motion,
waves and rapids
become when
not quite stopped,
or slowed down
enough for the eye
to be widened,
to be challenged
shortly after what
it shared with
the boy's imagination in
the man's greying head.
Even in twitching
wrinkly spotted hands
it could be held
safely in a position
or horizontal
this opportunity provided
only the vertical--
an uncropped shot
of a rarely noticed river.
Forever is now
a cascade of slow yellow blurs
captured with a successful finger,
almost alone after the
button's click is forgotten.
