shards

by doran damon okkema

shards

of his fragile innocence

hang off him

in sharp

jagged strips.

his weather-worn cloak

of humanity

carefully conceal

the fractured identities

inside

so what if it's the way you make me feel
in certain moments, like this
that i'm convinced
you are much much more
than a muse

the young bird

the young bird
doran damon okkema

young bird i found
dead in cold street
humility hath clipped
thy wing
the passing fury
didst shake thy flight
and feather found
no reprieve
a concrete coffin
thy burial bed
a rusted gutter
to rest thy head

our ride home

our ride home
doran damon okkema

headlights vibrate
in the rearview
one by one by one
exits whip by
never seen you smile
at speeds this high
must be the night air
bolstered you so
the cold
or cigarette
smoldering in your hand
cities trailing
in our wake

a toast

sorry it's been so long since i last posted on this site. i had a dry spell... took some time to think... came up with a few; thought i'd share.

thanks for reading.



a toast
by doran damon okkema

here's to the cold
calculated ones
hits or misses
things left undone
here's to calamity
i saw in your eyes
lifetime abandoned
fractured insides
dark shadow warriors
profiling your mind
in cluttered up bedrooms
blurring the lines

Nativity Poem

in lieu of the advent season i've shifted my muse.

a nativity poem
doran damon okkema

you are the true honeymoon child
born beneath a midnight sun
soft spilt light swaddles your fragile frame
God in flesh from day one

and the walls of the room
that are washed in the glow
yearning to call out your name
echo with silence
the angels dumbfounded
and all of creation the same

One by One

This is a poem I wrote back in my Prague days after watching a street repair crew work for an hour or so outside my flat window. Most streets and sidewalks in the older parts of the city are still built by hand with various sizes of cobblestones. It took hours and hours for the crews to complete a single block of sidewalk. It was a dedication to craft that most here have forgotten. Maybe it is impractical, but it sure is beautiful.

one by one
doran damon okkema

a worker sits
on cobbled rock
taps each stone
block by block

an age old craft
passed down by hand
the ancient art
man by man

a tapestry
a pebbled rose
slabs connected
row by row

step by step
and street by street
thrum worn down
by travelers'’ feet

a mason'’s work
is never done
when stones are broken
one by one

the forgotten sight

the forgotten sight
doran damon okkema

let's pursue these visions
and get this friendship right
invoke the past believers
for guidence to the light
through worlds bred in confusion
made blind by fruitless plights
those mystic incantations
bring heaven into sight

what great reward
our treasure be
if we believe
before we see

for the two water-bearers

for the two water-bearers
doran damon okkema

your ivory skin
looks so comfortable
wrapped in bed linen
as night choirs
softly echo
in puddles
once your eyes
i trace figure-eights
from nape
to small
find a mark
and remember
the severity of your wounds

here's to then

here's to then
doran damon okkema

here's to then
when we still cared
still loved
had faces
and called each other
by made up names

here's to now
the new
and better
of things we'd hoped
but never spoke
to one another

welcome change
facades unveiled
the warmer shades
and broken lips
and dreams of more
than that last kiss

the ghost that haunts me

the ghost that haunts me
doran damon okkema

i'm sleeping with a ghost
trying to bury the dead
forget the smiles
and sideways glances
spit in your hand
hair on your back
bathrooms and basements
pool-sex and day trips

let these words be a eulogy
to what we had and you've become
'new life' starts
where your love ends
preview shows and younger men
all i want
is one more dance
i'm still sleeping with a ghost

layers and the light

layers and the light
doran damon okkema

roll back layers
the search for humanity
dig down
pick through
reopen
tunnel
nerve
bone
blood
searching, knowing
underneath self-loathing
brave faces
there is a spirit
something real

tortured pasts turn translucent
allowing light
into depths undiscovered
somehow surreal
compared to outer worlds
still not complete
better than before

my response

my response
doran damon okkema

distracted by her bright eyes
active hands
i forgot to listen
to the words she spoke
so when she'd finished
and stared at me
expecting a response
all I could do was smile
which, apparently,
was enough for her

Walls

Walls
Doran Damon Okkema

I built this house
To wall me in.
To keep you out.
To keep me in.

And to conceal
Myself inside.
I built this house
For me to hide.

On ears my cries
Will never fall.
Under this roof.
Inside these walls.

Under this roof.
Inside these walls.
I'll never know
When darkness falls.

don't go

don't go
doran damon okkema

don't go yet
i'll sit at the piano
plunk out
a simple melody
or turn on the radio
we can sit together
listen to the static
and hum
anything to fill
the silence
just don't go

still life

still life
doran damon okkema

i love stillness
and the way light bends
across your body
casting shadows
on your face.
atop the sheets
the pale figures we possess
coloured with warmer yellows
of our season's painter
exhale a breath
held since the sun last lit our room
and graced our morning
with its embrace

the long road home

Have you ever felt stuck? And no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to make any forward progress?









the long road home
doran damon okkema


somewhere back along the way
a long way back it seems
i turned left instead of right
and since, been lost for days

got my compass, map and you
can't seem to find my way
not even sure what road leads back
to roads by which we came

but in spite of what we've seen
and hardships yet to prove
of all of those i could have been
at least i'm lost with you

mystery

For you.

mystery
doran damon okkema

you are still
a mystery
released in bits
sporadic spits
like kisses from
your broken lips
shards of shattered pottery
that somehow
seem to fit

half your weight

half your weight
doran damon okkema

half your weight
is baggage
from an other life
before we met

the half i know
is perfect though
and i'll love you
to the end

Romislokus - north of ordinary

Out of cold mother Russia comes the warm, hypnotic, haunting sounds of Romislokus. They call themselves a "post-rock band" consisting of 6 members: Yuri Smolnikov (guitar/vocal), Evgeniy Gorelov (keyboards), Mike Solo (lead guitar), Misha Brovarnik (bass), Irina Yunakovskaya (cello), Jim Moto (drums). All are talented musicians, and together they create music that evokes such thought and emotion unlike any other band I've heard, though their Pink Floyd influenced sound is obvious in almost every song. The vocals themselves often remind me of Bruce Cockburn.

Unlike most North American musicians, Romislokus is not in this venture for the money. Although you can order CD's from their website (for a modest price), all their music is offered free of charge on the website! I know of no other band whose entire catalogue can be downloaded for free!

Canadians will be interested in checking out the bands musical rendition of 'In Flanders Fields,' the wartime poem by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae. A touching poem on its own, it gains new feeling when put to music.

Despite the band's awkward phrase compositions, written in mildly-broken English, their musicianship more than makes up for meaning lost in translation. Yuri Smolnikov delivers his vocals in a whimsical, free form kind of way, somehow fitting in with the music just perfectly.

Check them out. It's worth a listen, even if it's not your cup of tea.

the refugee

the refugee
doran damon okkema


displaced
i................have been misplaced
thrown aside
discarded

refuse
i sift through the rubble
was once my home
the refugee

rain

Everything is full of mystery, beauty, and magic. I don't mean the wizardly type of magic, but the mystical kind. There is a real feeling of wonder for a child sitting in a window, watching the rain fall outside. Hundreds of thousands of drops of rain. Where did they come from? How were they made? I wish every adult could rekindle that sense of wonder in natures beautiful mysteries.

rain
doran damon okkema

rain drops
roll off
shingles

past windows
and red bricks
into pools

leaving ripples
on the surface

of the rain water
collected before

outside a church on a sunday afternoon

While living in Prague, I used to go to visit an old church near my flat called Náměstí Míru, the church in the photo. The grounds were beautiful, well kept for the tourists, and locals who stroll through at leisure. Beautiful benches, gardens and stone walkways. I loved coming to this courtyard to just sit, people-watch and admire the amazing architecture. Prague, the city of a hundred golden spires. It truly is the most beautiful city I have ever visited! If you ever get a chance, see it for yourself. You will not regret it!

The escalator at the Náměstí Míru station is the longest in Europe, and one of the tallest in the world at a length of just over 100 meters. It takes nearly 2.5 min to descend to the platform below (without walking). Here is a video to give you a feeling for just how tall it really is.


outside a church on a sunday afternoon
doran damon okkema

light lowing on ancient stone
draws the eye up
to glowing golden spires
high above
the calf still burns bright

seraphim and other angels
sit still and silent
watching the sun's decline
and at parishioners
or tourists
trickling from the great doors
assured their petitions have been heard
that their god
lives inside

night swimming

night swimming
doran damon okkema

warm july air
wrapped 'round us
our towels
on the way to the pool
you and i
night swimmers
and lovers
in the light
of a new moon
barely born
and palely lit
in the night sky
still pregnant
with the possibility
of two hearts
made one
in the ripples
of our
undulations

empty house

The poem Vacant City spawned another, I think better, called Empty House. I tried playing with sound more in this one. The images, I hope, are clear and true to life. I imagine this house as once hosting warm family dinners. Children once ran through its halls; filled its rooms with laughter. Now deserted, the questions mount, who, why, where? It's really up to the reader to imagine the rest.

empty house
doran damon okkema

white peeled paint
in flecks on floor
like pencil shavings
walls once wore

rusted knobs
turn stubborn doors
creaking floorboards
termite wars

empty home
once adorned
with hanging things
in corridors

picture frames
taken down
vacant space
no one around

empty house
empty halls
empty phone jacks
no one calls

Weeping Willow

I like trees. They have a certain mystery, even magic to them. I guess it's fitting that Merlin be forever trapped in a tree. It seems to suit him.








Weeping Willow
Doran Damon Okkema

i see the ageing willow
has yet to shed its leaves
though fall has all but fled
set free the frost
and frozen air

all the trees
are bare as bone
like kindling wood
that snaps when bent
and when burnt, moans

all is weighed
by winter's stare

blue turns gray
and brown bark breaks
a spider climbs
well on his way
to reaching sleep

when he dies
the willow weeps

after

Sometimes, after heartbreak, a person can feel as alone in a sea of a thousand people as they would adrift on the open ocean.







after
doran damon okkema


look at my hands
see how they shake
how they tremor

do you know
what it takes
to forget you

but my heart will repair
in time

the vacant city

When I was living for a short time in Toronto, I had an experience that shook me to my core. It was winter. Snow lay thick, like a blanket over everything. It was late. The yellow street lights buzzed out a drone. Hypnotically, the snow fell in time, stark against the dark sky. There was no wind. Indeed, nothing seemed to move. No cars drove down the usually busy street. Every window was blacked out, as if no one lived inside at all. The houses themselves seemed to be the only inhabitants of the neighbourhood. I had the strangest feeling of isolation, as if I was the only human alive. I wished to call out to those I loved, and rekindle the fires I had let die. This experience spawned a poem.

the vacant city
doran damon okkema

deserted streets call my name
my steps end at the sidewalk
a city full of empty houses
and i stand on my corner, alone

i miss the days we cared
the days we loved
when we still had faces
and called eachother by our names

now we, like so many nameless streets
whithout purpose or direction
lead to no foreseeable end
and the beginning is forgotten with the rest

vintage

vintage
doran damon okkema

the mark of time
etched on a surface
once so young
is a reminder
but if like wine
we better with age
i will sip from you
sweet port uncorked
unblemished your finish
and more beautiful
your bouquet

even the necessities

even the necessities
doran damon okkema


sometimes in the early morning
i cry when combing
through my hair. because
it hurts to pull a knot
through the teeth of my comb
it hurts to shave in the dark. with
no soap and
no water

the scarf

I wrote this back in high school. One of my friends was knitting a scarf, though it was indistinguishable from any other knitted piece at the time. I asked her what she was making, and she replied, "It's going to be a scarf when it's done." So that's how it started!



the scarf
doran damon okkema

it's going to be a scarf
when it's done
it'll be warm and long
to wrap round your neck
you can wear it now
or later
you can keep it in your room
in a bag of old clothing
or give it away to the salvation army
next year

her reflection

I had this romanticised picture in my head for some time, a naked woman standing at a window in an old European flat looking out at the snow while her lover lay in bed, silently watching her. I had spent a lot of time traveling back and forth to Germany, visiting my then-girlfriend. There was always a disconnect between us. We never 'clicked' on any deeper level, and that feeling of disconnect made its way into my writing.





her reflection
doran damon okkema

she stood at the window
in her underwear
looking out at the snow
fallen fresh
on the streets below
and the rooftops above
at icicles hanging low
from the eaves trough

her warm breath
fogged the glass
and she pushed her hand
to the cold window pane
leaving behind a print
that mirrored her palm

sundell

sundell
doran damon okkema

there's an old apple tree
in the backyard
too small to be of much good
and no fruit

but when the snow falls
in october each year
the chickadees gather
and chatter for a while

hop lightly
from branch to branch
and tease the cat
circling below

behind the house
past the wood pile
the placenta tree
past the pond and creek

the fields and marsh
past nine miles
of forest between
it lies deep in its bed

the hush of dark waters
cold lake superior
whispers its way back
and spoons me to sleep

Winter Fields

I am working with some students from the University of Waterloo on an audio CD containing various works of poetry. The CD is for the University's distance-ed programme. One of the poems I have recorded is this one by Charles Roberts. It's incredibly beautiful! As I read it I'm taken back to my days living in Sundell, in Upper Michigan. We lived "out there," on a dead end logging road. Our neighbours were few. A carpenter, a farmer, a retired boxer. Salt of the earth. But it was the land I remember most, especially winter. Just how beautiful this land was, I could never express in words. Although the author has a bleaker view of winter, I love this poem for it's esthetics, and it's word choice. Absolutely beautiful!!

Winter Fields
Charles Roberts

Winds here, and sleet, and frost that bites like steel.
The low bleak hill rounds under the low sky.
Naked of flock and fold and fallows lie,
Thin streaked with meagre drift. The gusts reveal
By fits the dim grey snakes of fence, that steal

Through the white dusk. The hill-foot poplars sigh,
While storm and death with winter trample by,
And iron fields ring sharp, and blind lights reel.
Yet in the lonely ridges, wrenched with pain,
Harsh solitary hillocks, bound and dumb,

Grave glebes close-lipped beneath the scourge and chain
Lurks hid the germ of ecstasy - the sum
Of life that waits on summer, till the rain
Whisper in April and the crocus come.