The Geranium Hotel Poems

The Moon is the greatest of Transvestites She holds the bruises of school bullies Her makeup is better than any lady you will meet Better than my bullish sister Better than the painted prostitutes of media Better than the young men of music The Moon she gets up on stage once a month Puts on her sequinned show Parading and dancing and showing us the theatre or romance and space And then she will slowly draw her blinds Closes her door Allows herself to rest Sitting on her favourite lounge Wearing her favourite satin gown Watching reruns of an old detective show I love The Moon

Sitting by a fire Sitting on a train Thinking of the sins of Man Thinking of America Watching the moon Watching the black river Crying for my misery Crying for a prayer Gathering my thoughts Gathering my grace Looking for the king Looking for the end Oh sweet love of mine When the door closed behind you I thought about following But the garden needed tending Building a new temple Building a new vision Thinking of my Mother Thinking of her dead Father Listening for the wagon Listening for good luck Fighting off the soldiers Fighting off the rain Shaking with a fever Shaking with the blues Ignoring the folk singer Ignoring the president Oh sweet love of mine When you sat by the fire I never thought you'd catch the train Now you've gone I'm out here tending my garden Whistling with the birds

You are drained So come sit down Tell me about your day Tell me of the friends you love The friends who use you For beer and cigarettes But you keep ‘em around For their talk and their laughs And some of them you love Some of them you would do anything for Even if they say things that make you cringe Things that you would never say You know they are the water That puts out the fire That fuels the hell within And when those friends get too much When the beer and the drugs Become a thorn in your milk white skin Come home to me And tell me what a drag they are With a symphonic voice And Cohen on the stereo I will cook a home made soup While you ride the wave of vexation And i can turn the record over And tell you all about The story behind the songs of Cohen Or Joni, Neil or the Band And how The 60’s wouldn’t have happened Without Canada And I will wait for your look That wonderment That you won’t give to those friends Who use you And sing songs from the

The wattle is starting to bloom Spring is on its way The willows have yet to turn So Winter will surely stay Light’s arch it grows higher And the days grow warm The mornings are still dark Night holds onto her dawn The bulbs rise so softly Breaking through the frost The jonquil is the first Looking tender, frightened, lost The wrens perch in the sun Then fly off in a flash Waiting for the wood pigeon To finish in his bath Let leaves of Autumn blow away Let the winter have its fun For if you listen to the earth The song of Spring is softly sung

Your necklace sat Dipping over skin and bone Hidden in hair Rising with your sigh Falling with acceptance

Sunshine on stone Take me to the olive trees On the hill Watch the boats Come one by one Turning the sky inside out Draw a lion in the dust A wolf in the cloud The coolness of the grass The warmth of your stomach The falcon overhead Distant voices The boys swimming Old ladies yelling at lonely girls Hear the song of history calling Shirt hanging over branch Summer sweat The mainland coast Blue and Grey and Green Golden song of ancient instinct Power Strength Breathing in air The scent of pine Sex and sea On a hill high Sunshine on skin The song of history calling