By Allan Lake
Bird feels compelled to exclaim as first light infiltrates bedroom. I file comment with lines of pop songs, trivia of less value because Ma Nature assigned me a restless catch-all brain. Eye open, mind fumbles between two or more channels, one being a variation of that dream about us never going wherever it was we were aching to go. Death didn't drop in so it's all on again, chance to draw breath and conclusions. Where there's still a will. Sentient being, who needs to empty and refill, flips back blanket before landing in fluffy prepositioned slippers. Goldfish accelerate as shape shuffles past to perform rituals beyond them. First the waterfall then teeth brushed systematically with hint of mint before tap water with lemon. Human – one of billions – primed for inaction turns dumb TV on to news: terror/politics/crime/accident sport sport sport weather Egg boils, bread burns, machine makes coffee day after day in well- worn way. Then mid-morning circle ’round park on warming planet which orbits a ball of burning gases that will eventually arrive at its own little conclusion, unwitnessed on no particular Sunday.
Originally from Saskatchewan, Allan Lake has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton, Ibiza, Tasmania & Melbourne. His poetry collection is titled Sand in the Sole (Xlibris, 2014). Lake won Lost Tower Publications (UK) Comp 2017 & Melbourne Spoken Word Poetry Fest 2018 & publication in New Philosopher 2020. Last year he published his chapbook My Photos of Sicily (Ginninderra Press).