Room With a View

Room With a View

Head back, eyes slowly opening…
The plaster swirls float above timeless crown moulding like chunky clouds gently being ushered along by unseen breezes, or in a mirror effect, reach as whitecaps do, moved by silent tides: As above, so below…

Polarized, yet equally reminiscent of the fallen leaves this autumn;
fitting comfortably between the kick and snare drum hits as Tori spins somewhere in the distance, and I’m convinced by this moment:
Her vocal harmonies must taste like nectar… that of the fruit borne by the very trees from which the fallen leaves sprang forth…
Big hall reverb in this womb-like environment; magical piano notes that have learned the art of flight, each forming unique identities in the airspace between my body and my intent…

Bathing in the soft light, ‘madam painting’ still soars as well, nearly three years later, despite the fact that her frame is fastened to the left of the arched opening.
Perhaps the woman, pregnant with ideas, has simply been trying to seek out and fly through a portal leading from here to fulfillment. If so, this is the closest she has come…

©2002 Jon Mychal


Reflections from the ether

Reflections from the ether

Under an orange light; a kick away from the suspension bridge — this is where the young and hopeful love-struck circle, looking for the perfect spot to park their passion.
My companion — my friend — looks to the west, growling uncertainty at the carousel of lights which are disturbing the consistency of darkness:

This haunted place, where my reflection stares back at me,
caught in glass, pools of water, and in the bark of timeless trees…
the coaxing whispers of familiar breezes;
they want me to follow them; to stand on my head;
to throw myself from the bridge — to hang myself again…

And the ghosts of the law ride in on phantom steeds,
the bodies of the beasts decorated with slogans, their nostrils flaring,
sending swirling plumes of hot breath downward with force:
the only warmth in this chilling rendition.
We all share the knife here, carving slogans of our own on to
the ‘people places’ of the past,
gratefully accepting the citations handed down to us,
like unholy wafers at a sinners mass

Somewhere in the distance, a mother cries,
a girlfriend sighs,
and a large stone collides — both with the surface of a fast moving stream,
and my stained, aging memories.

©1997 Jon Mychal




Dowries and teardrops, passed down as pearls;
Ribbons and sunsets for aspiring romantics…
Girls… and the women who steal them — the lavender swirls
take form as birds… then fly to their mark.
Yet still remains the innocence of cast and hue — my coloured moods:
shades befitting the gold that is you.
The red of heart; both within and above;
mine is the perch where sits a dove…
Under loving gaze–the dove, she coos…

Wind under wings, two souls take flight;
Hers is a splendour, both hot and bright,
which embraces a crown and provides me a throne;
The dove, with her radiance, sets flame to the night;
A kingdom established with her and then grown:
Her songs…
The last entwinement — our enchanted tones…

There is no beauty such as hers:
She sings the colours of her eyes; her smile reveals the complexities
in the greatest symphonies written.

The girl who became the dove… she belongs to me.

©2001 Jon Mychal



I’m on the subway – it’s 1981 again:

the Slav reads – it’s ‘Magic’, I did, too, after night shifts at Yonge and Eglinton.

This must be the same train; it’s trademark wiggle loosening some memories…

But now, it has more character – I’m convinced I rode in this exact car when Reagan was shot; when the astronauts in the shuttle burned – when the Berlin wall collapsed.

In fact, I graduated in this car – both high school and adolescence.


Tonight, It all happened again between Lawrence and Eglinton.


©2008 Jon Mychal





While you read my letter, I killed a spider,

who casually tried to outwit a writer.

Not for profit; nor for sport,

it’s simple goal I meant to thwart;

but merely because it looked like you:

those wind blown hairs and eyes pale blue…

And as we spoke, your voice did flutter,

while beneath my thumb I felt it shudder:

You unveiled a statue of your children’s father,

and I grinned and I shook as I pushed down harder;

the spider’s sac at once gave way;

its very essence dispersed as spray…

you let slip a sigh, as if on cue:

pause then silence — a sign you knew…

Your woven tales at last dissolved,

I set about to wash my wall.

©1997 Jon Mychal