The music, prose and poetry of Bob Jensen

I have been writing music, stories and poetry my whole life and decided to put some of the material out there. I hope you will find something on here that you enjoy. All songs, poetry and prose are copyright © by Bob Jensen.

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The Parable of Ristorante Cattolico

John was a progressive man.  A brilliant lawyer who graduated at the top of his class, he could have made millions practicing law but chose instead to use his degree to fight for women’s rights, civil rights and labour unions.    His vote always went to the left, and his favourite quote was from Dr. King.  “No one is free until we are all free.”  He was married to an equally remarkable woman, a surgeon named Sophia who dedicated her career to saving the lives of others, and who annually traveled to highly dangerous countries as a volunteer with Doctors Without Borders.  They had two children, ten year old twins named Mary and Mark.  They taught them that all people were equal regardless of gender, faith or race and that they could achieve anything they put their minds to.

Every Sunday John and Sophia would bring the children to their favourite restaurant, the Ristorante Cattolico.  On a sunny afternoon in December the family arrived at the restaurant, where they were well known.  The Maître d' welcomed them warmly.  “John, such a beautiful family, how are you all?”  John began telling the Maître d', whose name was Jude, about some brilliant surgery that Sophia had performed that week, saving a life that many had thought was beyond saving.  “Such a remarkable woman,“ said Jude, “such a credit to our community!”

The twins had been standing silently with their parents, but now Mary spoke up.  “Dad, do me and Mom have to sit at the back of the restaurant again?  Can’t we sit up front with you guys?  Do we have to help with the cleanup again?”  Jude chimed in.  “Such a precocious child!  So spirited.”  John explained to her that this was the seating arrangement for this restaurant, that it had always been so.  “But why?  Mommy is smart and nice and so am I.  Why can’t we sit up by the windows with you and Mark?”

Jude replied for John.  “It is tradition, my child.  Women have always been seated at the back.  The founder of our restaurant was a man, and we feel that women are not well suited for the front of the restaurant.  The manager said just last week that he would rather that the restaurant burn to the ground than change this arrangement.  And there is so much ladies like you can do in the back!  When you and your mommy help with the cleanup, you are performing a wonderful service for the restaurant, one that our founder would be very pleased with.  And you know, when you grow up and get married, as you must, you will have lots and lots of babies, and then they will come to the restaurant too!  It’s what our founder wants for you girls.”

“You listen to Jude,” said John, “And yes, some day you will have lots of babies to make sure that this restaurant is always full of people.  It’s your duty.”  The Maître d' lead John and Mark to a table by the window in the full light of the winter sun, and then took Mary and Sophia to the back of the restaurant to a table next to the restrooms.  Sophia smiled at Jude and thanked him for his kindness.  “Not at all my child,” he said, “I will let you know when we are ready for you to help with the cleanup.  You are such a credit to the Ristorante Cattolica.’  When dinner was finished, John and Mark relaxed with desert while Sophia and Mary cleaned their tables and took the dishes back to the kitchen. 

The next day at work, John met a colleague at the water cooler.  “How are you, Peter?” he asked.  “To be honest, John, I’m not great.  We recently found out that our son was raped by a waiter at Ristorante Cattolico, and our neighbour told us that his daughter was raped by Jude in the kitchen.  Apparently this has been going on for years, many children raped and then warned not to tell their parents.  We complained to the restaurant management, but you know how rich they are, and how powerful.   They said they would transfer the waiter who raped our son to another restaurant, and that they would speak to Jude in private about the other allegation.”  John was shocked.  “My God, Peter, that is terrible.  Are you still going to the restaurant for the Christmas party in two weeks?”  Peter did not hesitate.  “Yes, of course.  We will see you there.”

The following week, John decided to bring his 83-year-old mother along.  She had been patronizing the restaurant for her entire life. ‘Won’t it be nice today Mary?” said John.  “Nanny will be at the back with you and Mommy and cleanup will go so much more quickly with the extra pair of hands!”

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Lilac Solution

She broke my heart in April As lovers sometimes do Now who, I wondered softly Shall I give my lilacs to?

Then I walked into the city My scissors in my hands To find the sweetest lilac bush The fairest in the land

And when I found her weeping 'Neath the hard blue sky above I gathered florets faithfully I gathered them with love

An old woman smiled at me “Who is your bouquet for?” I held them out, “For you of course” And left to gather more

Love may come and love may go As seasons through the years But you cannot drown a lilac bush With sorrow’s salty tears

Written May 20th, 2024 at home in Montreal

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I took this photo at Parc Jarry in Montreal while I was writing this poem.

Prayer for Pagans

Do not dress in black for God Nor cover up your nakedness With modesty nor shame

Make daisy chains and rhyming verse In meadows bursting yellow Beneath canopies of blue And walk the paths that pagans traced Before St. Patrick conquered All the greenest fields on Earth And plowed them into furrows Of repentance

And do not search for God In the high and holy space Above the altar For you will not find him there

But light a candle anyway Acknowledging the faithful Who have stood And who have fallen Through the ages

There are rumours of His presence In the ever-dancing rushes And resting in the duckweed Just below the verdant surface In the temple of the pond

And if you listen carefully You’ll plainly hear Him singing Though He sounds much like a grackle Calling to the meek and poor in spirit At each dawning

Ragged pagans roaming In the fever of the gloaming Naked children running Genius without cunning Innocence and wonder Both sacred prayers like thunder Tearing ribcages asunder Where sorrow and enrapturement Are consummated daily In the blessed, precious now

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An Album Review in the American Publication Music Matters, April 2024, printed with Permission

Annie Gallup - Did You Hear the Red-Winged Blackbird?

2024, Gallway Bay Music

For 30 years, singer-songwriter, novelist and poet Bob Jensen has been a successful booking agent at his PEI-based company, Jensen Music International. His recent focus has been on his poetry and collaborations with other artists. 

Jensen's poems are typically accessible. In notes about his poems he writes, "Sometimes when I read poetry, I have no idea what the poet is talking about. When I write I want people to know exactly what I’m saying and why I am saying it, and very few of my poems are what I might describe as cryptic. To me poetry should be an arrow straight to the heart.” And who better than Annie Gallup to set these poems to music? Her own work springs from poetic lyrics, sung and spoken to her impeccable sense of rhythm and melody. Her work is always arranged with loving care and performed with nuanced musicianship. By setting these straight to the heart arrows to music, Gallup helps us more easily connect to the power of Jenson’s poetry. Piano reverberates as if in a cathedral and heavenly harmonies greet the ear in the first track "For The Million Candles Burning," while the lyrics pack references to modern tragedy and biblical destruction on “the last night of the world.” Prayers go unanswered; "And from his poet’s grave/ The prophet marvels at the shame/ For the million candles burning/ For the help that never came.” 

"Who But Daniel," about a dream of a laughing baby boy who never arrives, entwines joy and sorrow with loss and connection as only a poetic song can. “I saw him in a dream/ so many years ago/ Laughter beyond measure/ from that small aortic flow… “For the hopeful place that we had set/ For one as yet to come/ Would be taken from our table/ Before the morning sun.” “A Heavy Millstone,” is a different kind of straight shot, using stark and unflinching language to condemn the pervasive complicity that covered up the sexual abuse of children by priests. Jenson and Gallup are also effective exploring things that sustain and inspire. The clip-clopping banjo driven rhythm (an echo of "Ghost Riders in the Sky”?) of "Run For Me" is absolutely perfect for this poem celebrating the heart thrill and hope embodied in horses running free.

"The Poet's Advice to His Younger Self" is the kind of song you may want to send to yourself at various times in your life.

“Go forth into that morning/ And ride towards the sun/ And climb your a hundred apple trees/ Before the day is done.” Jensen penned "Into the Peaceful Night” as a rebuttal to Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle," inspired by his father's peaceful and dignified passing. Unlike the other songs in this collection, this one is presented with only Gallup's layered vocals, but like the other songs in this collection it is beautifully phrased, emotionally accessible and beautifully sung. Did You Hear the Red-Winged Blackbird? is a serendipitous collaboration, for Gallup, finding words for her music and for Jensen, hearing his words faithfully inhabited and made into music. The serendipity extends to anyone who takes a moment to let these beautiful poems be sung into their soul.

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young girl lying down by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

The Maiden in the Painting in the Pasture

September Sun, September breeze September’s lavish gifts September’s ballerina The weeping willow’s hem a-lift

And I’m dreaming of a maiden In a painting in a pasture Asleep beneath the eye of God Whose beauty does enrapture

And I would lay beside her In that opium-like sleep A cup filled with affection And in silent reverence, steeped

September’s kiss upon her forehead Autumn’s mist of golden sun My palm pressed in her sleeping palm Where second hands refuse to run

Do you recall when time stood still And you loved her like God? When moistened lips told secrets When the moon was on the nod?

When her breast was El Dorado Her eyes, the deep blue sea And September held you both In a sweetgrass reverie?

I am dreaming of that maiden In that painting in that pasture No blade of grass can pass Between our bodies, all enraptured

And as I lay beside her In that opium-like sleep My cup runneth over In that silent reverence steeped

Written at Parc Jarry, Montreal, September 6th, 2023

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Something I just love doing as a writer, is to go to an art gallery and to try to interpret the canvases of the masters through poetry. I'm a huge fan of the French artist, William-Adolphe Bouguereau, and it is a happy coincidence that my favourite of his works is at The Musée des beaux-arts in Montreal where I now live. I recently spent some quality time with this breathtaking masterpiece, and what follows is the result. (The 4th line is a wink and a nod to another French painter of flowers, one who was both Bouguereau's student and a fierce critic of his work)

Crown of Flowers

Crown of blossoms, crown of light Crown of summer’s sweet delight

Crown of breathless, August day Crown of freshly sweet mown hay

Crown of yellow, red and blue Crown of sister’s doting hue

Crown of linen, crown of lace Crown of youth’s eternal Grace

Crown of innocence at birth Crown of bare feet on sweet earth

Crowned upon a gentle hill Crown of time’s quick hands held still

Written at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts on September 2nd, 2023, interpreting “Crown of Flowers” by William-Adolphe Bouguereau.

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Poor Man's Paris

I'm living in Montreal now, and it is the most glorious of cities.

The rushes hover over Sleepy shadows on the clover Where a blanket And a summer love unfold

Their voices float like lilies Across the breathless pond A thrill that all the open arms In heaven may not hold

Two girls caressed of summer No second hand their master And on the breeze The incense dream of hash

They spark like wool in darkness When coaxed there from the flesh On summer's eve of innocence before the autumn’s dawn of ash

And I'm living like a pauper And I'm soaking up the heat And I love this poor man's Paris And the bustle in her streets Did you hear the red-winged blackbird? Do you hear the cooing dove? Je t'aime, je t'aime Je me souviens I too, was once in love

At dawn I dream of lovers Who turn and walk towards me At night I dream of lovers Who turn and walk away

I dream of one with pale blue eyes And braids as sweet as lilac And in her hand My gifted wild bouquet

O' reverie of softness With the currency of stone O' thrill that even angels May not savour as their own

Memories green as lilies Floating on the pond's sweet breath They spark like wool in darkness When stolen from the flesh

And I'm living like a pauper And I'm soaking up the heat As I roam this poor man's Paris On this poor man's tired feet And all around me lovers The sacred up above Je t'aime, je t'aime Je me souviens I once was blessed with love

And I'm reaching like a neuron Isn't that what neurons do? I'm reaching from the me And I'm reaching for the you

I'm reaching like the artist For that little wild bouquet Before October's cooling nights Take wild bouquets away

My eyes, fragile as lilies Floating just above the crush They spark like wool in darkness When wrested from the flesh

They reach into the city stream They reach as children do They reach in supplication For two eyes of pale blue

And I'm living like a pauper And I'm soaking up the sun And I love this poor man's Paris Where poetic dreams may run And I heard the red-winged blackbird Did you hear the cooing dove? Je t'aime, je t'aime Je me souviens A bouquet for your love?

*This poem was started in Parc Jarry in Montreal in August of 2023.  I was sitting next to the pond where I like to go and write.  There are always lots of ducks and red-winged blackbirds, a species I love for both their physical beauty and their squawking song.  On this day there were two girls, obviously in love and smoking hash, and it reminded me of another time in my life.

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Dinner with Gordon Lightfoot, 2008

Remembering Gordon Lightfoot

Canada lost another giant this week.  Gordon Lightfoot was one of the first artists I ever listened to, as my brother got his debut album when it came out in 1966 when I was 7 years old, and I just never stopped listening.  His music has been with me my whole life.

As a young writer, three of my four songwriting heroes were Canadian, and they were as good as anyone in the world.  While Lightfoot and Leonard Cohen are gone now, the other two, Bruce Cockburn and Bob Dylan, are still going strong. (Last year I had the privilege of working with Bruce on this song.)

When I listen to my earliest work, I realize now how much of an influence Lightfoot had on me, particularly on songs like this one, First Time Since August. Small wonder that young songwriters tried to emulate him.  He had it all, lyrics that were pure poetry, melodies that were exquisite and a voice of uncommon beauty. Just a few years ago, when I released my album of obscure songs from some of my favourite writers, I included Sit Down Young Stranger, which I had sung since I was a teen, and which dealt with a conversation I had with my own parents, as many of us did.

The first time I saw Lightfoot was at Place des Arts in Montreal in 1977, when he was touring Summertime Dream, featuring the monster hit, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.  It was a pretty special evening.

Through my work in the music industry I have been fortunate to meet many of the artists I most admire, but having dinner with Gordon Lightfoot was definitely a highlight.  I had flown to Toronto in 2008 to see a pair of Pete Seeger shows I had booked at Hugh’s Room, and when I got there, I found that I was seated at a table with Lightfoot, Sylvia Tyson and music mogul Michael Cohl.  No one had told me I would be having supper with Lightfoot, and my nephew Willie, whom I had invited to the show, was more than a little star struck to be rubbing elbows with such legends. Lightfoot was very gracious and easy to be around, and we spoke a lot about Seeger and Woody Guthrie. Those opportunities when I have had the chance to speak to artists who have meant so much to me have been memorable experiences.

Artists like Gordon Lightfoot are never replaced.  Yes, there will be other great artists – there always are – but men and women of that caliber are unique, and occupy a place in our hearts that is also unique.  I think they become part of the fabric of who we are, and that is a blessing.  When you think of people like Lightfoot, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Bruce Cockburn, Robbie Robertson, it’s easy to see that Canada has always punched above its weight when it comes to songwriters.

Thank you for letting me share these thoughts with you.

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There’s Still a Little Magic in the World

 A firsthand account of the powerful effects of psylocibin on Depression

For 16 long, difficult years, I endured life with severe depression.  Yes, I had good moments and even good days, but overall it was a black pit of hopelessness. Then a couple of years ago, I started reading about promising studies being done by the likes of John Hopkins University and papers being published in the venerable New England Journal of Medicine and The Lancet on the dramatic impact that psylocibin, the active ingredient in magic mushrooms, can have on depression.

The thought of hallucinating had always scared me, so I never tried mushrooms back in the day when many of my friends were using them. The more I read, however, the more emboldened I became at the prospect of finding a cure for my ailment.  Some studies were showing that a large percentage of people with treatment-resistant depression, in excess of 50%, were completely cured with as little as one or two doses.  Finally, I made the decision to throw caution to the wind and give it a try.

First of all, the psylocibin experience is unfathomably beautiful, breathtaking, nirvanic.  As I told one friend, “you come for the hallucinations, but you stay for the proximity to God.”  Small wonder that people using magic mushrooms often report having mystical or religious experiences.  While I fully understand that what I felt was the product of the drug I had ingested, I did feel a deep sense of being in the presence of the divine, that God was all around me, and in me.  Waves of love washed over me in what felt like a river of serotonin and all I could do was to hold my hand over my heart like some breathless medieval pilgrim who had just witnessed a miracle.  I really had no idea as to what euphoria even was before mushrooms.  I have spent my life searching out unique and interesting experiences, and nothing quite compares with a magic mushroom trip.

That was the fun part.  Here’s where the rubber hits the road.  Although my first experience involved a relatively modest amount of the drug, the next morning, upon waking, I was keenly aware of how good I felt; not high, completely sober, but feeling fantastic.  A week later I took another stab at it, this time doubling the dose, and again, the following morning I could not believe how good I felt; optimistic, cheerful, like I couldn’t wait to get up and do stuff. And over the next few days I came to realize that the awful brain fog associated with depression was completely gone, and I was thinking with a clarity I had not possessed for decades. And if that wasn’t enough, the fatigue, the terrible burnout that had been one of the difficult symptoms I had struggled with, was also gone.  In fact, I had such renewed energy that within a month I had gone from a five day work week to four days, and I was still getting much more done than I had been with the extra ten hours.

It was as if all the nasty little switches in my brain that had been glued to the “on” position were now turned off.  I found myself feeling so good, that I started taking better of myself, exercising every day, and eating a healthier diet than I ever had, and the pounds just started dropping off.  I have not felt this good since I was in my twenties, and I’m 63.  

It is not an exaggeration to say that thanks to psylocibin, I got my life back.  I am so happy and so very grateful.  Psylocibin is still a prohibited substance in Canada, but the authorities seem to be showing some compassion here. Dispensaries are popping up all over the country and I understand that there are now stores from Nova Scotia to BC that are openly selling magic mushrooms.  

The full psychedelic experience can be intense and may not be everyone’s cup of tea.  Studies have shown, however, that even micro doses, amounts so small as to be barely felt, are curing depression in people who have not responded to any other treatments. Australia recently legalized psylocibin for the treatment of depression.  Let’s hope Canada follows suit.  “The black dog,” as Churchill called it, is a hellish condition, and it would appear that for many, a safe, natural and inexpensive cure is there for the taking.

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A Brave Champion of Human Rights Needs Our Help

Please take a moment to read this.  It is very important.

I have spend my life admiring brave people like Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie and Bruce Cockburn, artists who were always willing to put it on the line for a good cause.

 Today I want to tell you about my dear friend and colleague Thomeki Dube and his daughter, Sandi. Thomeki is a member of the Zimbabwean group, Black Umfolosi, whom I have worked with for many years. While touring in Canada last autumn, Thomeki received word that the dreaded CIO was looking for him in Zimbabwe, and that his life was in grave danger. The CIO is known for the use of torture, rape and murder to silence critics of the government, so Thomeki and Sandi (also a member of the Black Umfolosi) made the very difficult decision to apply for refugee status in Canada. They are currently living in a crowded shelter in Alberta, and while they are truly grateful about this, the conditions are very rough, with most of the 450 people there being drug addicts, alcoholics, criminals, people with serious mental health issues. Apparently hygiene is sorely lacking.  They have no source of income and nothing but the clothes on their backs.

 A little background on Thomeki. He has spent his entire life fighting for human rights and helping other people, and founded and funded a school in Zimbabwe, which helps underprivileged youth and single mothers attain skills that will give them a fighting chance at making a decent living in a country where this can be most difficult. When Black Umfolosi tours, all the financial proceeds from their merch go to funding this school. You can read about the school here.

 But that's not what got Thomeki in trouble. The following is from a letter from the 1893 MTHWAKAZI HUMAN RIGHTS RESTORATION MOVEMENT:

 "This is to confirm that Mr. Thomeki Dube is an 1893 Bayethe Board of Directors member of the Mthwakazi (Matabeleland) Human Rights Restoration Movement; a genocide-victims led

Matabeleland Human Rights Organization. He joined the movement on its formation on 13th

November 2016. Mr. Dube is therefore a founding member of the Movement and has been with the movement for 6 years. He has served the movement as the Director of History and Culture up until November 2022. Mr. Dube has, on several occasions, reported to the movement that people in plain clothes have come to his home in Bulawayo, searching for him on several occasions. He has reported that he had to ensure that he does not spend much time at his home with his family or sleeping home as he is at risk of being “picked up” to disappear.

 Mr. Dube has, since 2016, been part of this organization that has held events and demonstrations

calling for Truth, Justice and Reparations for the Genocide that was committed by the state of

Zimbabwe under the leadership of Robert Gabriel Mugabe and the current President of Zimbabwe, Emmerson Mnangagwa, who was a state security minister at the time and Mugabe’s big enforcer in committing crimes against humanity specifically in Matebeleland. The events and demonstrations were and continue to denounce the Matebeleland Genocide of the 80s and the on-going human rights violations taking place in Matebeleland and elsewhere in Zimbabwe. This call by the Movement makes Mr Dube vulnerable and unsafe in Zimbabwe and a target for elimination."

 How many of us would be brave enough to do what he has done, and risk so much? And so I feel that a brave and noble man like Thomeki, who fights for all of us when he fights for the cause of human rights, deserves our financial help. Even if you can only donate $10.00 or $20.00 it will go a long ways in helping to get both he and his young daughter into more liveable conditions.

 I have set up a Go-Fund-Me page which you may visit here.

 I’ve known Thomeki for many years, and he is one of the nicest people I have ever met, and I know that if you or I were in trouble, he would not hesitate to help us.  Thank you for taking the time to read this, and for considering making a donation, and I hope you might forward this to your friends, and post it on your social media.

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Zimbabwe’s Great Stars Ijonjosi Cover my Poem, “I will Make The Saints To Dance for You in Brussels

A second vocal group from Zimbabwe has turned one of my poems into a song. Great Stars Ijonjosi hail from Bulawayo, and when they sent me this song it came as a complete surprise. Listen here as they interpret “I Will Make The Saints to Dance for You in Brussels.

I am hoping to travel to Zimbabwe for poetry readings and workshops.  Stay tuned for developments on this.

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One By One

Fat old men And fat old dogs Upon their fat old laps Give comfort to each other As the minutes do collapse

Days crashing like dominoes Towards the dark abyss As one by one they disappear And soon enough will not be missed

Empty armchairs Empty laps Lost to time’s uncaring mist ©

Written January 3rd, 2023

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An Interview I did in 1984

Yesterday I came across an interview I did with the Telegraph-Journal (Saint John, NB) in 1984 when my my LP, “First Time since August” came out.  I had completely forgotten about the time I got robbed in Thunder Bay, Ontario until I reread this.

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For God so Loved the World

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. 

For Frank so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son to the trenches at Passchendaele that goodness might not fail, and that evil might justly perish in the firestorm.

For Michael so loved the world that he gave his only begotten sons, three of them, to Normandy, The Bulge and The Battle of Britain, that goodness might not fail, and that evil might justly perish in the firestorm.

For Evelyn so loved the world that she gave her only begotten son to the Tet Offensive, that goodness might not fail, and that evil might justly perish in the firestorm.

For Natasha so loved the world that she gave her only begotten daughter to The Battle of Kyiv, that goodness might not fail, and that evil might justly perish in the firestorm.

For Man so loved the Lord that he gave a thousand generations and a hundred million sons and loving daughters to the blood-drenched fields of carnage, where they were martyred as they cried out for the Prince of Peace to intervene, that goodness might prevail, and that evil might justly perish in the firestorm.

Written November 29th, 2022

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Black Umfolosi Releases “Who But Daniel?” as Latest Single

"Who But Daniel" is the true story of a dream I had some 30 years ago.  I wrote it as a poem, and Sotsha Moyo from Black Umfolosi set it to music.  This is the second single from "Reason to Believe - Songs from the Poetry of Bob Jensen"  The track has been released to radio in 31 countries around the world.

 Visit Black Umfolosi here https://blackumfolosimusic.com/

 Visit Bob Jensen here https://www.firsttimesinceaugust.com/

Copyright By Bob Jensen 2021

Published by SGO, UK

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Which Side Are You On?

It was my great pleasure and privilege to record a protest song with 15 of the finest folk/roots artists in the world, an updated version of Florence Reece’s “Which Side Are You On?”  Please help us share this message far and wide.

Musicians in Alphabetical Order

Black Umfolosi Vocals, Zimbabwe Ray Bonneville Harmonica, Canada/USA Bruce Cockburn Vocals, Canada Chris Corrigan Acoustic guitar, Canada Guy Davis Vocals, America Ani DiFranco Vocals, America Maria Dunn Vocals, Canada Adam Hill Upright bass, Canada Bob Jensen Vocals, Canada James Keelaghan Vocals, Canada Richard Knox Drums, Canada Lucy MacNeil Vocals, Canada Tony McManus Guitar, Scotland/Canada Moulettes Vocals, England Oysterband Vocals, England Richard Perso Didgeridoo, Australia Heather Rankin Vocals, Canada Martin Simpson Vocals, banjo, electric guitar, England Jon Weaver Vocals, Canada

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Terminal Self-Consciousness at The Beach

I like to get high at the beach.  The sun, the water, primary-blue skies, all very conducive to a smackerel of bud.  It should be said, however, that the strains of cannabis out there now are nothing like the weed we smoked back in the 70s. In fact, some varieties are five and six times stronger.  So in public places, discretion can be the better part of valour.

I was recently at a crowded beach on the north shore of PEI and decided to indulge in a bit of the devil’s lettuce. For a while, I was quite content to sit in the shade of my umbrella listening to music.  It was a perfect beach day.  The heat, however, was intense so I decided to go for a swim.  Now for me anyway, one of the side effects of pot is that it makes me super self-aware, something my brother calls, “terminal self-consciousness.”

As I started my journey to the water like some poor turtle hatched with bum legs, it seemed to me as though I was lumbering, wobbling in the sand, and truth be, I cannot say now with any certainty whether that was the case.  And when I chanced to glance down at my pasty white flesh, it was like the skin on a vanilla pudding that has been hiding at the back of the fridge for a couple of weeks, with some little hairs on it, the kind of hairs you might find on an anemic rat.  By this point I was meandering like a manatee on wooden legs as I ambled past the frisbee players and sandcastle engineers, teetering from side to side like a high-rise in a hurricane.  And all of this was taking place beneath an unrelenting sun, as though I was in God’s own interrogation room with a giant lightbulb on me, highlighting my various imperfections to the huddled masses on the beach.

Just as I made it to the water, my anxiety over the situation turned to an appreciation for the humour of it, and I started to laugh.  And I laughed, and I laughed and I laughed, until I realized I was standing there alone, under God’s own lightbulb, laughing hysterically for no apparent reason.  Queue up the terminal self-consciousness again.

“Mommy, why is the manatee laughing?  Doesn’t he know he’s crippled?”

“I don’t know sweetheart, but look away.  We don’t want to attract its attention.”

Don’t ask me why, because I have never witnessed this before, but in the clear shallow water, you could see all kinds of little lobsters scurrying about.  I do see them from time to time, but never in such numbers. As I was laughing and enjoying the sights and sounds, something bit my toe.  It must have been one of the little crustacean bastards, and when he got me, I went from giggling to emitting a most undignified yelp and then began flailing wildly.  My son, who was already in the water, said, “What happened Dad?”

“One of the little bastards got me!” I yelled back, probably with much more volume than was necessary. I can’t be certain, but I think the volume of my remark might have been at ten.  No, maybe eleven.  I think they may have heard me in Summerside.

“Mommy, why did the manatee scream like a little girl and splash like that?”

“I told you to look away!”

And then I got pinched again!  More yelping, more flailing.  Well fuck this, I thought.  I’m heading for shore before they take me down to Davey Jones’ locker.  So I turned around to head for the beach like a frightened soldier storming Normandie, but as I did, the blinding sun was in my eyes, and now my wet vanilla pudding skin was glistening, highlighting even further my various and substantial imperfections, and this time I was facing the vast audience. It felt, in fact, as though my nipples were as big as fire hydrants and just as visible.  Okay, I thought, this is really fucking bad, but I can’t stay out here to be devoured by the fucking lobsters.  And so I lumbered on my manatee peg legs, fire hydrant nipples glistening under God’s interrogation lightbulb, so as to catch every eye on the beach, back to the safety of my little umbrella.  

Copyright By Bob Jensen 2022  ©