IS ALL I SAID

the sign of peace first caught my sight
two fingers extended above fisted hand
were branches atop a wooden walking stick
supporting a joyously rotund figure
frozen waiting at a DO NOT WALK
having rolled herself into position at the sidewalk curb
scarf surrounded, woollen layered in colour
coordinated with fall leaves and winter's approach
an oversized gnome marched out from a Cotswold's woods
but this was Toronto, Yonge at Belmont
a persuasive illustration for a children's book I thought

reflectively my reflex reached for camera
to shoot through windshield at this apparition
and then on green, dashed gas pedal ahead to next side street
parking in serendipitous infraction
uncovered and attached telescopic lens
then rushed with photographic hope to her approach
where she foot rolled faster than my anticipation
until close upon me I petitioned her for time
May I take your picture I belatedly rhymed

Of course! was the reply
A bag lady am I?
A person of character was my honestly expressed response
Would you like a copy sent I asked
I am past acquisition, I am clearing house with fortitude
and in seven years I will have died
I have no intention of being rude
but I choose carefully and deliberately
how and where with others I coincide

respecting her deadlines, distance and mental dance
I prepared to walk away with thanks tossed back to her
when she called me to return reaching for a zipper on her purse
And I have something here for you
as she reached in and with branchy fingers
retrieved a newly printed post card
announcing her republished book HOW THE HEATHER LOOKS
a Joyous Journey to the British Sources of Children's Books
A Beloved Classic - Now Back in Print it read
I am not amazed, there is a reason we met is all I said.

11/4/99
 

ON ROADLESS PRAIRIE

on roadless prairie a young boy rode
across the snow covered grasses and reed
stretched over saddle his imagination was freed
the horse stepping leg lifting load

the air as crisp as linen sheets
the land as flat as a palette for paint
this ride is meant for those not faint
the eyes absorb the light as daylight greets

the heart and breath pick up some speed
as pheasant flutters into sky
colours blending with the wind on high
this journey a joyous inexpressible need

the tree line holds a fire so warm
and books that tell of heart and home
fifth grade is where his mind will roam
until the return to farm through wintry storm.


August 8 & 9, 2004

STILL FOUND IN STRAIN

this house has windows and doors
light and shadows to explore
a living history caught in frame
a comfort found in niches without name

a purpose built with wood and glass
a protection from the elements to last
dimension gauged to human heart
a combination of trade and art

and settled into decades now
the square has angled the carpenter's vow
to keep it straight, secure from gap
precisioned to the plan and map

but just as twigs soon turn to bough
and growing children teach a family how
the patterns and the lace and broken weathervane
greet each new day with the love still found in strain.

4/5/00

MORE REAL THAN OURSELVES

I caught a moment like an atom in mid flight
between the fog of night and the opening of an eye
its trail across the vapour suspended
the force caused my breath to fall from rhythm

an involuntary glance within a dream
a shedding of imaginary landscape
revealed the framework at once exerted and supine
opposites together and combined

no restlessness upon this scaffold to the sky
the interstices complete within my sight
all rivets held by strength of will
grounded in an equipoise so still

that listening to the silence became a song
a congregation hearing its own thoughts
connected to each other in a verse
an instant word more real than ourselves.

5/22/00

APPEAL TO YOU

we owe our lives
to what is left
of the purpose
of this house
depleted as it is
of wildlife and forest
of unfettered river
and clear sky
of spirit connections
to the earth
of mystery to the birth
and the song that threads
us all to one
of wonder lifted with each step
upon the beaten path
and untouched needled floor and grass
woven into patterns
of tradition and intuition

this is the so called eden
the white man's adam
has been cast into
from his own
deprived of god's grace
and burdened with
knowledge empty of wisdom
the hell he has created there
he brings to this shore
first in boats
and now with planes
it?s what explains
the disregard
the love of money
the swift retard
of our culture

to this end
the rebirth of our nations
the recognition of our presence
the regeneration of relationships
however frayed and flawed
from our first meeting
the healing of the great spirit
that has guided us
for so long and so continuously
from our first crossing
into a land inhabited
only by this one
and which we have come
to know and love
our very breath and life
the stars of our thoughts
and wanderings
our wildflowers and buffalo
our waterways and canoe
ten thousand years of suns our story
I thus am still committed
and appeal to you.

11/5/00

ROWS OF GRANITE

I've plowed too many rows of granite
now blunted by the firm resistance
an environment of cold indifference
locked within the layers of persistence

instead the eons of niagaras
have poured themselves across my forehead
over craggy shoulders and crested sight
chiselled by the nested light

what left is standing and remaining
is the totality of my being
no dross or gloss or moss sustaining
ineffable feeling freeing

with this stylus I will inscribe
on paper the passion that lives to describe
the roaring thundrous emotional slide
that sends me hurtling down, then airborne to glide.


2000

AS SILENCE SINGS

the cello paints the air
like liquid song

each fingertip presses the note
like a sheaf of musical sheets
printed in a flurry of mental agility
matched and balanced by the heart

a discipline born of art
bound and stitched by bow and brush
blended in symbol and rhyme
the thought surcease sublime

ethereal, ephemeral rush
of wind upon the grasses
green and purple combine
as image and word

until the pressure of the strings
vibrates with its own intensity
creating to be heard
as silence sings. 


10/27/01

OF CHILDHOOD

mrs. beasley has three children
charlotte, olivia and james
nicknamed picklesticks, fottlebottom and beans

an english country garden
is found in toronto
not far from niagara falls
explored by foot and imagination
a journey followed by far
not nearly as new as a star

but galoshes as ready as red and green
the shiny surfaces are seen
in sleek and sudden umbrellas and macs
the three leave clueless tracks
in random through the grass
then circle round the chairs
in endless parade and airs

explorers on the prowl
for onions and carrots that growl
sidestepping tomatoes so bright
they shine with their very own light

down deck and stairs
in singles and pairs
like ducks aligned
and serpentined

the gaze is question unearthed
and held in hand like birth
the wonder wound in forehead locks
and artistic whitened frocks
in front of answers and easels
threading the thought extending
and sewn in the time of an afternoon



until bright in bed
the wondrous words are said
as of a book are read
in feeling thoughts and dreams
that persist in memories' reams

and so are caught
as sounds in breezes passing
and are heard
netted by ephemeral filaments
drifting from the eyes of sleep

the beasley's, mr. and mrs. plus three,
asleep,
jam in jar upon the shelf
bread in bag for morning toast

clematis climbing toward the roof
to trumpet the day
where all shall play
with sticks and romp and stone
with grass and trees and loam

the ground and sky aspires
to the joy
of childhood.

              
August 2, 2000

911

A ROCK

a rock with rough edges
is easy to find
with sharp points and ledges
like a curious mind

through tumble and scrapes
experience and time
its interior landscapes
are worn into rhyme

those nearest to you
may grind you away
the same as is true
by what you might say

the ones we love
are forever to stay
the clouds above
and the forested way

with rush of water
and endless stream
nature?s daughter
inhabits your dream

by drops of rain
the jagged is smooth
what?s lost is gain
and able to soothe

the stone turns to sand
through more than one storm
but held in a hand
becomes warm.

SWATCHES

she cannot let the colours be
like flowers in a meadow ?round a tree
but like a gardener with packs of seeds
flips through swatches for promising leads

a master dealer with flashing thumb
swift touch to tongue to act as gum
she shuffles with a studied eye
an artist with an image to clarify

a painter with a palette in mind
a poet with a word to find
with nature as her inspiration
consideration is made for shade and sun

as strands of the mystery are found
the light lifts it intact from the ground
the selections from the colour wheel fly
into the open canvas of the sky.

FIRST HAND

You are the painter
I am the narrator
the first of seven
of brothers and sisters
in our farm family
pa lined up the steel milk cans
sitting on the edge of the wagon
and filled them up with water
making the metal even colder
and I helped tip the containers
pouring out the clear liquid
onto newly planted spruce trees
also placed in a row

in the evening, pa sang songs,
he loved to sing, mostly hymns
and then firmly reminded me
to do my homework, counselling
that if I were to make something of myself
I would need to study

ma worked hard in the kitchen
creating confections that would
astound us more than the last
and twice a week would wrestle
with a bundle of dough larger
than her pregnant womb
producing the love and bread that sustained us

pa demanded that we work hard
hoeing and weeding rows of corn
longer than a summer day
but as the days grew short
and harvest on its way
he fulfilled his promise of pay
an outing to riverview park
where, in the back seat on the return drive
I over filled on popcorn
and was given the choice of
a visit to the doctor or
suffering in silence with a belly ache

ma, when inside work was done
sent us out to play
among the caring and fruitful branches
of the ever present orchard
nanny to our display
of diversion and creation

in winter I ice skated
on soles of shoes
in the frozen troughs
and spaces between the trees
now barren of all but memory
which hung like shiny green leaves
and bright spheres of peach and apricot
apple, pear and cherry

across the clear air
I could hear arguments
muffled by the distance
of surrounding neighbor farm houses
not unlike, I?m sure
the ones I heard in more clarity
from our own
as beds and bedrooms were filled
and the days of plenty emptied
with the persistent depression

yet ma and pa
still had time to dance
and I went with
content to be held
by any participant
who cared for me
as the barn was converted
from a place of work
to an event of fun
a second storehouse of memory

grandparents selected ma and pa
as suitable for each other
and ma arrived on pa?s farm
with a dowry of cattle and hens
I know this from one thanksgiving
there were no birds
save one last rooster
sitting in the tree as they would
and pa said this one of grandma?s chickens
would come home to roost
on our dinner plates
but first we had to wait for dark
and come up from behind to catch it

when I was older
and all my brothers and sisters
had arrived, each with their place at the table
it was time for me to travel
into the city for business school
and pa took me
past the front yard mulberry tree
on the train for a dry run to chicago
showing me the route and layout
so I could find my way
and pop also studied
when he could find the time
and this impressed me
I, the first born sister

now, at eighty eight
having survived mom and pop
and three brothers
and my aunts and uncles
I miss their company and counsel
and have become the counsellor
to those younger in whom I confide

and of all the lessons I have
experienced and learned
by grace and merit earned
through survival and living on the land

it is simple appreciation and kindness
that remains, given to you first hand.



August 22, 2001, a conversation
and October 19, 2003

PAINT !

paint,
pursue the pleasure
the imperative
of poetry
philosophize in line
and colour
correct the inhumanity
with a brush
overcome all insensitivities
through yourself
address the options
with your eye
explore the possibilities
by your fingertips
resolve the conflict
through composition
realize awareness
with a tone
excel in language
being born
express the truth
expose the lie
refresh parched lips
amend the torn
become the medium
that you apply
complete the space
that you occupy
layered with the moment
connect the sky.


11/03

OUR GAIN

we live through our senses
we learn to their limitations imposed
not only by what is closed
but by lack of courage to jump fences

the mere determination to stay open
retains the hope of our fulillment
to not IF, but how and when
an ever, ongoing, changing instillment

a quiet and turbulent awareness
a mystical ordinary focus in now
that pulls and reels and begins in bareness
and continues in rareness to allow and endow

our one ever present moment to contain
the intersticed universe within our heart and brain
the external flood and flow of droplets in a rain
that exists apart but with embrace becomes our gain.


12/03

INSPIRATION

inspiration is received from the sky
and is returned as musical notes from flute and string
as thoughts portrayed as prayers that wonder why
as voices tuned to song that wistful sing

as words released like birds that flutter then fly
as bells that utter from cavernous throats to ring
as grain topped stalks in fields of wheat and rye
as portions set aside of harvest offerings to bring

as drawings set in cinder and oil to dry
as brushes bound with bristle against the canvas spring
as pigment pounded into colour and cast in dye
as clothes that swirl and dance in fling

as crafted books beheld in the hands? eye
as paper begun as seeds within the sower?s sling
as pages open as the sun soul?s light supply
as verses etched in ink that with a breeze take wing.


November 2004

CHRISTMAS DAY BY THE LAKE

on christmas day by the lake
listening to nat king cole
I sit in front of a stone fireplace
and my feelings are cast
to christmasses past
on grandpa and grandma's farm
with aunts and uncles and cousins
and the surrounding warm
of lights and presents and good cheer
from all distant homes come here
to gather 'round the christmas tree near

the memories that remain ever clear

the first noel the angels did say
was to certain poor shepherds
in fields as they lay
and to the earth it gave great light
and so it continued
both day and night

o tannenbaum, o tannenbaum
german accents blended with pure english
and voices combined in church chorus
join the triumph of the skies
all eyes intent on hymnbook singing

the rituals speaking personally to us
directly to our rural experiences
the words heartfelt were heard
silent night, holy night
all is calm, all is bright

our farm, our land, our orchard, the animals, the seasons
born to be with us

how still we see thee lie
above thy deep and dreamless sleep
the silent stars go by
yet in thy dark street shineth
the everlasting lights
the hopes and fears
of all the years
are met in thee tonight
and peace to men on earth

the fields born of light are sleeping in the winter's moonlit night

o holy night
the stars are brightly shining
a thrill of hope
the weary world rejoices
for yonder breaks
a new and glorious morn
o night, o night divine

and close to sleep the christmas lights become most bright

away in a manger
the stars in the sky
look down where he lay
bless all the dear children
in they tender care

ethereal as the musical notes of the choirs
gentle as light from the white candles' fires

sing sweet and low
the lullaby
til angels say amen
a mother tonight is rocking
a cradle in bethlehem

while wise men follow
through the dark
a star that beckons them
a mother tonight is rocking
a cradle in bethlehem

a little child shall lead them
the prophet said of old
in storm and tempest heed them
until the bell is tolled

sing sweet and low
your lullaby
til angels say amen
a mother tonight is rocking
a cradle in bethlehem

the rapture and restlessness
the anticipation and blessedness
the simple appreciation
the ample completion when done

the joy and fatigue
fulfill all our need
and carry us forth
with memories of north

the snow and the cranberry
the popcorn and memory
the future shines bright
from the light of this night

silent night
holy night
all is calm
all is bright

all moments forgive
that this my live
a memory born
on christmas morn



celebration is worn
with lights adorn
on joy filled faces
in glowing embraces

and yesterdays past
pile up to be vast
but this one christmas cast
forever shall last

peace on earth and mercy mild
the night in snowy brilliance smiled.


                               
12/25/2003

OF ONES WHO KNOW

when winter rises like a dune
as sands collecting into a moon
reflecting warmth from early noon
and light all from the heavens in tune

with pear upon the loaded tree
each full round ripened memory
still tastes as though the day was born
as night remembers pearly morn

the breeze lifts further in the sky
the bands of wings practice to fly
the seasons rotated into a bloom
a child now grown stands from the womb

the listless way the flowers will pose
the vibrant air that still arose
the leaves that sprinkled with the snow
still hold the dreams of ones who know.


            
October 15, 2005

       

HER STORY

as pressing as a kiss I heard her story
of love not found and loss of glory
a world, a universe across from mine
separated by a table two chairs in line

a time warp in which two worlds meet
a confidence without compete
a recognition of the other given
an expression of the forces striven

the darkness descends upon the window
lights inside continue to glow
revelations through the word
with heart is conversation heard

confirmed and validated, leave to go
a friendship started may serve to grow
into the night I walk with thought
a gift of good will presented unsought.


                            
1/23/06

WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT

Find your memories
make them true
form dreams from action
ever new

persist where first decided
the value is worth the journeying
determine to stay the upward path
though wending wide and turning

use imagination wisely
to see the way unfold
employ nature's sciences as guideposts
being neither too timid or too bold

and listen to the spirit deep within
corresponding to the outside world you cannot do without
enjoy, appreciate each moment as a gift
find the love that nourishes what you are about.

IN OPEN SPACE

the grain sleeps with a thousand eyes
the sun pins down the slumbering skies
the days meld into the prairie peat
their grasses to my footsteps meet

the river carries a continuous dream through the valley
a breeze breathes a flowing stream through the tree
the cattails remember native hands picking
and sandals stitched with rattlesnake master grass wicking

the air is harbour to clouds of ships
the spray of storms as horizon drips
the earth with ice age deposits absorbs the rain
the leaves, now tattered and scattered about, tarnish and stain

the atmosphere is patient enough for pears to grow full ripe
their knuckled branches contrasting as lines of type
the sentences like streets for me to follow in open space
the oak and hazlewood await in the hollow fulfilled with grace.


11/19&20/06

OF BELIEVE

of believe the will you have
stay the hope along the way
bring the joy unto the salve
light the moon into the day

whisper why the how and be
listen wild and calm the sea
hold the hand of branchy tree
walk in footsteps transient glee

glow the thought within your heart
wend the willow path to stream
learn the way and then impart
the found landscape of a dream

below above the cloud sits there
the washing breeze of everywhere
the light upon the blowzy air
the blue mixed in upon your hair.


8/19/05

WONDERING DIVINED

sfumato eyes and smile that grows
a thousand glazes of mind that knows
a rapture of gazes that insistently glows
a spirit like breezes shifts and shows 

a soul in clarity silently gleams
an ethereal river of music that dreams
ephemeral cloud that passes the sun
in nature and heaven all truth is one 

the lifting air and resplendent light
the colour shaded by the night
the blending of the softness felt
with hardness here that we are dealt 

the stirring up a hole in the sky
a witness to the wondering divined
an expression that waits for our reply
love moves the winter of our mind.      

                
May 25/2007       

                       
Mona Lisa Study    

UNCERTAINTY

the answers are in uncertainty
no fixed position ever holds
but love a moving stream of rhapsody
the universe within its silence enfolds

the scuttering clouds across the sky
striations of the rain onto the night
the scudding breezes meet the eye
and lift the spirits to the light

the thought rebounds from where it lay
and stirs a sister impulse found asleep
awakes the senses into day
and rises from the hoary deep

the thunder of the storm comes crashing down
the sea disturbed is thrashing shore
the wonder on the brow replaces frown
as breaks into illumination what it is for.



March 22, 2007

STILL

If I never wrote another poem
the sea would still roll into foam
the sky would pierce the eye with blue
the stars still circle as nighttime grew

above our bed along with you
the morning with the grass rise with the dew
the scent of earth pervade the loam
the adventure stay when e're we roam

the distant lands hold their allure
the peoples and their cultures still the cure
the arts of heaven hold their sway
the breeze still change and so to stay

the radiance of the sun still bless the day
contemplation of the leaves in thought still play
the expression on your face still so demure
the love that lasts upon our hearts still sure.


November 4, 2007

TRUST

I trust that what I put in
can be taken out by
the reader, the viewer,
the interested witness

for it is a telegraphing, a transmission
of my feeling that translates
from my self into your self
to your thought and feeling

we are left with the ruins of time
left to make sense, to make whole what has been reduced
comprehending from the detritus of decay
the material and integration
available to make today.
                

11/5&6/2007

A GARDENER

the flowers that bloom upon this spade

that turns and mixes the soil that made

the garden abundant wherein we played

these blossoms of colour shall never fade


though winter snows may be displayed

the memories of the seasons may be weighed

the landscape of a life in turn surveyed

the love within a gardener a cascade.



2009      

BLOOD HOLOCAUST

it was a sunny day
when the decision was made
that it didn't matter;
that self preservation came first,
that cattle cars could carry humanity,
that those hiv blood infected were dispensible
that politics and power
took precedence over family;

their eyes were open,
they turned their faces so they wouldn't see,
but in their hearts the knoweldge will be
blistering like an eye covered over by a white membrane,
the image etched by the acid of indifference on the brain,
the blood stain on the history books will remain.

it was a bright cloudless day that eyes peered through wooden slats,
desperate for air that was swiftly sucked
and held before it was expelled
into the centre of the box car;
its heavy doors heaved, slid shut
on hopes that on a day like today
would otherwise fly and sometimes find
a place in the clouds to hide;
but today there were no clouds,
the river ran as always green,
water plants streamed on surface
sparkling with whispers unseen,
but ever heard,
like a word
rooted in the muddy bed,
nothing if not apparent
it needed not to be said
except on this day it did;
but wasn't spoken;
the cross, the star of david
the crescent moon a token
ornamentation, architectural feature
that spoke of design,
but nothing that would matter more
to the rows of souls led
to a room, that so long as white tiles were washed and clean
all was right with the world in their head;
and blood poured red
as the sutures of humanity were torn and bled,
on this tree spotted
leaf dotted countryside.

the urgent imperative went out
for the public not to panic
and how better said
than through knowing silence;
how much better to preserve technology,
it will lead to love, eventually,
but not yet;
society can't afford to bet
itself on helpless causes
and if the march to progress ever pauses
to consider all the harm it's done,
through the fingers of its unthinking daughter and son
apathy and lack of imagination
then who would be around to place in order
all the tangible materials that support our
ever increasing quality of life;
sad to say that
some must pay
the price, but don't ask us to speak
on such a lovely day.

smokestacks and chimneys no longer look the same
polished tile is frightening in its gleam
symbols of friendship are suspect and tarnished
smiling indifference has lost all its appeal
excrement that flows along in troughs
includes the blood of loved ones harnessed
into steady subterranean streams
pushed along by the reality
envisioned by banality
the children look to their parents' fear;
the rail cars roll in steady linear
precision, passing meadow, glen,
forest, farm and mountain;
a place for everything
and everything in it place
leaves no room for love and wonder;
spirits live beyond the grave,
many were lost, a few were saved
but both speak with the voice of thought,
from feeling, lifted to what was sought;
a breath of air, a view of the sky,
a drop on the tongue, a hand to hold,
a voice so bold
it would not stop
until all voices resounding,
like a clarion call to joy,
would topple stone;

that spoke nothing,
felt nothing,
loved nothing,
but the height of its own weight;
slide open box car doors,
unwrap the bandages, reveal the sores
that fester without air;
let words speak their meaning
let hearts express their feeling
let life explore the wonder
of walking along the river banks
where waters flow and green gives thanks,
on this delightful day.


10/28/96