Well, that does it. It's time for a break. I might start up again for Advent, so until then, feel free to peruse the collection.

on being 50

yellowing leaves litter lawn after
windy rainy day
but trees still stand proudly bearing
multitude of greenness

trees ------mature and mighty
offering shade and beauty
standing strong against wind whipping
across the ageless prairie

winter approaches
but right now
from trunk to tiny top branches
there is sap flowing

maybe I’ll take up the hammered dulcimer

Billie

she arrives in the rain
her stylish clothes damp
revealing thin frame
but her hat has kept her face dry
and her blue eyes
-------------dart through you with a quick glance

she kisses you in greeting
and then relaxes in the living room chair
you serve her a drink
and she stirs the ice cubes slowly
talking about how she likes the rain
---------how it settles the dust
---------and smells like the world is garden
her voice carries stormy weather
of wild wind and slanting pellets of sleet
autumn leaves forced to
ground

but here she is unbowed
and beautiful

a rainy day visit
and your dust is settled

Psalm III

when I walk down the street
I think:
he’s healthy
she’s healthy
why do I have cancer?

but then I think:
I have this blue blue sky
I have this warm sun
I have this music in my ears
I have these people to love
today

and with grateful heart
I ask for healing

things that could go wrong

you might come from the outside in and slice dimpled sphere
tailing off to the trees or the wrong fairway

you might do the opposite and hook
over to more brambly bush or out of bounds

you might lift your head and top the ball
and it skitters like a mouse along the ground

you might hit the ground before
and chunk it forward a few useless feet

you might miss the ball entirely
that’s embarrassing

you might hit the wrong place in the club
and make it go off in a crazy angle

you might knuckleball the chip
making it sail over the green

you might be using the wrong club
and end up short or long

you might lose your grip
and almost hit your fellow players

putting? that’s another poem

why do we play this game?

Oma Niebuhr's House

every day I drive by the spot where it used to sit unevenly
like a chair with only two legs on the carpet now Notre Dame
is gap-toothed with a parking lot where the house should be
where memories lodge like the tiny markings on the back of china plates
with a maroon rim sitting elegantly on the table where Christmas dinner
was served on boxing day both families gathered to play games
and taub in the old house with doors leading to old-style drawing room
with furniture and lamps covered in plastic the bathrooms were
up the creaky stairs where the tenant lived every year Brad and I
would get the same thing a striped tiger or a colourful sweater
proudly worn and we performed our wunsch for Oma who smiled
and gave us ancient candy us not knowing her tragic past
in Russia and Germany and the will to survive and make a good life
that brought her here to this house on Notre Dame
us just knowing the bossy lady who loved to have pictures taken
of her new life at every opportunity but are there any pictures
of the narrow tall house besides the childhood memory pictures
in our heads?

Deep Dark Woods

a voice clothed in plaid
imposes center stage with
drunk intensity

a voice from ages past
to make me believe in
reincarnation

an old soul standing tall
spinning stories of
love
-----betrayal
----------violence
----------------despair
from centuries before

unkempt beard turns toward
mirror image
who sits dazzling keyboards
with shining eyes reflecting
gatherings in parlours gathered
around to sing and play

these boys with such serious
souls
re-enacting fracturing
manufacturing the slow
3/4 time of the muses

Psalm II

I sing to
creator
of all things elemental

mountains jagged rising from
highway to heaven
seas immense immutable
prairie grasses stretching to
straight line horizon
great green forests
and the lives lived there
rivers which begin and arrive
criss-crossing lands
bringing life

I sing to
creators
who came after

attempting beauty
with astounding gifts
of word
sight
sound
shaping the elemental
into beauteous complexity
always pointing back
to original
creative
love

Penderecki

he doffs his dark green suit
and hangs it in your closet
he wants to get started
his full gray beard guarding his
thrust-out chin

no preliminaries
no niceties

you begin working
and you start to feel
your heart beating faster
sensing the urgency of the moment

how right now
boots march through streets
guns point at doves
bloated stomachs wait and wait
apathy blankets western hearts
islands disappear in rising water

the hours dry up and disappear
and he gets up to leave
struggling with back pain
you hand him his jacket
and he slips it on
and departs
chin first

fall prairie wind

constant tug at steering wheel
gusting surprises

flags stiff
------ends fraying
trees bend like archer’s bow
leaves let go
sailing forcefully across littered lawn
weeds in ditches undulate
like ocean waves
chaff from fields
dusts the air with
harvest
and the
unwavering white noise
fills ears

scientists explain
---------low pressure meets high pressure
old religions talked of
---------the breath of god
but prairie people just
count on the
constancy
the tug towards
towards…

Psalm I

spirit strength upholds
body temple
in times of searing heat
or numbing cold

roots of poplar spreading down
and out
bringing water from the depths

invisible gravity
holding moon in
constant orbit

mysterious message
telling fragile monarch
to flutter mighty journey

sunny spring memory
sustains dormant blades
through frost snow ice

interweaving melody of
God

9/11 memories

when I left house
Leonard was getting ready
to pour cement
for garage pad
liquid rock
unformed

driving with Barry to school
no radio, normal talk
uninformed

get out of car
and Rick informs
- did you hear about the planes hitting?

rest of day
dazed -----dwarfed by defining day
trying to grip ----grasp ----understand
students hitting brick wall of tragedy
bodies falling/jumping

TVs turned off
try for a normal day
yeah ----right

home drive with radio
no words

at home Len is sitting
waiting for cement to dry
into permanence

september heat

I wear white hat to ward off
sun’s bullets
my developing bald spot
susceptible
heat
penetrates blue stripes on back of my shirt
as I swing at yellow balls on range
sweat beads forming on forehead and neck
I think
this is September
where does the heat come from
radiating from below?
CO2 trapped in atmosphere?
God?
I look up and say
thanks
and tee up another ball

Stravinsky

he sounds angry when he speaks
but then you realize that it’s his enthusiasm
his round glasses magnifying his confident eyes
black suit and tie slightly tight

he’s come because the candles on the table
burned too perfectly
no flicker
no draft
his hands wave around conducting
talks about the breath of life
how everything breathes -------even trees rocks houses

and then he stops and breathes himself and lets you
take in the whirlwind of his righteous anger/zest
his rules
his way
always

sunset

there’s an art to saying goodbye

the hug
the words
the wave
the leaving
the shining tears

like the sun setting
orange and red reflections
in western sky

but beauty fades into lonely night
cold darkness of absence

and the light seeps from every pore
creating distance and longing

until sunrise suspends dark

but nothing prepares
for the first leaving/letting
go

radiation

red laser lines criss-cross the ceiling and my body
as I lie on the narrow table half exposed
the technicians in another room away from
the radioactive beams that bore into my body
and double-cross the cells that have invaded
my body like a tiny army intent on
destroying corrupting co-opting devastating growing taking over
I close my eyes and see the battle
swords clashing sparks flying until
everything glows with the red laser light
of hope

cleo poem #6 - on my lap

the purr of a cat sinks deep into the earth
vibrating the earth’s crust

causes the leaves above the ground to rustle
and sway in deep satisfaction
-------knowing that below the surface
-------where roots meander
-------like a lost child in the forest and
-------soak up the water needed to survive
-------the uncanny motor of the world

is chugging away

Chopin

he arrives on a purple bicycle
because he’s playful like that
but he’s wearing elegance
-------white pants -------blue shirt

looks at you with piercing dart-like eyes
and you get on your bike and follow

through gentle rolling hills
sometimes slowing to catch the beauty
sometimes speeding down a slope letting the wind
stream tears from your eyes

and then he stops and lays a blanket on the grass
and he tells of the dance of life
as if that’s all there is to living

but his brilliance and quick words
-------convince

and you eye the slow turning wheel of
the purple bicycle lying on the grass

mighty moments

slide open the jet window
and look out over the tops of the mountains
---------jutting snowcapped
-----------------like whitecaps on the sea

see how the river travels
through the valley
----------a mighty force of glacial erosion

see the sun glinting off the peaks
with blinding beauty
and watch the coastal city emerge far ahead
----------nestled in the shadow of these mighty homes of the gods

because your tiny worrisome agenda should include these
mighty moments of opening
----------sliding window covers

early fall

tree leaves yellowing
littering yard with aging
dry summer takes toll

Portraits of my Mother

standing
-------shivering
by sister’s grave
after years of lugging paralysed
body room to room

standing
--------silent
in light-flooded doorway
watching
--------mind numb
as father shackled on wagon
wheeled away
never seen again

sitting
-------apprehensive
in front of round wooden radio
a day after grad
the German advance begun
knowing dreams of engineering were over
evacuation looming

sitting
=====tear-filled
holding mother’s hand
black dress
minister speaking over simple coffin
of drowned brother

lying
------shivering
sleeping outside train station
in cold October
bridge bombed
waiting to get to Germany

peddling
---------fearfully
with mother
along cobblestone streets
balancing canned foods
and sewing machine
through perilous soldier-filled
checkpoints to
British zone

sitting
-------uncertainly
playing in dirt with little sister
refugee camp
time drags waiting for Canada

standing
--------back bent
over plants
sprawling garden in Gretna
five children playing in yard

stepping
======proudly
carrying steaming dish
for large family
at festive table
basement sunday feast

sitting
-------sadly
in small impersonal
nursing home room
feeding helpless husband

standing
-------devastated
watching her love of 62 years
take his last breath

waltzing
---------warily
light feet
with grandson
at her son’s 50th
birthday party

no stopping her

awakening

music grooves furrows in spine
unlocking layers of dissonance
and I get up
and begin moving feet
finding the rhythm in the
hips
-------heart
---------------head
discorockpoppolkawaltz
wake up senses to others
on the floor with me
unique moves carve heat signatures in the air
and I celebrate the
colours of creation

first bicycle

red painted winged wonder
ok no wings
but wide handle bars
spoked wheels
filled tires

I’m barely tall enough

push down driveway
scooter-like
swinging leg over
and out on the road
wind whipping blond hair

peddling off the seat
bike swaying side to side
back and forth on the road
speeding along with nothing but
a satisfied mind

and out to the highway
travelling away from
town
home
dependence

heart racing along pavement

freeway