John R. plays the offertory

short straight black hair

like winter night

serious eyes  

delicate violin held in

muscular hands

bow begins to stroke strings

liquid honey

pouring out into bright church  

it’s O Holy Night and we listen

to too familiar melody

anticipating

every

interval  

but then he flips

up an octave

song transformed

poised                  hovering

above us like an angel

with outstretched wings

transfixing hearts

bathed in the beauty of

holy night pure love

Newtown - day after

today is limed with white crystals

each bare branch and twig frosted with flakes of ice 

yesterday was bullets smashing innocence

Newtown the epicenter of evil quake 

today is numb with heaviness

frozen hearts encased 

yesterday was raw with rage

little lifeless hearts lost 

I look out at the beauty and don’t see it

yesterday’s fog obscuring

november sunrise

round white world’s edge lit

by half disc of frozen flame

monday miracle

psalm VI

gust sends snakes of snow

drifting off roof

wafting across front yard

like string quartet playing scherzo 

I watch through triple pane R-3 windows

winter taking hold

on bare branches

and iced roads

and reaching through the defenceless glass

and grabbing me by the throat

telling me to

stop singing

stop revelling

stop living  

but I won’t          I              won’t

even

though

the cold

invades

from                      every

angle  

I will sing on

George and Esther - Wass kann es schoeneres geben

his arms stretch                towards               altos

fingers rubbing together

eyes totally engaged in

now

in creating

perfect

holy

moment  

like it’s the first time   

her back straight

at piano

grey curls crowning

fingers finessing keys

even though she doesn’t see

entire hymnals lively in her memory 

they team this way

she the composer and player

he the shaper and teacher

untiring

unflagging

giving

giving

until music

shining like a polished pearl

radiates our souls

for what can be better

remembrance

lone trumpet rings out

last post

competing with exhaust fan

in sombre gym

where poppies perch

on shirts

and scarves

and lapels  

bleachers filled with teens

wrestling war thoughts down

to the mat of their existence

to pin them to the aeropostale shirts they wear

to fade into general wash of 15 yearoldom  

and then the trumpet stops

and the fan is left to invade

the silence

of five hundred wandering minds  

trying to remember

the  unrememberable

Del Barber

tufts of black hair at odd angles catch the eye

rearranged by sweaty hand

between songs that ask the questions

of existence

in jagged verse

and merry melody 

flaying fingers give guitar voice

as songs story our time with casual urgency

telling tales tall and small

of grin and grimace  

he likes to angle to the mic

with squinting eyes

and run long fingered phrases through our

tufted souls

Bethel at 75

shattered stained glass

rays sunny colours

in all directions

centered

by cross in concrete wall 

side windows let in light

through geometric pastel shades

into building on stafford and carter

reaching a pyramid peak

another cross proclaims on top 

this edifice

this work in progress

containing the clay plates of the apostles

with lofty mission and petty needs

sings through time

back to dusty sandaled middle east

and secret meetings of manz and blaurock

and forward to unsteady seasons

gripping to hope of the

kingdom

in all colours and directions

breakfast

still dark outside 

diluted cup of coffee splashed with 10% cream

corelle bowl filled with

multi-grain cheerios

a sliced banana

kellog’s bran buds

1% milk

one slice of raisin cinnamon toast

buttered 

news on the radio

placemat protects table 

still dark outside 

another day stretches ahead

Healey Willan

round wire rims reflect morning sun

as he saunters up the tree-lined path

to meet you

he is smoking his

black         rounded           pipe

taking it in his hand

to speak his formal

 but warm greeting 

you walk with him on the outskirts of the town

and he comments on

just harvested crops

the nearly bare trees

the leaf strewn lawns

the black cleaned-up gardens 

this is his favourite time

he says

a time of precipice

of being keenly aware of the knife edge 

of beauty 

between life and death 

he tells you about the

long       arcing turn of life

with sunshine and shadow

flash and haze

seeding and harvest

as he puffs the sweet tobacco 

and you bathe in the aching beauty

of the moment

Nick's Inn circa 1980

crowded rusty car drive

down grant avenue

then roblin

and across river Assiniboine

on narrow country bridge

to headingly 

we unload

and hunch into booths

of familiar vinyl and formica

menus eschewed

we order chile burgers

fries and coffee

or milkshakes with tall frosty metal cups 

we talk over

and under

each other

words

so important and mighty

ready to take on the world 

this crossing over

         is what lingers

clarinetist

in

tri

cate

jumb

le of

silver

on black 

tapers to tip

with clamped moistened reed 

I’m 13

blonde boy

adolescent hands grasp five sections

push

and

twist together for first time 

gradually mouth and fingers make it part of me

flexible voice reaching up

delving

down 

I was never able to slide up the Gershwin rhapsody

or noodle true jazz like Benny or Woody

but the jumble of feelings when I play

clamps my heart in place 

and I know who I am again

51st birthday dream

I was climbing the hills around Minnedosa

edge of Lake Agassiz

glacial waters of massive inland ocean

lapping these shores 

I hang on to tree branches stepping up

rocks and sand under feet 

I’m not sure why I’m here

sore knee hindering speed

but it feels good

rough touch of tree bark on palm 

rising upward

eyes glaring dusty setting sun

I don’t reach the top in my dream

wake up in blanketed bed in Red River valley 

back at the bottom of the lake

flat prairie pilgrim

psalm V

painting has begun

green summer fading into

yellowbrownred

every leaf

every branch

every tree 

I pass by on road

and see the big picture

your great hand

sweeping

with large strokes

every day a new shade

feathering canvas 

I walk on leaf littered grass

and see your careful tiny brush

making miniature magic on

Manitoba maple leaf

the slow burning colours of

death glowing 

my eyes listen every day

to this September symphony

knowing all too well

blackening bareness

of October

autumnal thoughts

summer flute plays frantic minor melody

air stream cut in half over hole

in silver mouthpiece

vibrations causing sound waves to ripple out

in a tumble of notes

like September days

creating crescendo of coolness

browning the green

and inviting the frantic rhythm

of death into year  

face of love

her lovely shining face

reflected off car window

in light of full moon

round white cut out in black sky 

I think of 336 moons of marriage

of waxing and waning

of cloudy skies and clear starry nights

of frigid Januarys and warm evenings in July

of moonlit walks and stormy nights in a tent

of a friendship glowing and reflecting

in the round full light of love

Jonathan smells the flowers

purple petunias overflow

weathered

wooden

chair

with fresh beauty 

toddler leans over

white hair glowing sunlight

small arm bent

careful not to disturb 

smells fragrant flower

sky blue eyes

staring into future

fragrant world

and him in it

Wynton

hot wind gusting street when you meet him

a sun drenched day

at the end of August

but he’s wearing blue long sleeves and pants 

you shake his hand formally

ask him where he wants to go 

he signals coffee in a downtown café

so you walk the bustle and heat

                he’s swinging his arms

                in a cool saunter

until you enter relief of air

chrome and leather cafe 

he wants to talk New York

how it all works in a kind of rhythm

of taxis and sky scrapers and lights and restaurants and parks and people walking

and how everybody can find a place there

and how it’s important to think cool

even on a hot city summer day 

and you nod your head in a steady rhythm

of content agreement

sisters

in water waist deep

shoulder length blonde hair wisping in breeze

cold lake water ripples around them

their arms create a vee

as they hold hands laughing  

lake

islands

hills

forest

stretch out around them

as they stand together

commanding attention

West Hawk Lake

I would run across the street
sand sticking calloused feet
back red from sun
lunch ready inside cabin

pristine water of lake

crater created

deep as the ocean

a circle of purity

chilled to the bone
but we didn't notice
boys splashing

pretending to swim
proud to wade in chin deep

it seemed we came there year after year
it was our lake
our beach

with concrete wall and long steps leading to street
our white and green cabin
our pure sunny summer place
of sandy feet and sunburned backs

august drive

wind buffets face with relentless late august air

as I drive open-windowed down lonely 206 as

Shostakovich prelude and fugue in d minor

buffets ears with relentless sadness looking out

at ripened corn and sunflower fields waving farewell

to sunny heat of summer and greeting the

browning brittle cool of autumn with final hammer strokes

of nostalgic d major

lightning

jagged bursts light sky

looking out through cracked windshield

in awe of nature’s display

four generations

they sit on green sofa

mountain lake canvas hangs behind

light shadow colour

radiate

from snow-capped peaks and

green    liquid     tranquility 

bare feet of little boy

pink in their newness

dangle on lap of young mother 

smiling great grandmother

and proud grandmother

sit side by side shoulders touching 

four lives

each thirty years apart

radiating life lived

separate

and together

until this green-couched moment

Byrd

you meet him near park

green tunic

white collar

flowing brown hair

neat beard and moustache 

smiling in august sunshine

strolling in English garden

everything clean

manicured 

you comment on the flowers

and he expounds on them

describing the nature of

snow white daisies

yellow lilies

orange snap dragons

crimson roses

purple rhododendrons

velvet violets

ornate orchids

golden-eyed primroses

tiny pink impatiens

pale green hostas

pretty pointed foxgloves

pointing as he talks

describing how they are best arranged 

and you walk along

a step behind

resting in the lovely symetry

Sputnik

blazing sky in low orbit

bright orange shirt

flapping

in weightless atmosphere of

harmonic triplets and chromatic scales 

three antennae                                extend

from shiny

rhythmic

orb

streaking through stars

at eighteen hundred miles per hour

hair and guitars fusing into

one fiery fist of sound

an evolving ellipsis of energy

family wiener roast

chairs in tight circle

round orange flames in center

smoky smiles rise up

Reinland

I round the curve in gleaming crv

hit gravel

and I’m back in time

house barns on left and right 

village nestles sprawling trees

bumps of Pembina hills in distance 

I can hear the Low German already

spoken over cracking seeds

stories of childhoods spent mixing work and crazy adventure 

this place is the soul of my father

where he went back to

when all other memories were gone

field work and siblings

I stand among the gravestones old and new

the chiselled rounded curve on the tops

blunt fingers pointing back

to the basics

wedding poem IV - Kailey and Erny

lone piper stands in afternoon sun

ancient pibroch glinting grass and trees

on           expansive           lawn 

army jeep appears          carrying bride

gown and purple sneakers

smiling camero groom awaits 

this yard is a garden of love today

as steady drone and bright melody join as one

and a highland father looks down from above

and smiles

young filmmaker

appears like magic after movie

dark jeans

dark shirt

hands half in front pockets

shoulders up

leaning on back rest

lights slowly come on in theater

smile

twinkle…

Sarah - day one

clear bright blue morning

morning after midnight birth

your first day 

driving Pembina Highway

little boy in blue in the back

singing songs 

I tell him that you are waiting

a bundle in hospital room

we will bring our smiles and bright hearts 

with his small hand in mine

we step into elevator

rising up into the future 

your eyes pinch shut

as I hold you with grateful arms

happy baby        blessed life

Heinrich Schuetz

immaculate

with pointed grey goatee and moustache

hair combed straight back

white collar over black coat

he shakes your hand solemnly and you invite him in 

he regards you with half-closed serious eyes

and you serve him a cup of coffee

                he takes it black 

he is quiet until you ask him about his children

and then he comes alive

using words like

gift

potential

joy

faith

love

proportion

time

praise

and integrity 

his pointed words strike a chord deep within you

notes bright clean

impeccable

boy with ball

bare feet on green lawn

red and white volleyball

almost as big as you are

tree leaves brush your arms

as you chase and pick it up with both hands

turn around and throw at toyota parked on driveway 

I maneuver it with my feet and kick it back towards you

and you pick it up again

grunting as you bend your knees 

this is serious stuff

as you narrow your eyes to the task

oblivious to the sharp stones

that dig into your tender soles 

all so new

balls that roll when you kick

that bounce when you throw 

a world that begins to be

under your control

almost 28 years

it was a stuffed pepper I think

back in that first year

when everything was new

like the first bloom on a rose bush

our own one-bedroom on Roslyn Road 

cut the red pepper

open

and it became a

flower filled with a rice concoction

baked in oven in tiny kitchen 

set the table for two

vase with red rose 

didn’t taste like much

but we didn’t say anything

revelling in the company and

the rosy future of 28 plus years

of loving and being loved

Springsteen

brown paper torn at the edges

your voice documents our ragged years

always in the background of our living 

perfectly stitched baseballs

your verses curve into our hearts

telling our stories             translating our events 

heavy swinging wrecking ball

your music smashes our order

shows the elemental     dusty path 

to passion

psalm IV

sparrow whistles in the woods

on small island

on vast dotted lake 

one low burst and three high

clear as lake water

tones ring through branches

and soar into blue evening sky

until they reach almighty ear

thrilling to hear the song

planted deep in the dna of earth

so that it is never lost 

always ringing in the cosmos of life

so that my matching song

can burst out and reach the heights

tempest

comes with no warning

wind splashing face         trees bending

five minute chaos