our love

this is how it works
my cold chest to her warm back
arm round waist – hold hands

Papa Haydn

he is a bit stooped
as he walks up your snowy walk
using his cane
white beard starting to form icicles

“reminds me of the Alps”
he says
as he enters your warm house
unwraps tartan scarf removes woolen coat

he is old by now
but you wouldn’t be able to tell looking
into aqua blue eyes
clear and shining

very polite and proper
he sits and drinks some coffee
with his cake
china tinkling with a slight shake of hand

he wants to know about the structure of your house
how it was built
dimentions
special features
and he smiles as you tell him of
bay windows and the three season sunroom

in fact
the smile never leaves his face
as he points his wizened finger towards the window
and says again
“reminds me of the alps”
and you smile back
thinking alpine thoughts on the wintry prairie

Crete (Water Poem IV)

I remember that picture
the day I lost my wallet in the sea

but at that moment
standing knee deep in the astonishingly warm salty waves
sand covering feet
arms spread wide
body bent backward
eyes up to the ancient blue sky of Crete
I feel the double warmth of sun on face
and water on legs
and the strands of wire-like
worry around heart
release

this sea
so full of recorded history
myth and memory
is just/still blue water rolling up on shore

and I am one man/speck in the
panoply of the ages

but still
as I lie back and let the waves rock me like driftwood
the sky a greek quilt
sun scorching and sea bath warm
I create a healing
sacred
memory
to last a lifetime

writing it down (part II)

sun stabs/invades little room
in the middle of the hall second floor
patients waking up noisily say it is Saturday

but here time is lost in the sea of grief
waiting for the next breath
our vigil continues

Mom goes home to clean up
he seems more still----peaceful
talk turns to funeral plans

we take our turns going home
Winnipeg world seems too normal
in our static lives

question hangs in air
is nothing more to be done?
now it is just the waiting and solemn leave-taking

I go home for Saturday night
bed too comfortable
for this jagged time

early Sunday drive back
through snow and tears
others can take a break

nothing changes in the room
can he be weaker?
fighting for every breath

hymns play in background
mom and I on either side of bed
fatigue and sadness bear her up

it seems he asks for water a last time
we brush his lips with the sponge
Lieber Vater hoch im himmel rings through small speakers

breathing slows down long pauses
we both stand and wait
as he breathes out his last

I look to see my mother
alone-----now-----bereft
his spirit gone

leaving body cold

writing it down (Part I)

friday evening ringing telephone:
“dad’s not well
this could be it”

stomach stops normal function
driving winter highway in silence
the heater so loud we turn it down
this is not the usual weekend visit
------- reading--------crossword--------supper

the room is different
dad is not tilted in his usual chair
---------bed in center
thatch of white hair against pillow
breathing so loud
so horrible
mom is lost in this tiny space
nothing to do

cousins gather
chatter forces normalcy
but the vigil has begun

what else to do but sing
hymns travel down donwood hallways
young voices carry older tears along the wavering melodies

arrangements made for night
mom stays and we take turns
cramping into chairs
distracted minds rest against metal
rattled breathing continues even after pauses
it could be any time
but each time the next breath forces into lungs

life force – a fearful thing

new cat

play
pounce
leap

scamper
chase your tail
paw the pencil
------under piano

rub against leg
purr for a hand
stretch out and sleep

where did you come from?
waiting at our door in snowy starvation
thinking: here’s a home for me

now here
playing hunter
in our hardwood/carpet forest

we watch and smile
at life so sung

chemotherapy III

I’m going eight rounds with this bruiser

he hits you in the legs
the gut
the hands
the feet
the head
the mouth
the teeth

what do I do?
do I fight back?

I sit there and take it
rope-a-dope

until he’s done his worst
and then I’ll struggle up off the mat
first on all fours
then stand up
one leg at a time
wipe the blood off my knuckles

then

kick away the tubes and bags
and stride into street
still standing
stronger

Hagar (Water Poem III)

stone most of her life
a cup of clear water
held in her own hands
there… there…
mother words from someone who couldn’t mother

this before her death

servant Hagar
cast out into desert
with just a skin of water
separates her thirsting boy---------from her
and
turns away
not a mother

a well appears and
turns everything around
another nation born

even the stubborn non-mother
receives water

and drinks the elixir of grace

I fill my cats’ water dishes
there… there…

time

for most
it seems an ever-growing box to fill with
randomness
whatever comes along
a visit here
an affair there
a trip maybe
marriage family friends
jobs or career
a pastiche of things that happen
to them
--------dreams are for later

For some
it seems to keep shrinking
and it gets filled
frantically
a last dream trip
make relationships count
leave something lasting behind
quit the mundane and fulfill a dream
help people

For all
it is finite
definite
just don’t know how big
every day an opportunity
to fill with meaning
with something lasting
to appreciate a moment
a kiss
----a sound
---------a snowflake
--------------a gift
to try to love
everyone
always

amaryllis

there’s something serendipitous about a plant
growing straight up in the middle of winter
sitting in its snow white pot on the kitchen table
while the deathly cold grips everything outside

a quarter of an inch taller each day
the thick green stalk points upwards
to the ceiling
the sky
the harmony of the heavens

flower bud cradles the top
it’s almost ready to open
like a baby’s eyes in the morning
into passionate red petals

a complete flower sparkling
ready to finally take its place in
the pantheon of plants

good friend - good man

I climb into SUV
a welcome fluttering feeling
pervades despite the frigid air

easy banter on the way
he listens carefully
and we chuckle old jokes

we enter parking garage
he kibitzes with the attendant
a break in his day

restaurant is packed
but undeterred we climb stairs
and sidle to the bar

he asks the dark haired waitress
about her day she smiles and he
gains her guarded trust

we order food without a table
and eat standing chatting about
our divergent lives after a common history

the arena is humming
he knows people and stops to chat
comfort like a fleece blanket surrounds
and we head to watch the game

he drives an extra forty minutes
to take me home
but the fluttering wings of friendship
make it ok

Bill Evans

unlit cigarette dangles precariously
from corner of mouth
as he steps inside
immaculate black suit
slicked back hair

he asks to see your home and
you do the usual tour
but he wants to see everything
even the closets
he likes to go where no one has been before

you offer him coffee
he likes it black but sweet
and when the brew is ready he begins to chuckle
belying the serious horn-rimmed eyes

he finds amusement in the little things of living
the way a rabbit tracks across a new layer of snow
the way the smell of fresh-baked cinnamon buns pervades
the way people make connections even though they are very different
the way that one cup of coffee is never enough
the way a cat sleeps on the back rest of a blue leather couch
the way closets hide secrets

he sips his last and gets up to leave
cigarette still unlit
still dangling
with a shy smile
he strides out and you follow his dignified form
but you know
you know

Water Poem II

I slowly slip into the warm water of worship
enjoying the sensation of being enveloped in
buoyant heat

I lie back and let the familiar clearness
support me as I rest my head on the solid
porcelain

my mind wanders to thoughts of thankful
love and grace as the water laps around me
like the thin pages of an old bible

the dripping tap and sundry house sounds
create a song of comfort and challenge
that echoes the brain

I step out refreshed
clean
dry off
ready to face what comes with
faith
-----joy
---------love
--------------peace

cold winter morning

our new cat skittles around the house attacking or running from
ghosts as I walk around determinedly in my housecoat lifting small
barbells to get back some of my strength outside the cold crackles
looking harmless and peaceful in the winter sun as it glints the white
white snow my hands cold as I write this the furnace still chugging
mightily to warm the house after a cold night renaissance music
pours gently out of the speaker like pure golden honey soothing a
restless mind and I notice the other speaker is silent so I move the
couch to discover the wire disconnected probably because of our new cat
well at least there’s something practical to do besides curing writer’s block

four pets - four haiku

Cassie

tail wagging at door
brings you a gift – shoe, pine-cone
small dog, big body

Bailey

wet feet from fresh snow
tiny mouth gnaws at new bone
stays for short cuddle

Henry

loud crow-like meow
quick to purr with friendly scratch
shy paw sometimes alights

Cleo

Freud would have field day
she needs you but doesn’t show
softest fur in world

like pictures

“Kinder wie die Bilder”
Children like pictures

my Oma Niebuhr said this often
in her home on Notre Dame
as we tumbled on her floor or argued at her kitchen table
game pieces precisely placed

usually in winter
with mesmerizing flakes
coming down
covering roads and sidewalks
making shoes and tires slip and skid

never knew what she meant
compliment
or reprimand?

She loved pictures though
made us take them at every gathering
and she was usually front and center

the pictures give a portrait of a strong woman
she’d lost…
-------husband
-------------home
-----------------children
endured
-------war
-------------famine
------------------migration
-------------------------poverty

but she delighted our presence
giving us stale chocolate
taking mental pictures
of fleeting happy times
like melting snow on a Sunday afternoon

Bob Dylan

it’s always been the hair
dark
wild
unruly
curly mass
growing/going
in all directions

everything else changed
music
themes
style
mood
faith
voice

but the genius
tangled torrent
from the head stays constant
and we watch and listen
rapt

Dvorak

he’s on the cusp of something
you can tell by the way he rocks on
the balls of his feet
standing in your doorway

he’s wearing an off-white suit
and his curls combed back
hefty beard sending waves of confidence
he finally comes in
he asks for a sharp pencil
and thick paper
and patiently waits

then begins drawing

seems to unleash ideas with a pencil in hand
the doodles depict rivers and trees and sky
but his words go further
speaking of beauty broken up by
flashes of reality like
a river corrupted
a diseased tree
a clouded sky

he’s not sure how to say it
and you’re not sure you understand
but there on the cusp
you catch his bearded meteoric mood

winter

I hate winter
the way the warring wind
seeps warmth from your
cheeks
ears
fingertips

makes tears fall from eyes
freezing to cheek
as I cross Tache to get to car
a semi-permanent record

creates fissures in our paved psyches
opening up our wounds to the world
red gaping incisions
that never quite heal

through a window from a warm house
there is beauty
pristine powder snow
pale blue sky

but it is illusion only as
the death of winter takes over all

Water Poem I

a moment of reflection
by the water
river?
lake?
sea?

weeping by the waters of captivity
of slavery and asked for a song

songs go with water
flowing
------- undulating
---------------calming
--------------------rhythmic waves lapping
life-giving

In the end they sing a prayer
dipping in the waters of humility and
worthiness

Lynette's strings

yellow and soft cotton
tied her bumper pad to the crib
and she slept as they entwined between
pudgy fingers

moving to a bed
we cut off the strings
sewed them to her pillow
losing them would unleash storm
from tiny body

we had extras just in case

before long she carried them everywhere
along with toys dolls stuffed animals

displayed proudly as
“STRING!”

but at night they once again
gained importance as they wound
around her toddler fingers just as
her unique spirit
wound around our hearts

Dad's desk

stately sitting in the home office
dignified
work place
tannish brown heaviness
large surface
--------covered with papers, documents
crossword puzzles, typewriter
a pen set on the end
drawers filled with tax papers, pens, records, letters
he loved his pens

on top of everything
the latest project
------- Sunday school lesson
------- editorial
------- translation
------- radio show

unspoken rule: don’t move anything

when Mom and Dad moved
it came to me
had to unscrew the solid heavy top
to fit it down the stairs

and now it is a part of him that is a part of me
stately supporting my iMac

epiphany

three – it had to be three

three kings
wise men
astronomers
astrologers
magi

from the east apparently

followed a star
was it moving?
it showed an exact location?

farfetched it seems

but there is much to learn from legend

from the gifts
-------precious metal
------- rare fragrance
------- medicinal tree resin
from the worship
from the Herod encounter
--------and the warning
from the bright star symbol
------- new light is born
from the unquestioned following

from the hope that keeps one dusty foot moving
in front of the other

were they real?
does it matter?

insight times three

northern winter sunset

it’s early
but it’s getting dark anyway
half sun sending orange light
across the flat red river valley
we drive the highway south

sometimes trees get in the way
but then the bright brilliance
penetrates again

too warm for sundogs
but orange reflections
linger in winter blue sky

If we drove southwest
how fast would we have to go to keep up with
the burning brightness?
navigating the curve of the earth
in this almost snowless prairie wilderness

the beauty only lasts a few minutes
and then night descends like a
thin blanket
on our lonely and silent thoughts

warm corner (Warmen)

we are in our old house in Gretna
a visit with old friends
and I look through a doorway

a boy four or five
short blond hair
sits in corner enclave
where comforting warm air blows
out of a register on the wall

this is his spot
no flames or burning wood to watch
just white walls and
mum working in kitchen

he has a friend though
he lives here
in this spot always
they play and talk in quiet whispers
telling secrets only they know about
being so grown-up

the whispers fly up through the register
and are lost in the ducts of the house
you can’t go back and hear them
even though parts of the boy still linger
in that enclave

Dizzy

he walks up your sidewalk
silver suit glinting sunlight in the shirtsleeved afternoon

you shake his powerful hand looking through black rims to see eyes dancing

he starts the conversation
letting you respond with your ideas
but he flits from one topic to the next
his body never still
by the time you are inside, you’ve covered

how different colours should mix more
how life is a precious box – get everything in that you can
how new words are needed to say new things
how we should celebrate the uniqueness of every leaf
on every tree

and he keeps going
---------at the speed of light
every word a clear resonant dart in your ear

and you succumb to the quicksilver mood

St. Joseph Wind Farm

they rise up white wings
stately turn in prairie wind
warm winter thoughts rise

family birthday dinner

memories buzz around like flies around a table of food in our backyard
we sit around small table at Maxine’s I look at each one seeing
my version of who they are/were dark sweatered boy/man
tousled toque hair confidently deciding each order smiling
blonde with overwhelming scarf of energy round eyed
girl watching all with poise and pride newly necklaced
wife/mother one year older singing songs of love
in her eyes
sometimes we notice the cloud of flies and
take a swipe but other times we are too
busy inviting more to join
the rest

jigsaw

two heads
mother daughter
bend over
oblivious

pieces litter the table in apparent chaos
edge is complete
creating a frame within which to work
one thousand pressed paper partial pictures
to try to fit together into coherent whole

it’s hard
this fitting together of the chaotic
demanding
patience---------perseverance---------problem solving
but becomes so much easier
with two bright faces
mother and daughter

Janus

snow swirls furiously
in January wind

looking with two sets of eyes
backward and forward
and both yards fill with strata of
flaky
time

what does a year of
tests
-----diagnosis
---------------more tests
--------------------------waiting
-----------------------------------surgeries
sickness
----------diminishment
-------------------------treatment
------------------------------------recovery
----------------------------------------------setbacks
constant worry

mean?

the back garage door bangs open and closed on creaky hinges

I go out through the front door to fix it
shutting it and
move forward on a new layer of snow

portzeltje (new year’s fritters)

oh you pocket of warmth and
promise
packed with raisins
of popping squishiness
covered or dipped in sugary white

come to my waiting mouth
and I will bite
teeth meeting little resistance on the crisp
outer shell
to get to the hopeful doughy center of
a new year