The Bean

lifts hat in greeting
black fedora
and you shake his hand
 
you begin your walk
through bustling city streets
but there is no hurry
 

purposeful slowish stride
his imposing presence creates room
as he shows you the architecture
 
each building has meaning for him
and he tells you their stories
in measured rhythmic prose
 
until it's time to part
and you say farewell
but you feel completed
 
like a head topped with a black fedora
 

thoughts during opening ceremonies

two hundred and four individual flames rising

on individual copper petals  and converging

into one cauldron surrounded by colour clad

athletes from two hundred and four countries

one of them Syria where government troops

amass to massacre own citizens

athlete wearing white and gold stands proudly

at podium to take oath of fair play while officials

get ready to test all winners for steroids and

some will be caught

speeches laud merits of faster higher stronger

of athletes who push themselves to limits

the value of competition and participation

while headlines extol gold medal counts

for the richest countries

Rembrandt

he sculpted canvas with brush and paint

opening curtain to let in light

so that it fell on faces

glowing with life

cheekbones shimmering

eyes speaking the truth of living

to us who stand in wonder

in the shadow of greatness

where Longfellow imagined "Hiawatha"

we descend stone steps
deeper into valley
rainforest-like closeness
amid lush greenness
 
falls fill ears as we near your spot
and then we arrive
to see pillar of water
“plunging downward”
 
sound thunderous now
Gitche Manitu
speaking across ages to you
and now to me
 
we follow winding pathway
until the river widens
and becomes a pool
so we can wade in the cool refreshment
 
and hear your splashing voice in our souls

Gillian Welch

beads of sweat find forehead in stifling theatre but no one

leaves because the figures on stage find a place in our spirits

she in wispy black dress cowboy boots auburn hair slightly

crouching with guitar he in suit and cowboy hat guitar a part

of his being they play and sing as one her voice a bright clear

alto his picking like a fire it's so hot

they heat up the night with their timeless tunefulness

meeting Arya

I look down at perfect feet

touch tiny toes

soft smooth

she reclines in my arm looking up

large round dark eyes bathed in trust

what do babies do to take

me

out of myself?

exist without

ego        gnawing at heart

they just are

perfect

pure

gifts

bike ride

evening stillness

no wind

evening sun at my back as I

glide along straight prairie highway

legs easily dancing pedals

corn fields ripening on both sides

gaze distant line of horizon

shimmering in the brightness

razor edge of the world

drift consciousness to distant future

            a bright setting sun

            dancing on razor’s edge

Gretna

we boys would play kick the can

on dusky fall evenings

running all over town

past towering elevators

down main street with

elegant red brick post office on the corner

a building that told of grander days

before the fires

tinder dry stores in flames

when the CPR came through

             ripe grain falling into waiting cars

when horses raced the track

ladies and gentlemen watching from the stands

when the old mansions were built

             pretentious pillars gleaming on whitewashed porches 

the trees remember

             arching elms and oaks stately and sedate

             seasoning the times good and bad

             stretching back to buffalo herds roaming
             the lush valley of the Pembina

river across the border

shaping the landscape

spring floods marking the memory

             water ignoring banks and boundaries

             sandbags along the border creating strange beach 

we played until it was too dark

walking home under harvest moon

shining through the ages

like a home town in one’s mind

fresh garden peas

bourgeoning green smile

open to row of bright orbs

the taste of summer

Stan Getz

he is there waiting at round table in the corner

dark cropped hair

intense deep-set eyes

when you meet him for drinks at

downtown lounge

everything brown and brass

voice intimate and assured

as he orders you a smooth scotch

eyes hold you as he tells of his travels

in eloquent phrases

he loves exploring on his own he says as he talks about the

beauty of the countryside in France

or the quaint streets of Spanish towns

the truth of New Orleans

and you sip your drink and take in his

smooth

                intense
                                eloquence

lilies

six pointed petals open up wide

reveal yawn of yellow

pocked with brown freckles toward the center

where stamen stand out attracting bees

together they waver in the wind

in front of house

and provide a profusion of colour

twenty yellow suns

don’t look too closely though

at the holes in the stem leaves

and the red beetles that are chewing them

intent on destruction and darkness

Yamaha

I was 14

37 years ago

cardboard box of anticipated potential

orange/brown classic shape

centuries old

nylon strings strung

over round opening

allowing vibrations

to sing across room

scratches and blemishes tell the stories of companionship

as it lived with me wherever I went

Gretna Winnipeg Landmark

places in between

cradling my lap

it sings the songs I learned

bird on the wire john henry suzanne wildwood flower

and the songs I made

and now mostly it hides in soft fuzzy cocoon

unless son or daughter take it out to teach it new

songs to sing

no matter

it’s always ready

garden

splash of colour lines the front

                petunias

purple                   red

behind are lined rows of green foliage

                tomatoes

                                small green ripening orbs hanging

                beans

                                purple pods burgeoning

                carrots

                                unseen orange roots widening

                beets

                                reddish tinged leaves seeking sunlight

                peas

                                sweet tenderness filling out

                potatoes

                                white blossoms tell of buried goodness

                lettuce

                                leaves lavishing bounty

seeds soil sunshine water

life

survivor

I bear the scars

                inside and out

                physical

                mental

                emotional

but as I look out at rain falling on parched ground

marred by jagged cracks in browning lawn

puddling driveway

leaves hanging limpid

dust settling into ground

I see inside

                cracks closing

imperceptively

                dust settling

tiny grain by tiny grain

Ruthie Foster - folk fest 2012 poem #6

dreadlocks adorn round face

and smile

standing center stage

voice and heart one instrument

of joy

radiating tarp patchwork audience

like crystal clear rippling lake washes over

the sandy shore

thirsty crowd drinking it in

locked into dreadlocked powerhouse

of soulgospelblues

Dad (Abe Loewen) at 90

he stands tall
wavy white hair crowning
head teeming with stories

and anecdotes from

90 years of living

a life of standing tall in the face of
mother-loss

ragged poverty

stony hardship

wartime upheaval

and tree-bending winds that blow across Saskatchewan prairie

a life of standing tall for

lasting love

encircling family

firm faith

and things that grow on saskatchewan prairie

hearing aid and cane
and ailments that

90 years can bring
but he still stands tall
telling his story with a hoarse chuckle

and wide smile

puddling with Shantelle

small hand wraps around my pinkie

and I am dragged irresistibly towards

puddle in the middle of street

we enter puddle with bare feet

sloshing in dirty water                 chatting about cars

until it's time to go to the next puddle

and off we go on toes and edges

trying to avoid sharp  stones

that dig into our tender soles

pressure on my pinkie increases

if I try to pull away   
so I must accept that this is life now

the glory of little fingers

bare feet

and puddles

driving in Saskatchewan

blue sky horizon
encircles hazy vision
we are the landscape

microcosm

here is what is

wrong with the world
today I set out

to buy a new battery

for my cordless phone

found out that it is cheaper

to buy a new phone with a battery

than it is to buy a new battery

and I bought the new phone

Abigail Washburn dances - folk fest 2012 poem #5

foggy mountain breakdown begins
three banjo players wait for their turn

but she doesn't

leaping from the stage

blue dress

yellow belt

and beginning a square dance

with the people at the side of the stage

and they happily joining in

holding hands in a circle and bouncing

on bare or sandeled feet

directing a dance of celebration

having just spoken about visiting Earl

and talking about heaven

where we don't know what goes on

but it’s nice to think of everyone dancing

while Earl plays the breakdown on his banjo

Kim Churchill - folk fest 2012 poem #4

occasionally a cloud drifts          over

and blocks burning sun

(He holds us rapt
this kid from down under)

and a cooling breeze whispers

through the trees

(with flying fingers
and steady voice)

so that we forget the searing monotony of the day

(all alone on this stage

in the middle of the prairie

who dreams modest dreams

just wants to play everywhere)

and just bask in the spectacle

of a dream coming true

friday - folk fest 2012 poem #3

today

a small butterfly landed on my index finger and

stayed for a while opening and closing its wings and

the kid next to me was creating rainbows and

flowers on her pad of paper and

the sun chased away the clouds and the rain and

Emmanuel Jal - a former Sudanese child soldier sang about peace
as

a thousand people stood and raised their arms and became one butterfly

creating a breeze with the beat of its wings

Billy Bragg - folk fest 2012 poem #2

red patch pinned to shirt

guitar slung over shoulder

voice beacon for change

Feist - folk fest 2012 poem #1

fiery sunset heats up stage

and she is there

playful white skirt

long straight hair framing fierce face

fiery fingers dazzle guitar and she starts her exploration

to the heart of things

unafraid

taking chances on the edge of disaster

fiery feet dancing on the rooftop ledge

it is a dance of fiery freedom

danced with a voice of nimble passion

and we sing along

on first hearing Abba's Waterloo

(apologies [again] to j.k.)

much had I travelled in the realms of pop

radio hooked on loop of belt in summer heat

in shadow of water tower hoeing beets

it felt as if the sun would never stop

song after song played on tinny speaker

tuned to cfrw connecting Gretna to Winnipeg

and the world

and then

the now familiar strains

of Sweden

filled air

and I stood transfixed

this was a cool draft of northern air

on hot sun-drenched day

voices and beat riding on the breeze

and then the field that I was in

with rows and rows of green to thin

didn’t seem like such a terrible lot

and the sun wasn’t quite as hot

Oscar Peterson

his classy white pontiac turns into your driveway

and he steps out

tuxedo ruffling in the wind

it’s a warm day but he seems to stay cool

you walk with him around back and ask him what he would like

anything will do he says

and you bring him a glass of chardonnay

sitting in the shade

he sips and begins to chat

topics range from gardening to sports

his voice clear and kind

but he doesn’t slow down

and you find it hard to keep up with his

racing

                nimble
                                mind

but you feel cool and classy

like a ruffled tuxedo

hawk

I lie back on blanket

in the shadow of house

and gaze up into infinity of blinding blue

stillness of day enters being

absorbing warmth as part of

curve of earth’s surface

high above hawk soars on heated updrafts

so high that I can barely make it out

as it circles and dips and climbs

an exchange lifts me into sky

and I look down to see man on blanket
and we become tied forever

even though I disappear

on a warm current of blue

Stan Rogers

a voice that didn’t need a mic

booming across prairie bluffs

bald head and beard

                as if he just stepped off a schooner

he sang of the sea and the road

of lines on a face and lines on a map

of a Canada we knew but didn’t know

                as if we needed a prophet

with eyes sharp and clear

he envisioned a path and took it

never wavering or faltering (or so it seemed)

                as if each song would be his last

until one day it was

and all we can do

is continue his song to sing

                so that his voice will always ring

summer sun

sprinkler oscillates on front yard

warm evening

late june

grass struggling without moisture and shade

as summer sun heats up the land

sandles slap sidewalk as we walk the town

backs and necks warming

to setting summer sun

and green growth

shouts

to us everywhere we look

roses sing colour in our front garden

greeting friendly summer sun

with elegant oscillating melody

of summer love