gatherings of memory

dank dem Herrn mit frohen mothers

served adults first

and then us kjinga

got to eat at big table while

men

sat

in the grotta stove

weinacht wunches followed

all the children clutching memory verses

in sweaty palm of the brain

one by one

stand and deliver             oldest to

me

kissing oma and opa after

and then we got too large

for the stately white housebarn in Reinland

and moved to simulated wood panelled church

basement

moving down after Christmas Friedensfuerst in pewed sanctuary

Mr. Falk singing before

head tilted always it seemed

grandchildren got gifts but the

motherlode

waited at home

unwrapped but un-played-with

waiting always for the program

and singing

and games

and halvah

and coke

and Frank Zack puzzles

to be done with

and then home through snowy roads

german poems still careening wildly in cranium

with the good news

Trump haiku #10

egocentric nar-

cissistic dishonest ig-

norant old traitor

love signs (for Bob)

words of elegy tightly woven

into microphone

remembrance of life lived well

and she’s off to the side

hands and arms speaking

in graceful gesture

sculpting              the         air

to resemble a

man gone too soon

grief for

brief gift of kindness

until he stands revealed

eyes smiling through graying beard

and tears come  

unbidden

blurring sight

seeing signer’s gentle eyes 

perform a benediction

monarchy

November wind shivers snow along street

north to south

winter taking on shuttered senses

yet         there is that blue jay

regal crown bright robe

thriving

expertly balancing dancing branch

he’s got food stashed somewhere

and plans on staying through

no migrant he

royal beauty bossing

shivery coward wind

Anne holds Elisha (pic on my iPhone)

gaze shoots straight at you

green arm elbowed up

hand curved tiny fingers furled

mouth learning to lift corners

and your hands hold smallness

firm tenderness

all are turned to admire this

noble newness

gracing our table with

free green-sleeved joy 

Te Deum (for Tim)

it’s sparse and bare like winter white

with washes of snow falling from spruce boughs

for we have had our MRIs and CTs

and scopes and scalpels and chemical baths

and know uncertainty and know fear

and know despair and let in care of others

so look up with single line of melody

lifting floating in vertical rise

flawed ragged fragmented pebbled with doubt

yet still rising unhindered free flowing still

in unhurried phrases toward ultimate

creative love simple prayer of praise 

Trump haiku #9 (thanks to T.S.)

will this sorry state

change the world forever or

can we shake it off?

and just like that

and just like that

it’s          winter

Alberta clipper kicks in autumn’s door

steel-toed boot denting

and latch tears through splintered frame

and just like that stands

there

hands on hips elbows    jutting

swirled by snow

and we in autumn’s leafy house

stand back and stare

eyes unblinking in dread

and say yes         yes         we know

and just like that

cars on couch

small fingers

eyes

intent on

pushing yellow car

racing striped

slightly forward on sofa fabric

and moving red dump truck

back       voice beeping

arranging tiny toy cars into

new configuration

only envisioned by dark orbs

of pj’ed boy

legs tucked under

little feed splayed and

I sit and tap my heart  

to this boy jazz beat

Amber Epp sings Joni at the West End

small fall bird hangs

upside

down

on spruce branch a second or

two

needles make it tricky

but that’s what she wants

to sing

this         song      now

full-throated

free

unafraid

light as air

swaying in autumn wind

winging away

autumn zephyr

what means this leafy wind

under open sky

and emptying branches

whining at the windows

kyrie kyrie eleison

gusting                                 gusting

until jacket flattens

against body

until mind flattens

crowding out creation

crowding out love

crowding out colour then

listenlisten

and listen again

to crying kyrie

Roger meets world

small sandals slap pavement

was drizzling but now it’s

heavy    hot

bags from the market

weighing down shoulders            arms we

shepherd boy

along sidewalk to the car

stopping for puddles and ants and sirens

and busses

this man sits against wall of bank building

beard an autumn nest long

face blank

boy and man reach eyes

of deep deep knowing                  boy gives a

stiff wave

man waves and smiles

eyes bright for this

infinite instant

poetry in motion

drove past a train

on the no. one

rail cars legato for miles

like words in a Joyce novel

I barely noticed

trains are there so often

like the fixed order on the

periphery of our lives

the world doesn’t stop

even though we are heading to

the hospital or funeral home

hand pulling at the face and chin

feeling stubble of life’s resistance

but that day I looked

and saw the beautiful

graffiti on one of the cars

all it said     poetry     said it all

golfosophy

between fifth green

and sixth tee

there is a long path through the woods

of birch

and oak

and aspen

and scrub brush with crimson berries

and you can hear the wind

and birds

and squirrels

as you walk along

golf ball in one hand dragging clubs with the other

and life is

this path and these trees and that ball and the wind and the sun

drifting through the shade and the stones under your feet and

your steady gait towards the next swing

after the rain

puddles pool

at the end of driveway

like thoughts of peace

or feelings of freedom

folding into themselves

like an envelope holding a letter explaining everything

I reach out

fingertips dipping into cold wet

and draw back

hand

dripping

and touch my face

like a benediction

Trump haiku #8

cat 5 hurricane

of lies collusion racism

sexism obstruction

what it means

opera sun

through dusty sky haze

reduced to orange folk song disc

midday dusk

dramatic as eclipse

act one of comedy called summer’s end

for we know

what’s coming and

the joke’s on us retreating

behind walls

and windows reduced

to shadow people starving

taking vitamin d

while winter plays slow

dirge through hearts made of dust 

bonus summer

September winds tint

ripe golden prairie with a

last gasp of wonder

Autumn dance

spider

strands

diagonal

sunroom doors

I can see them

magnified

shining

exquisite

in the morning sun

the work of two or three days

destroyed when I open sliding door

and walk out into leaf busy lawn

ground hard and dry

trees still green but starting to autumn

stroll past garden into small woods world

teeming home of squirrel and sparrow

wind whispers through branches above

and I stop to listen to this September jazz

swing me into

eight-

legged

           spin 

Psalm XII

a flame flirts my memory

of sweet sun days

soft grass bare foot days

arms warmed days

hair bleached days

slide swing days

summer love days

and that once we walked the path

to the waterfall beside escarpment gorge

with wide-eyed boy in tow

treading lightly in prayer

yellow irises

open

shining

like the sun

in our vase on

coffee table giving

themselves to our hungry

gaze fully completely holding

nothing back not like the guarded

tulip or the many petalled rose and we

can open too and play our Debussyesque

preludes of dark and light of scars and broken

bones of empty arms and the brush of fingers on

skin of a toddler’s toothy un-self-conscious smile of

truths and lies and the battleground of love and hate in-

between to the world knowing the irises will listen yet when

I look now I see one of them has a broken stem

Trump haiku #7

we’ll heal if he’d heed

but he’ll never heel ‘cause he

kneads to be center

retirement reflections

August autumns out

into brown crumbly leaves

scattered on

dry tan grass

sprinkler oscillates

clear drops disappear

into parched lawn

soon these crinkled days

will become truly

third season

season of complex chords

season of changes

season of burning

season of equinox

season of movement

season of jackets

season of jazz

tomorrow

September pours out

its deep red wine

Joseph Boyden

bee swayed

lighted rather

on a clover blossom

and thought he might

be a wasp

thinned out his body

and quieted his wings

until

the others

believed he was a

wasp swayed

lighted rather

on a clover blossom

and thought he might

be a bee

thickened his body

and buzzed his wings

in true true song 

summer rain

brief circles of splash

little lives succeed others

drops in a puddle

lunch in Gretna

his hair is growing back in

around the incision

on the side of his head

sitting around the table

in the shade

over-arching trees surrounding

he is tired and doses

drifting off

his presence a truth

like the breeze

or the sun mottled through leafy roof

or the pine needles underfoot

and we taste this truth

for what it is

hands gripped in true and rooted friendship

Elegy - Abram Loewen (1922-2017)

it’s taking too long

he says

he’s talking about dying

lying in thin pale gown

nothing left to do

made his peace

said good bye

he’s tired

he’s ready

and yet death does not come easily

like picking stones on a stubborn field

breath follows breath

heart pounds on in caged chest

a determined life

gathering stones along the way

a mother’s coffin

a father’s hard eyes

harsh prairie drought

a war fought in the forest and with a conscience

a girl’s young love

74 year romance

toil at sawmill and in prairie soil

children’s cries and giggles

body betrayal and surgeon’s scalpel and saw

faith forged in doubt and study

until you get a spirit so

tempered

it will not yield easily

but is an iron grip on life and its stony lessons

but then next breath

does

not

come

and he is ushered on

leaving us to marvel at the memory of eye’s twinkle

Christopher Paul Stelling (Folk Fest '17 poem #3)

fast fingers on six strings

colour harmonic circles

around fine saw-tooth voice

singing circles of melody

around circles of thought

for here is a

troubadour of old

tatty hair and beard

facing circled crowd

with fearless eyes

summer orb is

a cotton shirt on

gathered seekers

taking on this hard life

surrounded with resonating song

Sarah's dieffenbachia

there’s something big in the back seat

she’s moving you see

and everything must be stored for a month

blonde hair tresses shoulders and

she struggles carefully

but can’t get it out cleanly

a branch breaks off and a cloud settles

she nursed this plant from a small cutting

to large sturdy big-leafed presence

and now half is broken off

like a broken heart

can it be saved      salvaged         set right

maybe broken branch can form new tendrils

living roots that can summon

water out of rich soil and live

it’s worth a try

summer day alone

it’s quiet and empty without you here

and the wind moves

through the trees swaying

leaves

and the Saturday paper

lies on the

driveway

and the sun shines

through the clouds

sometimes

and the garden hose

curves through the

grass

and the clover patches

on the lawn grow

taller

and its quiet and empty without you here

and I try to

keep busy with this and

that

and the cat meows

he needs to be

fed

and the tv blares

on and on about

Trump

and the guitar sits

silent in the

corner

and it’s quiet and empty without you here

and I think about your

heavy heart as you say

goodbye

and I wish I could be with you to help you

walk this path one step at a

time

and it’s so hard

to write down this

love

and it’s quiet and empty without you here

Trump Haiku #6

breaking news      our world

broken by stomping tantrum

of child president

Roger and Henry

it’s more like a yodel

his meow I mean

as he climbs up stairs

or wobbles on bare feet towards the bush

or searches out the window

looking for

our cat

soft-footed gliding

tail swaying elegant as a ball gown

seamless as a Renaissance mass

boy

pure beautiful curiosity

approaches fur

hand outstretched

makes contact with

other magical life

whiskers and all

True April

birds are back

suddenly singing morning

I rise from warm sheets

and listen to stippled ceiling chirps

waking dank early spring into

green April promise

so season begets season

and I look through window

and see avian congregation

like a blankandwhite still of a Hitchcock film

red-winged black and sparrows and tiny finch

on the lawn driveway and in the maple

feasting on seeds and worms

until the bully robins enter scene

and chase the others away

like thieves on the run

but this is all fine

because I feel like a foundling

listening to Bach for the first time

caught dumbstruck by this new life

in our unroofed universe

so unlike the bombastic trump-world

of tomahawk missiles of lies

and lies about lies

for this bird chorus is truest of true 

Jonah Blacksmith (folk fest '17 #2)

grandfather’s large fire-iron hands

nimbly grip mandolin

smallest of stringed instruments

forging love and family

boys off to side

eyes embracing ears elating

this maker man

inspired

infused

involved

in love

until now under pure prairie sky

shaping nimble anthems

on anvil

of large life and fiery energy

Brandi Carlile (folk fest '17 #1)

she’s got that

permanent

smile

not just her lips

but whole face

in fact her whole being is a smile

eyes

hair

stance

standing stage

with sun-dance vigour

voicing thrilling veins of ore

from  american depths

and gliding above

like the triangle craft

sweeping in a curve above the

grounds where we sit in

our groups within groups

and dream-dance in this eye of calm

hurricane surrounding and

we

are

the

smile

when I said goodbye to my last class

when I said

goodbye

to my last class

I played Bohemian Rhapsody

and The End by The Beatles

and then I sang

Ring of Fire

strumming like Johnny

I took the knife

sharp     heavy

and cut the strawberry shortcake

into 14 pieces

one for each

while we ate I glimpsed

into the hard growing up teen world

of

          making

ones

way

and then I said my last goodbye

my red shirt receding into the past

Royal Canoe plays with the WSO

paddle dips

rhythmically surely joyfully

into glassy orchestral lake and you

pull forward into

lilting straights

surreal waters

crowns on your heads

beaded with jewels and sweat

sun pulsing sweet electric melody

working its way into the

tough skin and marrow-filled

bones of vision and memory and we

bow slightly

dancing in recognition of this adventurous voyageur monarchy

red sashes fluttering

Roger climbs stairs

it’s a stage I guess

this overwhelming joy in stairs

sometimes alone

and sometimes holding our hands

taking two at a time

in a rush to get to the top

then turn right around

and go back down

lifting arms up

in expectation of adult hand

we can try to lead him

to the sidewalk or park

but the concrete steps

magnet him and he climbs again

sometimes a dog distracts

and he barks in recognition bowwow

but mostly it’s the stairs

his body a stair machine

obsessed with the climb

as brain sparks bedazzle with toddler wonder

Trump Haiku #5

where is our Shakespeare

that can write about today’s

Macbeth slash Richard

Psalm X

it is the time of

in-between

the after and before

after the freeze

before the sun’s passion

after the world white

before the fullsome green

after death

before life returned

after Friday

                before Sunday

we are a people

in-between

blue sky above

layered earth below

and I look up into blinding sun-spackled sky

in gratitude for in-betweenness

for memory and imagination

for the crocus that is the promise of purpleness 

after months of darkness 

April snow

these birds are a little

confused with this flurry

they light on the wet

white grass long beaks

explore down there’s

this northern flicker that

just stays put red patch

on head black ruff on neck

facing wind and wondering

where spring is where

is sun where is warmth

where is growth where

is green where is life

where is love no flying

south now though right? right?

swing time (spring time)

forward

back

again and again

the arc of time

one- year-old

sits swing

face illumined into

pure joy

smile laughing

into heart

little hand clutching

hard plastic swing seat

and father behind

pushing forward eyes

fixed on son

proud smile shining

and this back

and forth

arc

initiates another generation

into best bright jazz of love

Trump haiku #4

lies Trump lies about

about lies Trump lies about
Trump lies about lies

Lyle Lovett and John Hiatt play the Pantages

and so they sit

inside circle of dusty light

on this vaudeville stage

and wrestle with their 

creation stories  

vocal cords taut with

southern             strength

fingers fretting familiar guitars

each song a symphony of

blues bathed beauty

and so the red dusty vaudevillian light

turns into a swirling sweep of

setting southern sun

lifting us into the vortex of feeling

created by full friendship and respect

I like how

I like how

the sun grand entrances

on this overcasted day

and creates diamonds on the new snow

and shadows across the driveway

I like how

all the different shades of white

whisper winter in February

I like how

spring is coming

sun doesn’t icicle anymore and it hangs around

like slow languorous jazz

yawning from speakers

and I close my eyes

sitting in the love of the sun 

Roger pre-Roger (Nov. 2015)

he begins

hardly there

unnoticed

but then…

cells proliferating

eruptions in the fabric

of tiny world and budding into

blueberry

                peanut

                                grape

                                                kiwi

until he is moving kicking

entity

still waiting

life teeming        overflowing

worry and pain takeover

next steps unknown

                next teardrop

                                next laugh

just waiting for answer of

safe birth

                safe life

                               safe family

Trump haiku #3

impeachhimimpeach

himimpeachhimimpeachhim

impeachhim now PLEASE

Trump Haiku #2

no red tie for me

or red cap for that matter

until he's impeached

Trump haiku #1

why do we have to

endure suffer stomach a

Trump presidency?

Beryl plays 18/01/17

long black braid

like entwined

melody

begins at neck and

rests the length of her back as

she leans slightly              forward

towards

keys where fingers

precisely play perfect

complement

to loving notes

from John’s bow

duet rising into

high apex of sanctuary

sanctifying all who sit beneath

with droplets of

ho

   pef

     ait

       hl

         ove

 entwined

it is well                with my soul

resolution

wind shapes snow in subtle ways smoothing out sharp corners

angling ridges on banks beside road like a knife shapes icing on

cake before candles are blown out making a wish for a puppy

that only came years later big clumsy paws spraddling  on linoleum

in the kitchen where all good things happened domain of mother  

humming hymns along with the home aroma of bread brown

loaves transforming into miracles of warm wellness sliced and

spread with butter and chokecherry jam from trees outside our

back door dark bitter fruit surrounding prominent pits and we

picked the bunches into plastic pails standing on the top of ladders

perched precariously on a picnic table wind tousling our hair

Christmas list

what I got for Christmas

a piano note pin

proudly placed on lapel of my black coat

a poinsettia        large

living red and green on pedestal by the window

books

Cohen Thein Robertson Donahue

iTunes card

spent already Roberts Buble

three shirts button up with pocket

very fitting

funky socks

curling and squares

warm slippers

to retire into

coffee

Starbucks

family

together

guarded smile

from a grandson not yet one

special gift

first Christmas

and then the train rounds

the bend

past the mountain of presents

and little boy takes note

of the chug chug chug

along the track blue and red of Santa’s train

and greets it with a “bap”

for it is

first Christmas

sits by the tree of mini lights and storied ornaments

wrapping paper ripped away

such strength

presents of

blocks

and cars

and books

that find their way into mouth for true exploration

little hands clutching life fully

and the train circles the tree again