Trump Haiku #14

nine lives of cat Trump

Donald are used up and now

he cannot come back

winter again

snow and hoar frost branched

and kitty shaking his paws

before going out

Jesse's Magnificat

voices true and tentative begin

like new shoot and then

petals blossom and bloom

first in pale pink and then darkening into crimson

and violet

very visceral strands of joy and pain

tenderness twists around ancient text

in worried wonder gathering waves of whimsy and power

washing over this space

sanctified sanctuary

and all become vessels of
hushed magnificence 

Louella sings Pie Jesu at Dora Janzen's funeral

and a skylark rises up

wings whooshing air into tiny whirlwinds

eyes transfixed by upward everness

and we join in

souls lifting on the currents

of cadence

into lovely sky

tears brimming eyes

and sing

requiem

horizons of sound

there is an arch

of burnished bricks made

surrounding voices inside sanctuary

insulated from outside November cold

this wintry night made warm by this abendlied

arching arcing this space binding bonding

us into one burnished  body buoyed

by crescendo into final cadence
of well-rounded life

a Roger afternoon

WHAT?

WHY?

big eyes               body pointing

and we walk to the park

little runners rustling leaves beside sidewalk

a little afraid of school buzzer

why does it?

because it tells the children that school is over

and we play

and play

and play

slides and climbers and cars and trucks

and rocks and house and fire engines

and blocks and piano keys and songs

because playing is the best thing we all do

even while buzzers blare

WHAT?

WHY?

wheat and cattails

urn by the window

tan pottery perfect round

stalks fanning outward

this house keeps cracking

this house keeps cracking

ground underneath       

moving and

sinking

pulling at walls and floors

until

snaky fissures

separate drywall              and paint

plying                    apart what was

together

journey in through opening

traverse along tiny caves

exploring

studs and beams

and then

down

between styrofoam and cement

until you get under floor in the gravel and muck and

push up

with all your might aligning corners

leveling layers of heated home

and we can watch            and hear a house

set to rights

roots and branches

chain chews bark like butter

this tree will come

down

trunk

by

trunk

six large fingers growing from base

each one with myriad branches thrusting

out

many dead sticks

ready to burn it

just outgrew our yard

leaves blocking light

roots sucking water

look at ground and imagine

system of roots singing down

and out

stabilizing

steadying

feeding

supporting  

canopy of green

towering

shading

protecting

cooling

who am I to cut it

down

Henry V at Shaw Festival

in this trenchant trench

we nest

nestling in for duration

diaries and letters our leaves

and feathers and

sing over and over again the

paradox of beauty and

honour

wallowing in mud and

blood king in tattered army blanket

justifying it all barely believing his own words as

guns interrupt song marching in

deadly silence into darkness

until lights bathe this hospital white

sheets white walls bouncing back voices

struggling to still

sing with any conviction when death dares

approach comrade in bed beside it’s too hard to even eat and

yet we sing because we must

until a kiss transports and brings love

too close

too real

too far away

Lake Ontario

blue of sky turns white just

before the horizon of water

blue

we walk along the beach of this

immense lake cool water lapping

ankles

sandal straps linked through

fingers at this place where

river

meets lake old old town of

English tea and lawns wearing

shrubs

and trees like dinner jackets but

here by the water rocks and logs

strewn

random beauty just gaze the

horizon and think

thanks

Roger at the GO station

this boy likes buses and trains

that GO

and he knows this place

of grown up commuters

diagonal lanes for buses to

Toronto

and sliding doors to enter station

where our adult voices of caution shutter back

in frag   ments

this boy likes to go see trains

bolt through the doors

curly blondness determined to

stand the platform to watch the

railed reality

then mighty little legs climb

balcony to look

down on people buying tickets

to far far away

and run so so fast to the other stairway

and then down and up again until we go home

walking the top of every large garden rock he sees

hoping to GO again tomorrow

Sheryl Crow (Folk Fest 18 #3)

gold light washes stage

she struts right edge unafraid

this is her music

wedding poem XIII - Matthew and Lynette

bach arpeggios ring sanctuary

and little barefoot boy

soft blonde curls ringing around hearts

runs aisle

ring pillow aloft

tiny white tuxedo coming off the shoulder 

and then small hands carefully drop

white silk love on carpet

waiting for feet of pilgrims

to walk the petalled path

to the place of promises ringing

each to each

voices wavering but strong

calling for celebrations filled

with piracies and dance

fancy clothes and shoes doffed

as we hold the fingered rings aloft and sing

Darlingside (Folk Fest 18 #2)

beauty can blossom

in a blending of old          and new

heads together behind

the circle of the microphone

sampled sounds and expert picking

around gentle voices

calling for thought and life

in a time of knee-jerk bluster

each seemingly equal in this

democracy of talent

so clear and precise

and laden with feeling

Nathan sings from the book of Stan (Folk Fest 18 #1)

close your eyes

you can see him on the stage

bearded               bald

bellowing baritone

two verses and then the chorus

song/story so pure

it slices through to real you

and we in the summer sweat

in this sacred space where it all happened

but you know it is Nathan

and not Stan

who sings now

a son reciting from the

holy text with ir/reverence

free to laugh and cry

and we sing along

blessed

eyes closed

Psalm 14 (31 mm)

night

storm-filled

thunderous

rain pounding like doubt

chaotic

and then

sun revealed in blueness

reassuring

sharp shadows on green ground

ditches full

puddles remain

drying in warming breeze

a path

a path meanders

dewy leaves,  branches brush arms faces

droplets of memory but

the way lies clear

for feckless hearts

that began a bond in a frisson

all a-flutter blood-filled

lips tentative

in spring chill

forward feet together

oboe melody coifed trail

hands wrapped waists tight until

path became aisle

festooned ribboned witnessed

we to one

fortune followed footfalls

touch love the pith of all

our path the route of many

yet ours to let fust and rust

or keep climbing clinging

ardent

forbearing detours letting love lead

one to we again

little eager feet

run alongside letting

life transpire in fullest measure

fortold mysteries whispered in ears

like sweet nothings showering us in curtained tub

who are we to judge where it all leads 

hand in hand     wending

         towards what may come 

Gretna revisited (for G.T.W.)

warm June breezes our faces

like memories

feet scuff gravel street

of childhood

old ties of kinship invisible

between us

like roots under these massive

trunks and

we take the new path behind the

public school

these playgrounds marked my knees and lodged

my soul

and all around us the green growth of

another summer

in this Manitoba hot spot and

I recall

it is almost one year since

your diagnosis   

Psalm XIII - lilacs

perfect purple pointed tenderness of

blossoms

profuse embarrassment of

perfumed summer

air breezing across lawn owning these warm lazy days of

June

peasant hedge made royal with the tender grace of

colour

Relay for Life 2018

bright dazzling dips behind trees

vestige warmth remains

like that hand holding yours

now gone

and iconic windmill begins to glow

reaching out veins of hope to the world

that circles in orbit on illumined path

in ones and twos and threes

they are small children in wagons

and couples holding hands

and grandparents shuffling the gravel

determined unwavering

powering the huge stones that

slowly (too slowly) grind out answers

to this steady chorus of untimely goodbyes

in Spring sometimes

yellow-beaked red-breasts

eat twice their weight

in seeds and worms on the front yard

stick legs hopping place to place

dandelions tap deep water

and flower sunshine

sticky poplar husks litter surfaces

adhering shoes                                 feet

I wake at four open window

a speaker playing bird concerto

greeting first rivers of dawn

and then the robin takes wing

scarlet patch rising high

into new-leafed branches

and I’m left behind lead-hearted

surgery, sleep, sun and piano tuning

maybe first

on May 1^st

what I remember

lying down on narrow table

hard

white powerful lights still off

deep breaths in mask

then coming to eyes taking in

morphine dosage

sail into sleep

wake again to hie home

more sleep

begin to heal muscle

tissue repairing

pain lessening

each sleep gathering tendrils of body-time

into good natured order of things

along comes summer sun

a long time coming

bask on lounger

be and become whole again

warm to the soul

while inside the careful turner of pegs

plies the century old strings into balance

well-tempered and beautiful

some so close to breaking they must be prayed over

and when it’s done the songs can ring true again

it remembers 

spring wind

it’s a dusty          warm

swaying of spirit

unseen pollen and seeds alight

take root here and there

small birds wings dance

hold their own

old leaves and debris catch

edge of air and fling

bounding ground

hair dishevelled straining

and I till the garden

stirring up new victims

grabbed by greedy gusts impatient for May miracles

violets are blooming and robins are back

raise your head

slowly if you want

unshade winter eyes

and look to see that

colour has made a comeback

erupting from dormant earth

blades grow green

maple buds burst

rust red

sunwarm sky

friendly pale blue

feathered breast returned

orange red

small delicate petals

pink and deeper purple

bare sticks in distance

glow pale green

and see…

April becomes May

Trump Haiku #13

not good at kindness

or any other virtue

he’s great at vices

five tulips

yellow and green

curved harmony

in square vase

1.

closest to me

leaf folded in on

itself                      edge

of one petal

slowly                   peeling                                 away

2.

twisted yellow                  f r a y i n g            at the tip   perfectly horizontal

3.

stem dips

low then points up

bulb of brightness           reaching achingly

tired cells knowing

these are the last hours

of beauty

4.

turned away from me

ashamed             aware                   aggrieved

one

sunny

leaf

separated

about to flutter down

5.

leaning

crossed on top

smallest

closed off

unwilling to breathe in

to know the air

                reclining               resting

on fading

                perfection

                                 below

Roger and the geese

drizzle dampens path

down

to

Princess Point

and the shore of

lazy lagoon water from great lake Ontario

where swans and geese as large as you

with your little rubber boots splashing in shallows

swim smoothly up

and you back up

spellbound

for this is nature

this is real

this is true

this is age old

this is stick throwing splash

this is snail shell shore

this is giant driftwood log

until we get back into

car seat Mazda 3

you crying to see the geese again

bald eagle

there     see it

lighting on crusted snow

near ditch

not a crow

not a hawk

white head

hooked bill

we zip by

in spring splattered cars

and watch for three seconds

this powerful wild

that soars on updrafts

unchanging through world upheaval

here in this prairie spring

Trump haiku #12

it just keeps snowing

and snowing and snowing and

we need big blower!

frost fall

overnight branches turned

white

putting on

crystal

icy sweaters

frosty miracles of beauty

in the last days of

this cruel season of

relentless shiver

and now the shining flakes fall

like small white feathers

in the bright sun of day

with only the memory

of temporal perfection

in this world so marked and pitted

shoulders hunched against the cold

Reynold

hand cradles Bible

billowing words

updrafting multi-coloured parachute of love

lifts us up into his world

of convicted care

book held firmly spine traversing

life-line

and he paces our reality

our level

our fraying carpet

long strides journeying and arm reaching

to elusive uneasy truth

still cradling close to the heart

the word not as a weapon

or tightly bound static box

but

open

giving

lovely

fabric of life

we snow

we snow

Saturday flakes

wind-driven wayward souls heading

toward gravity ground and settle

bonded frozen alone one with white expanse of winter

we wait

cold hearts

stretching scarf-less necks

looking through dense drifting

for sweet flute melody of peace

we wonder

caught

in this bank of Saturday snow

when the heartstrings will resolve

into warm welcome whole note love

Trump haiku #11

it’s taking way too

long for green blades to break through

this evil concrete

Gary plays Winston

That's a lot of make-up

and that's a lot of scotch

and a lot of Champaign

and how many cigars?

an excessive man

oldman

eyes

staring down a compromise with the devil

buying time with lives

orating hearts to resolve

out-thinking ambition

and undue pragmatism

to defeat the darkness 

Roger at Christmas

with a bounce

and a hand patting couch

you joy in

ancient

angel song

dad strumming the world

and your mighty legs dancing praise

you sing along

adding your

new new voice

to the billions before

latin words snowing black ground

with white gloria

your bare feet pounding floor

so strong

so sure

            so great

Sweelinck

falling notes orbit

your

head

white flakes

like that Shakespeare ruff

around your neck

and you stand there

sad sandy eyes

ordering and re-ordering God

into cool crystal lines

of imitative wonder

morphing this darkened winter

into rhythmic syncopated

magnificat and angel song

white wings fanning

vortexing

beating the heart

this all behind those tragic eyes

as gentle snow gathers

around your boots