Christmas Eve 2022

it’s the day before

tree is lit 

adorned with snowflakes and angels 

wrapped gifts underneath 

outside is white and sparkling with sun 

cat curled up one of many naps 

J preparing festive food 

carols come from speakers and a blue jay 

flies branch to branch 

snow strewn with seeds 

from yesterday’s winds 

but today is calm and bright 

and I can curl my mind around the prince of peace

 

solstice

we wake 

after the longest night 

look out at the snow settling on branches 

oblivious to 

the lengthening days 

anticipating only more months of winter cold 

yet in a few days 

we gather to celebrate light 

that candle flame in our being that waxes when 

we sing our carols 

of faith hope love and joy 

of a child born so innocent and soft so full of true warmth 

looking out with trusting eyes 

at the light 

in ours

winter time

overnight landscape change

frigid white satin covers heart

we start to hunker

 

Halloween 2022

this knight on this night 

can’t wait to venture out 

on a quest for  riches with 

plastic pumpkin in hand 

with armour black and red and grey 

protection against 

arrows and slings 

he is Sir Roger 

ready to join the throng of life

his smile 

telling the knight’s tale 

for in 

this life all are knights 

on a quest

Oma holds Norah

she sleeps under a guileless smile 

relaxed arm hanging beside

tiny curved fingers touching adult wrist 

strong arms enwrap newborn completeness 

small mouth curved 

in trust 

for this is right and good 

and white and warm 

and yellow and soft 

and true and tried 

slumber well sweet one

Welcome Norah

you are an armful Norah 

in your new sleeper 

your small arms crossed 

one hand against soft soft cheek 

eyes closed 

head in the crook of father’s giant arm

little mouth so perfect 

your breath a song of sighs 

this moment in the first days 

of life 

already a gift to this tuneless and jangled world 

little do you know 

that we listen to those sweet breaths 

and drop our shoulders 

and lift up our own harmony 

you are an armful

October

there is a certain 

brittle dryness 

on the edge of the page 

with the poem of today 

written in dark blood 

each word cutting deeper 

into the turn of the year 

oh I fear this loss 

of light and heat and colour and 

oh I hang on to the

constant closeness within 

a life of hearts ever flowering 

my fingers touch the page 

and savour the resilient delicacy

spirit sands

they say first peoples came to these 

dunes 

to find the spirit 

hills of sand to the near horizon 

no shade from withering sun 

and here we are walking on uneven trail 

climbing loose sand to see 

this Manitoba desert 

water bottles  in hand 

they say don’t stray from path 

as this place was used for during the war 

and there might be live explosives still lying here or there 

so we keep to the marked places 

and gaze in wonder at autumn colours 

playing in this Assiniboine valley 

as a spirit of peace wafts down

second summer in Landmark

shadow of the house

edges across green grass lawn

receding eastward

tall grass song

my fingers crush spikelets 

of big bluestem 

copper red in fall and I wonder 

what is in my bones that seeks  to manipulate 

this nature 

with the cry of blue jay in my ears 

and tiny chorus frog at my feet 

the dry indents of hardy grass seeds 

linger on my skin 

long after the wind has picked up the dust

on the funeral of Elizabeth II

it’s not really the long processional 

nor the bagpipe’s lament

it’s not really the resplendent cathedral

nor the flag-draped lead-lined coffin

it’s not really the red robed men

nor the accented readings

it’s actually the boys choir 

    voices pure 

    rising into ether 

    resonating off arches 

harmonies spinning overtones 

    linking to our hearts 

    and sending her soul home 

 

fall feelings

grass still lushes on the lawn 

drinking summer’s rains 

and yet leaves begin to litter 

yellow evidence of the chill of September 

and we bring in tomatoes 

ripe on dying vines 

and potatoes buried 

beneath stalks of sticks 

and we bid farewell to 

long warm evenings of sun 

skin contracting 

to brave the cold that’s coming 

so how long yet can we lush 

as time moves on unhindered 

by dug-in heels

Tall Tall Trees at Snowberry (Folk Fest '22 poem #5)

July sun drenches heat at snowberry field 

beard and banjo 

but no trees 

just wires and foot pedals and speakers 

like a scientist experimenting sounds together 

rhythms so rooted 

harmony so heightened 

lyrics branched out 

melodies green leaves so intricate 

this music reaching for the sun 

Sarah Loewen 1927-2022 (Elegy)

we are driving across 

the curve of the world 

when the news of her last breath 

        comes 

and we are struck by 

tears 

a mother lost 

and I look out at the fields 

stretching out 

and I think 

she was this prairie 

this former grassland 

of wind and sun and soil 

that feeds the world 

and touches teaches all with 

her kindness 

see her smiling eyes 

crinkled with Saskatchewan sun 

as she recalls her many many gardens 

of flowers and food 

and now she will be interred

in this rich ground 

and her spirit will rise like heat waves 

off the summer fallow 

to join her mother 

      and husband 

             and daughter 

                   and grandson

                 and granddaughter 

                               and great-granddaughter 

secure in a good life given on this earth

 

play (Folk Fest '22 poem #4)

away from the jingle jangle of tarps and people 

we go off looking for… 

the bubble man is gone 

no one is on stilts 

just keep walking until  

we find the booth of toys and 

buy a ball for catch 

and then we play 

throw back and forth catch and miss 

miss and catch

ancient game of back and forth 

behind the tents where few people walk 

a couple observes from hammock and 

we chat as we throw 6 years old and 60 

and when we walk back 

he slips his hand in mine

Leith Ross sings Grief (Folk Fest '22 poem #3)

Hannah was 

twenty-two 

someone who loved 

red rose love touching 

so many 

and we sit in the heat 

of her loss 

and her mother’s agony 

while Leith sings 

strawberry sweet voice 

settling on souls 

about 

twenty-two

what is grief at that age 

yet we receive 

this gift as balm 

as soothing cool shade 

as tears roll down

Judy Collins sings Both Sides Now (Folk Fest '22 poem #2)

silver iridescent warmth seems 

to spread out from her dress as 

she begins to strum twelve string and sing

rows and flows of angel hair 

phrasing at 83 impeccable 

tuning perfect and 

I hear with my heart tuned 

this is what we’ve missed 

singer warming hearts 

with silvery  

voice and 

a song that doesn’t get old

Ocie Elliot (Folk Fest '22 poem #1)

snow slowly drifts from poplars 

at big bluestem 

and I’m alone in the throng hearing you for the first time 

so gentle 

so in tune 

so summer snow 

so almost not there 

and yet powerfully present with each other 

and the grass and sky and poplar snow

sing summer songs of love

love letter

I fold into you 

nights while you breathe 

and I 

sleepless 

cross the expanse of sheets 

drawn to your toast warmth 

your spine exposed to me 

I fold into you 

days your window voice

like peachy fizz 

on my tongue 

and I cling to your orbit using your eyes 

as a mnemonic of love 

I fold into you 

in memories of journeys past 

our lives so together knit 

like two candles melted wax overflowing 

I slink with a smudge into this 

messy family album 

I fold into you 

to fend the future bog 

of age and weariness 

broadside after broadside 

until oblivion takes us 

I fold into you 

unconsciously

like a sleep walker 

who has learned where the story ends 

and life begins

lifespan

voice your dandelion

deep tap root brief yellow flower

spread white seeds in wind

this morning

placed here 

as we are 

in this blip of time 

waking to bird music 

singing along 

creating creating creating 

to what end 

if only because we must 

gathering twigs and grasses 

lint and thread 

and finding forks in branches 

and attaching our nests 

compelled to make our home 

and fly out from there 

singing our singular song 

for the world to hear and 

sing back in echo or answer 

for this moment 

will not recur in 

quite the same way again

T-ball

a loud swing 

drop bat and 

pump legs to first base and 

then second

blond curls sticking out under blue cap 

bouncing in wind 

big smile 

one foot on base 

sizing up the game so far

cuz 

this is serious stuff for a six year old 

on the verge of coming home on the next hit 

probably passing the base-runner ahead of him 

jump on home plate with both feet 

some days are rain

some days are rain 

clouds too heavy to drift by 

stop and weep wary 

of what’s ahead and we stay in

and watch water pool and saturate 

wellsprings of hope 

for yesterday was drought 

and today is flood no 

easy middle ground to 

tread lightly on for 

we have driven our monster trucks on 

pathways of care kicking up 

dust and mud 

some days are rain

the art of the fugue

brittle branches fight

the moisture from within so

buds can come about

Darrel

a relief map of the heart 

signals the highs and lows 

the beauty and ruggedness of the topography 

but each is a singular journal 

of what love can do 

 

so when you check the heartbeat

below the bowtie 

and divine its shape 

you will discover 

hope and truth 

    in meadow and stream 

intellect and openness 

    in forest and lakes 

appreciation and concern 

    in hills and rivers

and love overflowing 

love flooding the plains 

for this is the calling 

this is the shape 

this is the heart

of a friend 

    colleague 

        pastor 

Christ follower

this spring

what do the robins think 

when a big blizzard belts us in April 

just started a nest finding worms 

in thawing ground 

ready to begin a new life in northern plain 

with open skies and long sunny days 

but winter isn’t done with us yet 

snow coating branches 

cold wind wiping memory 

of peaceful preview of summer 

so where do you go plump red breasts 

to endure the weather 

to emerge once more when the storm passes 

and lift our thoughts away from brutal invasion 

wintry hearts in need of feathery love

in the rifted rock

grand children’s love billows 

through iPhone speakers 

a sung embrace of closeness 

mother daughter hands clenched on lap 

failing ears can just make it out 

this song for the ages aged 

seeking rest from care and pain and turmoil 

my moist eyes lower to the floor 

where slippered foot taps the beat

 

spring song

sometimes spring 

onsets without much warning 

sun suddenly warm 

like Mozart after Mussorgski 

and the melt begins 

icy eyelashes blink into blue sky 

warming air caresses new born skin 

and there’s a blue jay in the tree 

learning an aria 

from The Magic Flute

there is nothing like a choir

there is nothing like a choir 

a kind of confluence of rivers 

    of blueish thought 

    reddish feeling 

    greenish beauty  

    yellowish freedom and 

    purplish imperfection 

flowing together as love

lasting a moment and forever 

in the universe of this space and time 

a kind of lifting 

    of the heaviness 

    to the heavens 

that can’t happen with one 

or even five 

or with a cast of superheroes 

a kind of graduation dance 

    fills a room with light 

    from the twirls 

of accomplishment 

and possibility 

a kind of window 

into the heart of God

no fly zone

Putin’s missile found a maternity hospital 

on a terrible day 

in a terrible war 

and we watch from here 

three dead and 17 wounded 

this senseless war on decency goes on 

wind drifting dreaded snow 

across flat prairie

invades our shallow peace 

and Zelensky asks and asks and asks 

for a no fly zone 

to protect the babies

Putin's war

flakes feather down 

white on white 

at end February 

a mountain of peace 

created on the lawn 

and my thoughts scroll to the Dnieper 

half a world away where 

my tree families 

down 

into fertile earth 

and now endures 

incendiary attacks 

missiles pointing down 

flames on flame 

at end February 

a chaos of war 

cascading contentious

country

war and peace

they jam the jails 

these brave Russians saying 

no war 

to Putin 

filling streets 

holding signs 

because what else can you do 

as Putin’s army pushes into 

Ukraine 

where so much blood has leeched 

into the ground 

through centuries of back and forth 

with might is right logic 

but still 

peace asks a different question 

demanding an answer out of weakness 

an answer that is a question 

what else can you do 

Bambi

brown and black Shepherd

Rottweiler cross relaxes

entire leather couch

aftermath

in the after storm time 

this bright chill 

deceptive calm 

but just as deadly 

for the straight tone 

loneliness 

enters the bones 

of the soul 

and the drifted snow 

invades and deadens 

cracks in the ribcage 

of feeling 

but listen to the 

voice of praise 

create a quinzy 

in the quiet snow 

a dome of 

shelter 

in this harsh life 

of fury and freeze

 

white winter

bleak beauty curves earth 

this day at end January 

pandemic year two 

snow settled knee deep 

on this unhilled plain 

far to west and east north and south 

clean clear white 

bear witness 

for this is the winter 

of widespread wishes

snow storm

heart drifts enlarge 

tiny pellets pelt 

    felt fiercely 

like stark open chords blowing 

    through window gaps 

gathering gusts of grief 

that only the magic of 

warm held hands can melt 

two pictures April 17 1998

she is three 
& sits serious at table 
round green eyes solemnly 
singing 
    singeing through you 
framed by door 
two balloons blue and yellow 
tiara says birthday girl 
hand grips Styrofoam plate 
she’s waiting for her cake 
& your heart does a double take
can there be such goodness 

she is three 
and chin is angled up 
in pride smile 
    aflame 
for she has just blown out 
three candles on round 
cougar cake 
white icing placed just so 
pale blue kitty shirt 
made just for her it seems 
and your heart beams 
there is such pure joy

a cat still

this cat 

    so still stares 

out through window 

at cold stillness outside 

does he like what he sees 

in that white world 

so few birds 

a sometimes truck 

drives past 

and yet still he 

watches 

as if everything depended 

on his being sentinel 

as if the world’s heart 

couldn’t beat without 

his watchful eye 

until that 

still 

    small 

        voice 

speaks to him & 

he stands 

    stretches 

        & moves 

to another post in his still domain

darts

magnet tipped 

blue red 

tossed to metal target 

we try for bulls eye 

circle within circle 

sometimes we hit it saying 

I waxed you 

and sometimes it’s close 

and we say I edged you 

and we go again 

this old game 

catching a five-year-old’s excitement 

his long blond curls bouncing 

as he keeps a running bright-eyed commentary 

and I’m the lucky one 

red darts flying straight to my heart