I'm not much

I’m not much of a deipnosophist—

I sit and listen to better table-talkers

I might look lost in a funk,

but I’m just watching the board

tracking every conversational

checkmate and zugzwang

not antisocial, nor a solivagant,

just solving puzzles with pizzazz—

the crossword’s clues feeding me

new words to keep me quiet-busy

some might call it sniffishness

but they’d be wrong

I’ll speak my mind one-on-one

it's only in a crowd I clam up—

the tiny bones in my ear vibrating

to a silent ululation

what May brings

heat waves 

snow 

wind 

wildfires 

hot hazy skies 

walks outside 

summer clothes  

open windows 

what springs in may 

day lilies lilacs 

lawn growth 

dandelions 

leaves bud out 

rhubarb 

what we bring to May

getting ready to move 

leaving our home of 31 years 

soccer and croquet in the yard 

fire pit 

hot dogs 

another 1000 words for Norah 

sitting in the sunroom 

watching birds 

watching baseball in all weather 

Hockey playoffs

bringing what may

birds and squirrels

today I’m watching small birds 

flitting on the branches of our pine 

white markings on their heads 

snow covers ground below 

white sparkle in the sun 

today I’m watching the squirrels 

chase each other across the snow and up the tree 

perfectly balanced along branches 

today I’m watching life in winter

September

look out after rain

water drops hang from chair frame 

like pearls of sadness

card

downy woodpecker print

in black and white 

small splotches of white 

snow falling in the night 

black sky 

bird 

white breasted 

perched on tree 

midwinter cold 

it’s magic on cardstock 

cuz I can hear the knock knock

of beak on bark 

on a silent Christmas card 

and I think of how to 

save this world

 

tilted

yellowed maple leaves

sigh down onto lawn marking 

fall’s onset in late August 

tilt of the planet doing it again 

as it has through the ages 

but here it is again 

Autumn’s death giving way to 

sweaters and shoes of September 

we are all tilted this way 

tied torn tattered 

by life 

detached 

and drifting on the wind

Oma and Norah in flowerbed

grandmother amidst

flowers in the sun holding

child intent reaching

 

leaves

each leaf chlorophils this backyard 

with summer greenness 

and I sit happy to be here 

midst all the burgeoning life of 

flowers 

    grass

        birds 

            weeds 

                garden 

                    ants 

robin beak digs into lawn searching 

plump worm and I get to watch this opera

this do I not take lightly 

when so easily it may be done

as simple as a song fading out 

or a worm plucked out 

of the ground and eaten 

I doze and wake to witness wind shaking leaves

clinging

what is this pensiveness 

low strings agitated almost dissonant 

almost unrhythmic 

a serious chanting of sorrow 

in this heated June filled with thunder 

what is this prevailing pall 

over all we do 

soft choral voices breaking through in 

broken harmonies 

so hard to cling 

to bright clean hope

long winter

late March shivers north wind 

and piles of snow linger

in this ungraceful  sun 

and ice shatters under foot 

we ask when will this novel end 

and let spring unlock the door 

yes we built a quincy in December 

and still it stands unblemished 

a rabbit hole to permanent winter 

yet we know summer will come 

with C02 warmed heat 

all a part of this new world order

Norah's laugh

where does it start 

this bubbling up from the belly 

unrestrained joy of lilting laughter 

learned or innate

     irresistible 

we must join in and 

let go of world 

hands open to catch 

happy catches in the voice 

to hold the ball lofted 

that says 

    pass me on 

hands cupped together 

to make a landing for 

the delicate bubble of the future

what he showed us

blonde hair like pure energy

front teeth growing in 

he shows us the shells he brought 

from Cuba 

pink and white and tan 

had to choose which ones 

to take home 

so these were the treasures 

the jazz of the sea 

exoskeletons of mollusks 

washed up on the beach

keeps them in a special bag 

mementos of the warm holiday 

the shells of memory

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

 

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

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

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

lifespan

voice your dandelion

deep tap root brief yellow flower

spread white seeds in wind