our love

this is how it works
my cold chest to her warm back
arm round waist – hold hands

Papa Haydn

he is a bit stooped
as he walks up your snowy walk
using his cane
white beard starting to form icicles

“reminds me of the Alps”
he says
as he enters your warm house
unwraps tartan scarf removes woolen coat

he is old by now
but you wouldn’t be able to tell looking
into aqua blue eyes
clear and shining

very polite and proper
he sits and drinks some coffee
with his cake
china tinkling with a slight shake of hand

he wants to know about the structure of your house
how it was built
dimentions
special features
and he smiles as you tell him of
bay windows and the three season sunroom

in fact
the smile never leaves his face
as he points his wizened finger towards the window
and says again
“reminds me of the alps”
and you smile back
thinking alpine thoughts on the wintry prairie

Crete (Water Poem IV)

I remember that picture
the day I lost my wallet in the sea

but at that moment
standing knee deep in the astonishingly warm salty waves
sand covering feet
arms spread wide
body bent backward
eyes up to the ancient blue sky of Crete
I feel the double warmth of sun on face
and water on legs
and the strands of wire-like
worry around heart
release

this sea
so full of recorded history
myth and memory
is just/still blue water rolling up on shore

and I am one man/speck in the
panoply of the ages

but still
as I lie back and let the waves rock me like driftwood
the sky a greek quilt
sun scorching and sea bath warm
I create a healing
sacred
memory
to last a lifetime

writing it down (part II)

sun stabs/invades little room
in the middle of the hall second floor
patients waking up noisily say it is Saturday

but here time is lost in the sea of grief
waiting for the next breath
our vigil continues

Mom goes home to clean up
he seems more still----peaceful
talk turns to funeral plans

we take our turns going home
Winnipeg world seems too normal
in our static lives

question hangs in air
is nothing more to be done?
now it is just the waiting and solemn leave-taking

I go home for Saturday night
bed too comfortable
for this jagged time

early Sunday drive back
through snow and tears
others can take a break

nothing changes in the room
can he be weaker?
fighting for every breath

hymns play in background
mom and I on either side of bed
fatigue and sadness bear her up

it seems he asks for water a last time
we brush his lips with the sponge
Lieber Vater hoch im himmel rings through small speakers

breathing slows down long pauses
we both stand and wait
as he breathes out his last

I look to see my mother
alone-----now-----bereft
his spirit gone

leaving body cold

writing it down (Part I)

friday evening ringing telephone:
“dad’s not well
this could be it”

stomach stops normal function
driving winter highway in silence
the heater so loud we turn it down
this is not the usual weekend visit
------- reading--------crossword--------supper

the room is different
dad is not tilted in his usual chair
---------bed in center
thatch of white hair against pillow
breathing so loud
so horrible
mom is lost in this tiny space
nothing to do

cousins gather
chatter forces normalcy
but the vigil has begun

what else to do but sing
hymns travel down donwood hallways
young voices carry older tears along the wavering melodies

arrangements made for night
mom stays and we take turns
cramping into chairs
distracted minds rest against metal
rattled breathing continues even after pauses
it could be any time
but each time the next breath forces into lungs

life force – a fearful thing

new cat

play
pounce
leap

scamper
chase your tail
paw the pencil
------under piano

rub against leg
purr for a hand
stretch out and sleep

where did you come from?
waiting at our door in snowy starvation
thinking: here’s a home for me

now here
playing hunter
in our hardwood/carpet forest

we watch and smile
at life so sung

chemotherapy III

I’m going eight rounds with this bruiser

he hits you in the legs
the gut
the hands
the feet
the head
the mouth
the teeth

what do I do?
do I fight back?

I sit there and take it
rope-a-dope

until he’s done his worst
and then I’ll struggle up off the mat
first on all fours
then stand up
one leg at a time
wipe the blood off my knuckles

then

kick away the tubes and bags
and stride into street
still standing
stronger