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