Canadian Adventures

April 26, 2019 at 7:07 am (Poems) (, , , , , )

Part 1: Hat

A different light casts possibilities:
friendships blossom in a land of hats, and coats bloom, revitalised by an eco artist’s hand.

Life takes on a happy texture, when time is a backwards flowing river
and wheelchairs carry festival smiles upstream.

You knitted me a holiday;
altered my pattern and sold me some yarn.
Our stitches flew with rooks, walked with coyotes and laughed with friends.

Tangled by snowberry mountains
we slipped and cabled,
two together on a Golden adventure,
with maple motif and the prospect of bears.

Part 2: Boots

Yesterday, we defied road closed snow
to ski up mountains in regular boots,
Waving to impossibly long trains as they
snaked by, down spiral tunnels.

Today, We left downtown
to straddle snow blooms and boulders
and sink our feet and claw downhill
Where beavers creek and water falls.

We shared the road with acoustic coffee house yawns,
long lines of round nosed trucks and invisible hauliers.

Slowed by construction projects, brake checks and broken pine,
We left the highway, hungry for a cabined night in the red heart of the green forest,
tucked in like those illusive bears.

Part 3: Coat

Strutting with the wild things
The Canadian mountain me
Pretty hat, pretty coat, pretty Japanese pants,
An eco print queen bee!

Part 4: River

Vast rocky hollows emerald green,
From winter’s sleep there springs a dream
of summer, doused in scent of pine,
an artery unlocked by time.

Beneath its petticoats of snow,
this river heeds the call to flow
by elk and bear; it cracks the ice,
and journeys on through paradise.

Part 5: Lakes

Which God is to say if there is more beauty in alluvial blue water,
or in the vast Medicine word Lake exchanged between cousins?
I heard it in the soft shoe shuffle
as melting ice stacked and shifted,
and saw it in the striped tail of a disgruntled chipmunk.

Part 5: Death on Mount Robson

Travelling backwards, lost in time,
to a place where I was nine,
and drinking iced tea through a straw,
(the paper kind they had before)

Traced memories of a patriarch –
Three thousand metres to the top,
We mortals kept a lowly road
By Fraser River’s icy cold.

And past us, on the snow-packed trail
ran an officer tall and pale
On, up the hill, to where a soul
drew one last breath so icy cold.

A team worked hard for goodness’ sake
but soon he slept, no more to wake,
His still slight form was borne to base
by men in black with sorry face.

Great Robson’s might so drew us on
to Kinney Lake where we sat down
and made a raft from lichen green,
to sail our Easter eggs downstream.

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Watermark

November 23, 2018 at 1:18 pm (Poems) (, , )

It’s funny how our lives will weave
a pattern which we can’t conceive
of when we try to plan a route
from A to B. So what’s afoot?
Relax your eyes and look again
and you will see another frame
existing but so nearly not
it’s hard to know the path it plots
but trust its steady head and heart
To guide your hand as you depart.

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Amazing Mind

June 7, 2018 at 7:33 am (Poems) (, , , , , )

Let’s build a fine universe, a beautiful mindfulness
A mind we can live in, a mind to create with
With thought we’ll find values, with care we’ll discover
Discover our mentors, discover our questions
Questions wait out there and questions bring troubled thought
Thought bringing change about, change not intended
Requiring dedication, grit and determination
Unending participation, extreme ingenuity
Ingenuity walks clever, finds a path through the darkest dark
Though dark thoughts may surround us, dark tendrils confound us
we can be our own physician, breaking hard but then mending well
Well is a way through, wellness our freedom
Freedom would evade us, freedom from bigotry
Bigotry stains our universe, bigotry limits us,
But limits are dry stone, limits are but high walls
And walls are surmountable, walls can be clambered.
Let’s climb with our brave hearts, climb with our strong minds
Mindful, sure footed, soulful and well-equipped
Equipped for the long haul, equipped now to lead and share
– Our universe is an amazing mind.

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Train

April 23, 2018 at 7:34 am (Poems) (, , )

I love train journeys
Sitting with perfect strangers
Drinking cold coffee.

The book in my bag
is dull in comparison:
all life is right here –

Held tight in packed bags,
contained anticipation:
quietly ready.

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Rear view

May 13, 2016 at 9:09 am (philosophy, Poems, poetry) (, , , )

Facing backwards on the train

to see the place I’ve been, again,

to meet the people facing me

whose eyes reflect what I can’t see.

 

The world behind is a surprise

that meets my back before my eyes,

and if I never turn around

I’ll never know what I have found.

 

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Cup

April 27, 2016 at 7:11 am (Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , )

A good idea

the coffee cup

with my name on

when ordered up;

A shame the man

upon the train

went to great lengths

to hide his name;

It would have been

a chance to meet

the friendly face

in the window seat.

 

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Order of Proceeding

August 18, 2015 at 1:50 pm (Poems) (, , , , )

Alice ate the train
after she ate her sandwich
but before the nuts –
which rolled beneath the table
when the train braked suddenly.

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Boy

July 14, 2014 at 8:43 pm (Stories) (, , )

Five years feeding, oh
sweet love with needy fingers:
growing up is tough.

Slugs his way to school,
lagging; lugging a back pack:
breath laborious.

Our boy is crossing
over roads he doesn’t know:
sees but a hard place.

His angel arrives
hot with exasperation:
in a scratched black car.

Those troubles tumble
beneath his great potential:
plugging a sinkhole.

Down he falls, silent;
mum screaming Get Up, Get Up:
always a slowcoach!

Grit in our eyelids,
we kneel down at the roadside:
and the traffic slows.

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A Quiet Ride

December 8, 2013 at 3:51 pm (Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , )

Who wouldn’t relish the pink skies
of a twilight winter drive?
Oh, for a quiet ride.

But Anxiety is a mealy-mouthed passenger:
no stuck out chin chest beating bully;
insinuating instead into the drivers seat,
she slips my gears.

Oh, for a quiet ride, but undeniably too
Vexation sits, inclined as though struck,
like a damp yeuk sandwich on the seat beside me,
puckering his lips to sip from
a plastic flask of patched up paranoia.

Oh, for a quiet ride indeed. Enough.
I swerve onto the curb, and
belt unclasped by confident denials, depress
an inbuilt ejector switch. Out they tumble,
rumbled by optimistic assertion.

Ha! In the Hollywood diversion, at last, a quiet ride,
pink skies deepening to best radish red,
conundrums left behind, nothing to remind me
of mistakes, unlucky breaks, driving west…

Okay. Apply the brakes. Get out. Slam the door.
Pick up the pieces, crank the heater,
dry their rusty tears and drive them home.
It seems we are not ready, each, to function on our own.

Surviving, and sucking last year’s fruit pastilles,
we all three, at least, appreciate the pink skies
of a twilight winter drive, but sometimes, sometimes –
Oh for a quiet ride.

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Road Lullaby

June 20, 2013 at 10:59 am (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , )

Mother lays me in her long black hair,
whispering her loola loola to me,
semi-dozing, travelling don’t know where,
keen cat’s eyes track the way before me.

Midway orange fascinates my eyes,
kaleidoscoping there to soothe me,
stars plotting silly pathways through the skies,
advised destinations all evade me.

Through the night I wheel the constant ground,
with arteries of darkness to sustain me,
thick beneath, deep asphalt cushions sound,
and insects unwing destinies around me.

Thought free and unassailed by humankind,
cruel clarity of day censored behind me,
my road tonight, pursuing peace of mind,
drifts shifting issues all beyond me.

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