EDMONTON – LATE SEPTEMBER
The leaves are dancing down the street
Leaves like the thousand children
that I never had with you
A skip, a dash, a lovely pirouette
then past, and gone
Monthly Archives: November 2011
LOSSES
LOSSES
Empty as a mouth full of snow
-Lois P. Jones
We lost another calf
we lost another crop
We lost an uncle in the war
These are not like keys of city folk
that they find in their other coat
The things we lose out here
don’t come back any more
DRAGGING IT OUT
DRAGGING IT OUT
The organ donor dies
over a very long time
and in a great many places
Not immortality exactly
but at least a lingering mortality
And for those of us
who find it so hard to let go
some comfort to know
that kidney that went to a child
might keep us going for another fifty
THE FUNERAL POEM
THE FUNERAL POEM
It’s just a matter
of compressing
a whole life
into twenty lines or less
A wafer to melt on your tongue
A K-ration to carry with you into battle
There are times
when you
will need their strength
Just add a few drops of salty water
ALONE KOAN
ALONE KOAN
What is the sound the old monk asked
What is the sound of one hand clapping
It is, of course, the sound of loneliness
playing pat-a-cake pat-a-cake with the dead
Hoping that they will rise again
at least long enough to applaud
the poem you wrote for their passing
FEEDING AMELIA
FEEDING AMELIA
I knew you’d come
was the first thing that she said
as she lay
cancer hollowed on her bed
On the second visit
Robin and I read her the poem
the one you usually get to read
only after they are dead
On the third visit
I brought mushroom soup
from the good restaurant across town
and fed it to her, spoon by gentle spoon
A last meal in three courses
AMELIA IN FLIGHT
AMELIA IN FLIGHT
Amelia in this life
you have had wings on your feet
Wings that have taken you skyward in dance
Wings that have taken you away from these
prairies
and wings that have brought you back
In this life Amelia
you have taught so many of us to fly
If you go on to other wings
we must go on to other teachers
and to other students
Each with the gift you have given us
Each with a sacred feather
IT HELPED AT THE TIME
IT HELPED AT THE TIME
Today I visited the graves of my parents
flowers for my mother
tobacco for my father
and chocolate for the orphan boy
He had a stomach ache later
but it sure helped at the time
I WAS AFRAID OF THAT
I WAS AFRAID OF THAT
My mother was afraid of everything
She may have been afraid of me
even before I was born
I can almost remember
pulling knees and elbows in
so as not to cause her pain
Afraid even in the womb to whisper
anything she didn’t want to hear
That sort of thing stays with you
Perhaps I should be thankful
for the cliffs I didn’t step off of
too brave and blindly in the night
buy what about the doors
the doors I didn’t open
into rooms filled with light
IN THE MOUNTAIN PARKS
IN THE MOUNTAIN PARKS
The beaver does not bother
to stop his building long enough
to slap his tail and dive
The black bear ambles unconcerned
along the flowered motorway
across from the great glacier
You want to be, at least for a day
that mountain goat
hanging impossibly on the slope
I want to be the bighorn sheep
that just passed four feet away
the one with the biggest horns