Thinking of Ron Noginosh

"Like the Wolf on the Fold"

The authorities stormed down the street in great force,
And the protesters scattered like ants from their course,
But the cameras were on and the scene filled the screens
Of Canadian families of certain means.

They were shocked at the sight of the bludgeons and blood,
And the face of the one cop who looked like a thug,
And a fag in his mouth and the blacks on the run
And the swagger that comes to the weak with a gun.

But the history of Canada can not unfold
Unless chapters of conquest and horror are told.
We should not look South with too great a disdain
When First Nations Peoples still live in real pain.

There's not much that a parent can teach to a child
Of the wonder of living at one with the wild
When the force of bureaucracy fastens its yolk
And the lore of your elders can not be invoked.

Miche's visit

Miche returned to Wakefield today, I hope. All seemed to be well when she waved for me to leave the airport after she had checked in, but I just got a voice text on my land line which was in French and full of static so I don't know what it said but it might have been about a hold up in Calgary. I hope not. We had such a good visit, and now as I'm sitting all warm in my living room, sipping the last of her sherry and watching the snowflakes falling outside I hope she's not trying to get comfortable for a wait in the Calgary airport.

Jay was on call and working overtime while she was here, but he and May were able to join us for dinner on Thursday last week and he stopped by after work yesterday to say goodbye and shovel the walk, which I appreciated since I fell coming home from one of our outings yesterday. The good news is that by landing on the other side of my knee from the last fall, I might have knocked the kneecap back into place. The bad news is it hurts in a different way now. Oh well, at least my body isn't failing me as a subject of conversation. If it didn't continue to present me with problems I wouldn't be able to join in the ubiquitous conversations about health. I do love to talk. Fortunately, my problems are minor but if I dress them well when I express them I can hold my own in most conversations.







Miche and Jay getting back in touch.





Miche and May getting to know each other





Miche Xcountry skiing at Silver Star

A day indoors

It's a grey, rainy day in Vernon. I'm sitting inside wrapped in a blanket reading the poems I wrote in the late 70s and early 80s. Most of them are in a pile beside me waiting to be taken to the recycle bin, but there are a few I will keep here.

Seasons

Winter:
long, cold, barren,
beautiful dream of swift skis,
flushed cheeks,
sleeps beneath warm blankets,
the whistle of wind outside.

nightmare of skidding sludge
and trudging downtown
in salt-lapped leather boots,
nose dripping and dreaming of

Spring:
sun-warmed scents
of blossoms, bulbs, and buds
in bright green, pink and white

calves, colts and kids
testing their limbs
with the joy of Pinocchio
new-hewn from old wood
the fleetness of bootless feet
and then the heat of

Summer:
lazy, lowing, buzzing, growing
seemingly without effort.

The sun that swells my garden
lulls me through shoeless walks.
I am restored by warmth, cool drinks, deep water, alive for

Autumn:
regal show of purple and mauve
sovereign season of reaping
the golden reward.
The spider spins its web.
The loud and haunting chevron overhead completes
the circle of the seasons.
As burning fire-hues fall,
bare branches wait on winter.