It's a bright, sunny April morning in Vernon. The quarantine imposed by Covid 19 has driven us all into our homes, if we are fortunate enough to have them, and forced us to scrounge around among our own resources. By now I have weeded my yard so thoroughly it's less green than it was. Weeds are not only well rooted and numerous, but also early risers. There must be a lesson there, but I'm to lazy to learn it. I have also redesigned the sun room where I sit most mornings and I am right now, going through old papers and photos. The past is not a bad place to get lost in, for a while. Fortunately, I also have some friends to call me back to the present, either for a real walk or bike ride or for a virtual break in the increasingly creative life on line.
Among the old papers I found
poems I had written over the years. I read them and consigned most to the recycle. I fixed up a few which I will put in this blog.
Seasons
Winter:
Clear, cold,
flushed cheeks,
deep sleeps beneath
heavy blankets,
the comforting whistle of wind, outside.
skidding sludge
trudging to work
in salt-lapped leather boots,
and back,
in the dark.
Spring:
Longer light,
sun-warmed scents
of blossoms, bulbs, and buds
and bright colour bursting.
Calves, colts and kids
testing 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 for winter.
Camp and School
Opening the camp
in early spring is exciting,
for kids,
following the tracks
a moose has cracked
through the thin crust of snow
down to the water that now laps the big rock on the shore
Of Superior.
Tomorrow to run unshod
through grass, smelling lilacs
and then summer that passes
with the ease of gathering
for walks to the next beach and
back and forth like a pendulum
swimming
thoughtlessly from late mornings
to the dark of night.
Into fall corn roasts
and school.
The thrill, palpable and chill
of waking and putting on new clothes to face reality
the call back to
where there are
heroes to watch
and whisper about,
secrets to share
in washrooms,
the only sure refuge from
the surveillance of
the tick ridden, quirky ones
who patrol the passage,
spark the imagination
and interrupt the most important
encounters of life.
Summer
An old man sits and smokes
outside his door
then slowly retreats
from the heat of the day
into the house once more.
But the sun will sleep
before he will.
He'll move back out
with his chair
to sit and smoke
in the evening cloak
that covers him unaware.
Work and Play
It's fun at a party
to look at people.
To stand detached
and watch how friends behave
when they do what they want.
When they spend their precious free time.
Most of mine talk,
and so do I
In elaborate babble,
we entertain each other
With tales to advantage dressed.
Or we dance 'til we're dripping
then drink and talk some more.
It's play that makes friends
willing to be silly,
to go to extremes
not held back by the necessary,
the working world.
Lucky to have
a place to escape into
and from.
Breaking away
Winds lift mist in wisps
Over the water
To whirl and spin and rise
Like brides
To mingle with the bright blue air
of a new day.
Sun splits the dark
and makes it glow
in gold.
The day begins again,
like life, in separation
and hope.
An infant infinity finds,
for youth to squander
and spend
the riches with which it is blessed.
Renewed like Nature
To try
To help
And be helped
When winds no longer lift.
Spartan Mothers
Did Spartan mothers tell their sons
to come home
with their shields or on them?
And if so:
How were these words uttered?
Were they whispered into sleeping ears on the night before battle?
Or were they screamed by harpies
from high fortress walls?
how received?
Did dreaming warriors rise renewed and warned?
Or did the shrieking menace mix with the clang
of metal on metal and stone
As bold and noisy soldiers
marched from home
to War?
From where was it untimely ripped?
This bogus, this bombast
that's boiled in a cauldron and sold
to the desperate as soup.
The needy by the ambitious readily duped.
Why would a mother willingly urge her son to something so hideous?
The Ant
Ants don't have time
to lie in the sun
leisurely
like me.
I've never seen one saunter
or sit in the shade of a tree.
All heads bent down
Noses to the ground
Feather feet on my back,
in their path.
The routes they have worn through the ages
are long
and heavy their loads.
Why have they never built roads?
Or discovered the wheel?
Man's so inventive
Superior
Yet I feel alone?
High on dizzying stilts
So far from home.
The Carpenter
Goad, thorn and toad
An incantation of a character
An elf-like man
A carpenter.
A lippy Jack of all trades.
His priorities clear:
Women,
Work,
Cigarettes and
Waterfall.
Pragmatic and whimsical.
He spins and sleeps through extremes.
To a balance-not perfect
by any means-
But very human.
This forsythia is the glory of my yard at the moment
