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