Set aside the sense of context
the natural order of things
what should be

expectations

a million possibilities,
what might happen

really?

Just accept the gift
a moment
of pure discovery

North wind should not breathe like spring this time of year. I wear the extra layer for a reason. The red scarf belongs across my face, not stuffed in a pocket. What is she thinking?

Who am I to question she who puts air under my heels and lifts my spirit to the sky?

Of mysterious disappearances
and stranger appearances
the lone llama
curiously
alone
on snowy plain
gazed at my peculiarity
running against wintry wind
with scarf waving so incongruously

Of all things to mysteriously materialize from the hidden folds of the material, from the fibre of space woven through time, was a flaming red scarf knit of love and affection. It broke the harsh wind that afternoon when my nose was its most tender.

And the llama stood alone, watching like a mother-in-law, approving of my attire.

Somewhere at depth
a current flows
yet we mostly don’t know it.

I didn’t,
until a well was drilled
and I happened to be there,
started feeling the water,
like I was the water

freely flowing, more secure than ever.

We mostly don’t know it,
this river that fills us
flowing at depth, somewhere.


Sound and sight returned, a reed was floating away from me. I knew I couldn’t catch it, but I could hold on to something within. I wanted to reach out to anyone, to everyone, to hold hands everywhere.

When speech returned, I could only speak words of love.

Let me sit at your table
where the past comes to life
in that southern smile
that sails away
in eyes of childhood blue

tell me again of the man you loved
the naval ring you wear,
his burial at sea

do his glasses help with the menu
or are you reading the waves?

Her presence was a window on the past and light to what may come; a tearful goodbye to a departed island and a gaze turned on the horizon; a reminder that we sail upon deep waters.

Always something to learn from Agnes.

A force mysterious works time and motion

to place me on this street
you just turning a corner
as a yellow bus passes
and an egret lights on a palm

at an unlikely intersection

we break into smiles
involuntary
as lightning suspends time

then a rumble, a shiver
we sense some great alignment

Spontaneous smiles: the stuff of tides, currents, and earth movements. And of improbable meetings on distant islands.

Perhaps probability answers to a higher order.

Were you always there
a beacon at midday
a statue
with a basket of pigeon peas?

Celestine, you appear in dreams
of innocents abroad
who unknowingly seek
a rock like you

Your apron is a bounty,
your hands stronger than mine
when I speak of an island
I'll speak of Celestine

A new friendship in a new country, a little boat launched on swirling sea of possibilities. Then a wave of uncertainty, headwinds bringing clouds and rain. Our thoughts turned to safe harbour, and as we feared being lost, we found Celestine.

There's a beacon in time of need, if we would but watch for it.

He opened the gates of St. Lawrence
with a salty smile
and dreadlocks that gave
twenty years' testimony
to living one love

his earnest offering
a perfect fit
for one seeking
the dignity he possessed
formed like wood
hard as stone

Patrick used to work the seas. Now he works coral stone by St. Lawrence Gap, his dreads knotted twice to clear the street. A lot of living for one all-embracing love.

One love, one life. Thanks for the bracelet, Patrick.

A tree, as others through time,
sways as on another hill,
another lone pine

whose shade eternal as sun
roots in memory
a bond unbroken

as salt and water flow
in perfect tension
ready to go

climb the hill
sit upon the ground
return to self

beneath my tree

as the beat of my heart in time to my feet beating a path I've run before, another place another time. The tree and its shadow swaying; the chemistry of respiration running down my back. Physical expression of the force that joins a person to a place and a time.

It seems luxury
to have so many days
for habits and passions,
through change and evolution
with and without illusion
from forefront to background
forgotten then found
our life as the waves
from sea to shore to sea
moving as one, we are free

Each day awakens desire to live again, free to grow younger with you, my love.

I wade through leaves
for Lorne, the gardener
this afternoon full of purpose,
with water dark as compost,
and leaves piled high as he prescribed
in his daily sunbeam
that carried Brussels sprouts
raised as children
into the very heart
of my nine-to-five illusion

“Take your time,” he advised, “use six-mil poly, 6 x 6 posts. And do you have a compost pile?”

Yes I do, Lorne. And I’ll make raised beds. If my Brussels sprout, I’ll name them for you.

Like waiting day and night
for a wave to find shore
from eastern ocean’s
distant reach
my orchid
summons from the deep
a surge long in the making
or so it seems to one waiting
impatiently on stone-strewn beach

Too impatient to count, even by sevens, I should learn to wait on the sea as navigators do. For on the seventh day she bloomed, by her count, not mine. And then others followed.

She is teaching patience; now I sleep, knowing the seventh will one day open.

We can prepare,
try to know everything
as happened before,
analyze it to pieces

yet we can’t get far
without hope and belief,
faith and desire

for nothing gets done
just on what we know.

Knowledge is like a photograph; it gives us some evidence, answers some questions, but some things are always outside its borders. Living takes us into the other dimension beyond what’s purely known.

Whatever moves us to breathe and makes our hearts beat is what carries us to tomorrow – from the known to the unknown.

Calls me
in the moment
to be steady in movement
and pull with purpose to find
that mighty mechanical me
wound to its wheels
turned to its chime
my perfect partner in time

Cuckoo chains are best pulled at the same hour each day; slowly, steadily, commanding of attention. Brings out that touch of machine in me, and a stroke of free spirit in that bird.

A perfect partnership.

If I am to follow a script
I should have learnt it by now
else my moves are but improvisation,
my words sourced in inspiration
unwritten, playing to a theme
unknowing of curtain and scene
awaiting the glow of lamplight
and a character heretofore unseen

Life plays itself out, and in brief pauses holds both reflection and apprehension. I shall take it as wonderful tension between knowing what has been and awaiting what is to come …

and ride the turns of pages being written.

My host and companion
filled me with conversation,
Pâte viande and Tortière Lac Sainte-Jean

Where Frederic Leclerc played
on the corner by l'accommodation

My shelter by night
and by day, the comfort
of a home awaiting my return

Where laughter overflowed
any wall of division

His open arms would reach around the world. His house, my house ;
sa maison était la mienne.

Let it go, just let it go
road ahead is stony, Lord knows,
there's thunder on the mountain
and a ghostly wind that blows,
but we're gonna let it go, don't you know

Spinning and a reeling, gotta stop that feeling. Too many signals crossing, channels changing.

Too much information, not enough communication, unplug awhile and be free.

Our day is going the way
of molten gold,
poured into clay
cast in the cold
of ancient night.

Rippling moonlight stirs
with the ever-distant lament
of the circling loon.

She meets me in the twilight, shares her mysteries in lines of poetry etched on stone. Knowledge meets belief and my cup overflows.

I warm to her blend of colour and autumn mist.

The best thing about the sport?
It’s the people.
The game, well it’s the game,
we don’t play well all the time
but after, that’s what makes it
something for living.
Let’s talk about our time together
the time to come,
plan the next game so we can
have more of that special after-game time

To really get to know someone on and off the field is something for life. I like to think my eyes are open on the pitch, looking to make that next play. But I’m blind until I make that after-game time.

To really know the sport is to know how to be alive.

Long before our arrival, others gathered
we pass their steps in our cars
their days, our hours
we sleep ‘neath their moon
unknowingly drawn
to this place
where mothers counted
children in the stars.

Along a rugged shore, three hours in conversation with pauses that affirm the beauty of this place. And the rocks and water keep a beat we can sense, no need for words. We know somehow.

Friendship is tied to something deep … it's at work beneath this road we travel.

Wish me to your ocean
Swim me to your song
Whisper stories to my longing heart
Gone along along
Shelter me in your harbor wing
Downy soft as bliss
Remember me to forgotten dreams
Underneath a midsummer kiss

Crazy turns chase the world in circles, neon flies around a chasing light, garden play naked moon shining, kiss me on a midsummer night!

Paris moon
in lighted marble
an Ile Flottant
passed by our table

at café constant
her naked arms
cast in its glow
silken sculpted

lavender dress
scented the night
her light caressed
in passing shadow

It balanced on the spire of L’hôtel des invalides, observed a moment of silence, then on its way above our tiny terrace space.

And statues bowed, their shadows long at her feet.

At the calling of spring
I emerge, free
to consume the sun
in a mysterious exchange
I nourish and am nourished
secure yet free
to dance
on panting wind

Until autumn turns me
in a blaze of colour
I fly, free
to feed the tree
that nourished me

Photographer, painter, poet: artists three. Free to interpret impressions of leaf, branch and tree.
A mysterious exchange of elements under the sun.

Free to create, free to be.

Each breath a step
up the mountain
and a vision of vaulted light
glowing within the heart
of Brother André

Simple man, modest shrine
strange attraction to place
and time; panting, pulsing,
healing like the prayers
of Brother André

I hung my crutches to a tree,
and calmed by resting breath
far from domed reliquary
I saw Joseph,
on the steps
of his beloved Saint André

The heart of Brother André rests beside a mountain where it beat ninety-one years of devotion.
A pilgrim with a vision: that we might find our own healing steps.

Renate was a teacher
who taught by sharing
what life taught her

about hope
and gratitude
and friendship

spanning borders,
crossing oceans,
changing lives.

Her book of love tells of a journey. It teaches of hope, gratitude and friendship; of lives forever changed.

A story to share.

“Look around,
each of you has a story to tell
and I know you will

Tell the story,
and if others don’t get it
repeat it until they understand

It’s not about the ‘how’
it’s about the ‘why’
and it starts with you

It’s about people
and relationships;
actions will follow.”

The farewell dinner finished, he sat surrounded by friends. “Go, tell your stories and make them compelling,” he said. “Life is a crystal hanging in a window, scattering its spectrums; so many possibilities, such diversity, multiple connections to be made.”

It is about the why. Actions will follow.

Every child’s wish
For every mother’s yearning
Every midnight prayer
And every candle burning
Lighting every window
From the mountains to the sea
Drawing closer to you

The rhythm and the drumming, little fingers strumming, heartstrings deepening tones. Drawing closer to love, the light of the world.

In the year to come, may we look past the shadows for a guiding light.

We worry about our daughters
in the city
on the roads
travelling hundreds of miles

Danny and I talked about life
about good turns
and helping when we can

A car stranded on the highway
not a safe area
he passed it once, again later
decided to stop

Found himself
helping someone’s daughter
she could have been his own

Hours later in the dark and snow
she arrived safely home
into her father’s arms

Through the ages a Good Samaritan takes many forms; always with measures of courage, faith and a will to stop and offer help.

I thank Danny for stopping, for helping a daughter on her way home and a father on his way through life.

In the depths of your gaze
I seek words unspoken

from within
your eyes
close, then reopen

to a language long
forgotten

it hums

every earthly word
you’ve ever heard

in all those ninety-plus years
will you know the few we shared
and remember me?

For I can walk upon the ripples in the silence, in the reflection see the way I too shall go. Someday, somewhere, I shall speak the words you are hearing.

The brains,
They’re the best!
I’ll teach you how to tan hide with them
Like my grandmother did

When I was good
She’d cook me a meat ball
From the brains of the deer

When I was bad
She’d take quills of the porcupine
Stick me in the ears!

I could not help but overhear the man’s stories. He leaned low, making big gestures across the little breakfast table. His granddaughter shifted and squirmed, asking questions in one or two words. They were of the Ute Tribe, he would later tell me.

And on my expression of interest, he was kind enough to offer some teaching about mountains, bison, the night, and the eastern star. But I loved the deer brains best!

Thorold,
Where the sidewalks used to hum
And you couldn't see cars for all the people
Now but dim reflections in vintage glass
In Angie's shop of curiosities
And up the street, Oddity among oddities,
John from Venice taps on a Celtic drum

"You should've been here this morning, we were twenty-five or more. You'd have done some singing then, for sure," exclaimed the keeper of a hundred guitars in John's Thorold Music.

I shall return to rejoin the spirits of Front Street .... on a Saturday morning.

Berries on the bush
draw us from the road

Berries to our lips
gifts on us bestowed

Berries in the mouth
purple on the tongue

Berries in a basket
gathered one by one

Berries in our memories
hours we spend together

Berries in our dreams
that we might pick forever

We take the goodness from the land and offer back hours shared in quiet conversation, kneeling in humble contemplation. In the jack pine overhead boreal winds gather in abundance.

Travel ‘round the world
or fly through outer space,
never gonna find
somewhere like this place
sit around a fire,
friends are near,
got stories to tell,
glad to be here.

Of people and places, of moments living in memories; of laughter and sparks spiralling into the eternal depths of a night sky, we are moved to call out across the lake, “love this country!” And in the echo we can hear the dreams of the world.

Garden Angel,
share your shadows
cast your misty light on me.
Garden Lady, I’m crazy,
for your sage and your mustard
and your sunflower poetry!

Cool me, fool me, bring me to my knees. Open me and sow me with your seeds.
Free me, be me, captivate my mind. Grow me, show me, nothing that you owe me,

nothing of the old familiar kind!

Cool jade
Little globes turning
On her wrist
Smooth touchstone
Back to ground
Finger and thumb
In touch with
The world turning
As a door swinging
Open to take us
Back to our essence

Clear as starlight reflected on water, penetrating all that would obscure. We can be in touch with ourselves, turn inward to the essential elements of life, of the earth turning.

Hemlock cones and deer droppings:
Dying Winter’s offering,
Served on his shrinking mantle,
Before wet roots warming,

The sun overwhelms the crust:
Icebound relics disclosed,
Sodden leaves and dry bracken,
At maple’s feet exposed,

Snow retreats to vernal pools:
Released from muddy ooze,
Beetles crawl on warm imprints,
Of wet boots and snowshoes.

Hear water drops playing chimes on melting ice, see mud forming on edges of receding winter. Feel fingers warm again; the angle of the sun brings welcome change.

Need not hear ice melting
To feel warmth today
No need to see swelling buds
To know spring will find its way
On hardened path winter has layered down
I’ll sense the wintry essence
In the fullness of February sun

A day could not be so clear as when February quiets its raging winds with a replenishing intake. It activates every sense, as a pause to catch a breath.

In a moment of winter sun, there is a calm, frozen in time.

“No, I don’t mind at all. Please, play,” I said to Pedro,
passing him the ukulele.

He welcomed the little instrument with open hands
as if greeting an old friend

then came his voice, drawing from a deep well,
“Latin folk songs … I once played cuatro.”

And so we shared our songs, they rose from the café floor

cantautor, songwriter,
four strings, two languages, one vibration

we could feel it filling that space
behind the breastbone.

A spontaneous sharing of stories. In that moment two songwriters found a treasure chest, a reward for years of writing. Now when I strum my ukulele it sounds a bit different … there's resonance somewhere deep within.

Speaking mystery to power,
a life’s meaning
transported in wondrous working
of wood, stone, feather, and fur

in the keeping
of a pine box

memories are safe,
and free as the air
as the Shaman’s hand
paints caretaker spirits
of bird, fish, wolf, and bear.

It had been a difficult year. The poet was seeking a safe and sacred place for memories. He brought the simple box with hinged lid to the Shaman artist. “I have some things I need to send, can you make this a spirit letterbox?” he asked.

“Ah,” replied the artist, dipping his brush in ochre. “With such an idea, your search is nearly over.”

It feels like ten-thousand steps,
I plod, pant, look up, up
the trail to heaven,
or a place in the clouds
to rest, gasp, eat peanut butter.
Then it’s down, down,
the way forward,
or a state of mind for living:
taking a step, and then another.

It’s the way life goes. Up towards the clouds on a thigh-burning climb, or down a hill of tangled roots each foot carefully planted to prevent a back-breaking slide. One step, then the next, and somehow we make it, looking for another hike.

The trail is a teacher, and I’m thankful for fellow hikers who help me learn.

The audience:
wheeled one-by-one
in foam-lined chairs, declining and inclining
I am surrounded.

Me:
Nice and loud, a good beat
waiting for eye contact, or the unexpected
Anything can happen in the home.

Today:
one escapee to the October sun, one wanderer from level two
three ‘bravos’ in the middle of my first song
a couple of “shut-ups!”

And as always the one-legged lady smiled sweetly when I played. Today I took her hand appreciatively but was surprised when she uttered, “I’m very anxious to get back to my room.”

“Just wanted to say thanks,” I tried to explain.
“I can’t hear you,” she yelled, anxiously.

Perhaps out of vogue nowadays,
there’s something to be said
for a notebook in a breast pocket
to catch what we drop
in our rush to the next thought
or to keep by our bedside
where dreams might light a
precious moment before being
consumed by wakeful worry

The question was posed by a philosopher, speaking of a needle slowly steadying in Thoreau’s compass. “It points to an alignment with a deeper aspect of ourselves.”

Thank you for asking my friend, for helping me reset my bearings.

Songs rose from the circle
To starlit skies they flew
I saw their light reflecting
In the eyes of Gracie Lou

Her ukulele found notes
To melodies old and true
I was carried to another time
By the voice of Gracie Lou

I saw children’s faces alight
At her buzzing pink kazoo
And I too was under the spell
Cast by Gracie Lou

If life were to lose its wonder
And my mood be cast in blue
I should seek a dose of saving grace
In the wonder of Gracie Lou!

Thanks Gracie, for helping me touch the child within!

A sense at the limit of feeling,
a vision almost beyond sight,
familiar yes, but I don’t really know
The flashes struck from midnight

As another heart to another time
truths I scarcely hear
beat with thunderous clap
within, without, and everywhere

Robert Browning crafted images I return to often: the flashes struck from midnights, the sparks of noonday fires. Sudden convergences, though powerful, often pass unnoticed. Later we may catch up.

They are the flashes outside when our back is to the window. Then comes the thunder, as if to say, “yes, something just happened!”

“Find the pink boathouse,
Look for a cut, up towards a big palm,
Follow it to the lookout,
And you’ll see the beautiful Atlantic,
But don’t swim!
Oh, first you must wade through Deadman’s Channel,
No problem, the tide will be low.”

With my backpack on my head and water inching to my armpits I put the bartender’s directions to the test. I was in Deadman’s Channel to my neck, on tiptoes. When I reached the big palm I was drying in the afternoon sun. He was right; the Atlantic was beautiful, adorned with turquoise and sapphire.

But her foaming teeth and the roar in her throat warned against following any of my own directions.

Quarter of a century
A gift of time for you and me
Time to fly to the skies of love
And fall in its angel arms

This is now, that was then
Close your eyes remember when
Our lips touched the very first time
Let's kiss that way again.

Tango to yesterday, waltz to another day, jive round the Earth and cha-cha to the Sun. Follow me and I’ll follow you, our love will dance forever!

Shadows flicker:
wings at feeder beating,
petals on warm earth raining,
flames to dry twigs licking,
pages in wind blowing,

Sunday afternoon ending,
unfinished.


Scattered on the table, spring throws flickering light and raindrops wet the verses of our days’ quick passing.

I should cherish every gust of spring breeze, listen for the touch of every drop of rain.

Tired, failing skies
Turn heavy and grey
And leak wintry residue
To sudden water-play

Gritty snow corpses
Sprawl on brown grass
And shrink in the mists
Of spring’s elegiac mass

Behind insulated walls
And filtering pane
We witness again
The turncoat refrain

I want early spring to feel like early summer, but it never does. The sudden appearance of ground is deceiving. To be honest with nature, I wouldn’t stand a chance out there. I’ll open the door and tell her so ... but not for long, the heat is escaping!

Your impressions in mud
cast the mood
Your tempo invites painters
to colour stories
Your song rings through generations
reflecting change
Rocks, waves, voices and hands
work the current
And time comes to life
in the River of Song

Take some time to come to the river and listen to its song. Feel the pulse of the current and the beat of the drum. See the pictures that form as ripples touch the mud, wind brushes waves, and reflections change with the seasons. Let the river take you and you will know its song.

A month in, January tugs
and the line bows
heavy with transition.

Waving like sheets
across pools of light
freezing rain to snow.

Eyes all wonder
sliding across the sky
mighty in its vision.

I pull covers about me. Outside waves of snow flap like blankets in the wind. Memories of the rain: its tricks last week, what it has become, how it will change. The sky is full of ideas about what should befall our streets and paths.

The transition is upon me, and night slides by.

“I didn’t think this would be such a stubborn song”
“a bridge? At the end of a song?”
“you can stop but just keep time”
“what are we doing after the chorus?”
“where are you now Guy?”
“so what are we doing at the very end?”
"lay some goose eggs on that bass"
“count us in Bob”
“can you make it sound a bit more African?”
“where’s that groove I had going?”
“try more chuka-chuka, less bump-udee-bump”
“again, with conviction … but not too much conviction.”
… and, my favourite, “I think we got it boys!”

Here’s to that song that rolled out on the first take. And to the stubborn one that wouldn’t settle into a groove until we left it in the garage overnight. Ah, the chemistry and the alchemy of live recording.

... riding rapids on the River of Song!