In the language of flowers

Rosemary is for remembrance.

That's how it starts.

Pansy for tender thoughts:

Peony, dahlia, delphinium.

Salvia, alyssum, petunia.

Daisy for innocence:

Marigolds and blue lobelias, like Grandpa's.

Love them and they will grow.

Columbine for folly.

No calculation of sunlight, no thought

for the roots of elderly shrubs,

their greedy thirst.

Dandelion for oracle.

I didn't listen.

Marigold for jealousy

of gardens down the street

crammed with lilies. Cruel

in their flourishing.

Poppy for consolation or

evanescent pleasure.

Spindly and worm-eaten, for a short while

they bloomed.

flooded, ix

elle est elle est inondée elle est

inondée par l’inquiétude, inondée

par cette plus inutile des bêtes sombres

qui ronge aux rives de son imagination.

il n’y a plus de sommeil elle ne rêve plus

se tracasse de tout de rien pleine

de soucis elle oublie parfois

où elle a laissé son espoir.

elle est inondée elle est

inondée elle est
elle est 
elle est 

Sand poem page 1

This is the first "page" of something I was scribbling on my iPad with my finger. Amazingly, my regular handwriting is not much different. Sometimes I can't read it myself the next day. My students will attest.

Re-freashed leaves

Here is a draft of a fall poem that I have been working on for a while now. I didn't get to any new work this week but I edited this marginally so:

Leaf Shadows

The trees’ leaves,
freshly-dropped
one-summer loves,
had stuck themselves
onto the pavement of
Ruskin Row, my favorite
street in our walk,
for the quiet arching curve
in our conversations,
when we know
your street is nearing.

Swept away the leaves revealed
surprising shades of bright grey,
outlined epitaphs of their former forms
now afternoon sketches, thin
skeletal lines stenciled onto
the road. You asked if I was paying
attention as I watched them pass
under like water, neck craned.

We were walking
home together on the first of October
--ours is a convenience
of place sort of love--just passing
the bridge, watching
the two riverbanks bathing
in late afternoon sun, tipping
just on the slim edge
of the light
like proffered arms glowing
golden, a final fall

flourish. It was difficult to think
beyond the good weather,
towards a time for untangling

from this love
for this city--you’d say all cities
are images of souls, all loves
a convening nearer nearness--

from my fall
love for the tree’s last grasp
on its purple-basil coloured leaves,
segregating the cold cloud
sharpened sky,

for these concrete leaf shadows, that
tomorrow will erase so easily.

May is an uneasy month

Huddled, we lean into the wind.
We travel mute, the weather
an excuse, trying to understand
the gifts we clutch.
For me, a pair of seer stones
in a patched calico bag.
You, a jam jar of silver water.
We are grateful
as one must be under the spell
of a stranger’s generosity,
but unsure what they mean.

I am learning to read tea leaves,
slip four leaf clovers into the brew.
I fear the stones, what they could hold.
Eventually, we will move away.
You will hide the unsampled elixir
behind a mirror in the attic,
but I will take the stones
unseen, unused.

Waking

An amateur's new reflex camera,

a joke to get them laughing.

An instant clipped from a sumer afternoon.

Who are they? I ask.

They're in a field, row of trees behind them

Skirts to their ankles, white blouses.

And the men— shirtsleeves, suspenders,

hats perched high on their heads.

So easy to mistake their age.

That's Judith, Grandpa's first wife

(looking down, sun in her eyes)

and that's your grandma there

(hand smothers a giggle)

And then the figures lift a little, become

stereoscopic by some mixture

of daylight through yellow curtains,

my mother's voice reciting names,

my eyes' new skill at shifting focus.

There's the surprise:

my grandparents were once young.

If they could just stay like this,

resting lightly on the Kodak paper.

Are there more? I ask.

Brand

Calf knows only browse, suck.
Muck or dust, mother or brother.
Trusts men, until you pinion its legs,
smother its thrash to stand.

Tongue strains, the bleat
keen as a woman’s scream,
eye rimmed white in panic.

Hold iron to flank
until you’ve laid claim.
Until hide smokes,
singe skewers nostrils.

Sick flinches in your throat,
becomes hunger the instant
smell turns to roasted meat.

flooded, viii

Building a Sand-Bag Dike, part two

Sweet and earthy, the scent

of bail twine between her fingers

did she need help tying bags, he asked

but one look had him turn on his heels

one bag and then

another, thirty - forty - fifty he passed 

down the line to

the Hutterite men, strong and sing-song

their voices conspiring to tell a story

he wanted to understand

muscles aching, lungs rejecting

sand-dust, blood coursing hot to his head

he knew to stop

                             but would not 

           'til the dike was done.

.

Upon reading that Viagra is issued to Libyan soldiers

I've been away a few days with the mid-May slump. Here's a very new and rough one (as they pretty much all are).

-----

Dear Mssrs Research and Development,

You have improved the lot
of us. Lives lived to the pure and fullest and
upstanding members of the community shower
gold on you, do your e-
business for you, and always choose
the blue pill. The important part is
choose. Choose. Like a train
runaway. Like a toothless jaw trying.

I wrote you this letter with my hackles.
I could not tell you the names of any Libyan women.
I made my own inner peace with you for a while dear misters,
while forgetting the nameless world.

What ever happened to the angry girl poets of yesteryear?
And those whom exile became, they are no longer
translatable, except by you, misters r & d, and your damn autocorrect
telling me to capitalize at the beginning of lines, mr. developer.
That you've been issuing Viagra to soldiers is surprising
only in that I didn't think of it before.
Wrap my head around a metal pole.
Slap my forehead comically, but of course!
The perfect alibi doctors watsons.
Please prescribe me some pleasing
and we might might as well jump off the little blue bridge,
its tragic beams the better to mark my forehead with intricate lacework,
Mr bridgeovertheriverkwaibuilder, leave us the fuck alone.

Wading Pool, Pandora Park

Strollers stake claims to shade
while kids ride pool noodles, bob
in water wings. Moms up to their
knees cool off, while older siblings
clock pedestrians with supersoakers.

Nothing like free water in summer.
The beach too far to walk, no money
for the bus, these two blocks bordered
by apartments, become a shared backyard.
Tag. You're it.

Each evening, rivulets braid the streets
as the pool drains. Towels flyer
the railings, swimsuits drip.
Come morning, strollers circle the empty
pool, wait for a new jetstream
to be unleashed.

Stage fright

Belly spooks at barker’s voice.
Heart thrashes
like mink fights snare,
broken bird flails
between coyote’s teeth.

A thousand bullet-sharp eyes,
double-barrelled faces,
thousand lungs drum-taut
with held breath.

Swallow fear – the boiled egg
whole in your throat –
pin it deep inside.
Hold the skittish calf,
knee firm on its heaving side,
palm gently threatening
its life-pulse.

Eigenheim

This August day of wind, heat.

Dust from cars' arrival.

This white wooden church, these

steps to twin front doors.

These handshakes, this embrace and kiss

of aunts from far away. This hymn,

my voice faltering on the refrain.

And after,

this path from front steps to graveyard,

these hands holding, this roar

of passing pickup on the highway,

these strawberry leaves among the stones.

This raw earth enclosing my uncle's body.

Our family's name on this stone and this.

This place that holds our story.

flooded, vii

 Building a Sand-Bag Dike, part one

1. Fill the bags only half-way (give them room to br-e-a-the); fold shut or twist twine to close.
2. Never bend more than 20 degrees in any direction while handling - otherwise what you will twist is your spine!
3. Never build a dike over a septic field.
4. A sandbag weighs 20 kilos; move 50, you've moved a ton (unless you live in the States).
5. Dike: maintain a ratio of 4 units wide to 3 units high. You: maintain a ratio of 2 units H20 to 1 hour of labour.
6. Walk on the sand bags gently to ensure a tight fit (be forewarned: you will be tempted to express your anger for the flooded basement, the drowned Honda, your lost dog, and knowing Harry's land is not being sacrificed by this morning's breach).
7. Understand ergonomics. If you lose your homestead and cattle, economics will be at stake ergo hefty health bills will only make matters worse.
8. Don't exert yourself.  (br-e-a-the...)
9. A well thought out dike will have structural integrity, so do integrate those grey cells to your thick and weary biceps.
10. Pray that it wasn't all for nothing.

 Written with the help of/without permission by Fighting the Flood, Manitoba 2011

THE SEATTLE ENGRAVING COMPANY

It's against the law
to remove the dead
from water.

There are rules to everything
ordinary. I take this for granted;
tell her the shape of trees

in the north is no different
than moonlit maples and sweet gum
pyramids on her front lawn.

An august afternoon's wind
interviews us with hushed
declarations—

She says I’m uncouth
because I don't have time
for kids, golf and social clubs, or child brides.

A loon on the lake calls to its partner.
Memory clouds lakelight with embarrassment.
I had wanted to marry and asked

her. Laughter,
ruthless as textured coal
answered me, her meaning rich and slow.

The loon’s partner returns with a song.
It will take years for the echo
to die.

Driver's Ed

Making supper, chopping carrots,
getting ready for kiddy soccer, my dad is
in the basement trying to repair my dryer.

And a teenager ambles in late, because he had his
fourth Driver's Ed class, drops his backpack,
says "I just watched someone die, I think.
(we stop what we're doing)
"I was waiting on my bus, heard
a screech, looked over. An SUV
was rolling and rolling toward me. It stopped
maybe a meter from my bus, right
beside me. A lot of blood. Even
if he was buckled the vehicle
was so smashed up Mom. The roof,
completely caved in."

The bus driver ran over, people
tried to open windows;
a man was yelling to turn off
the ignition - it might explode.
Someone taking pictures on their
cellphone instead of calling 911.

My son stayed on the bus, knowing grown-ups
don't want youth underfoot in
emergencies. Hoping the man was wrong
about explosions. Wishing the driver to safety.
Willing voyeurs to be rescuers.
Watching people huddle helpless, then turn away.

He's been asleep for 20 minutes now,
six hours later. I've checked and checked;
there's nothing on the news.

Reeling

For the residents of Slave Lake, AB.

sweaty fingers
slipping on the car handle

burnt plastic smoke
sour on your tongue

yips
from what could be the dog

following Marie from room
to frantic room or the kids, clutching

their phones
like they were going to text the fire

out, earbuds still in.
there.

the car door
swinging slow slow an accordion

wheezing open.
The light

flickers on. you turn
your head your nose

streaming.
COME ON. NOOOW.

And they spill out the back door
in gouts like a thumb on the end

of a hose
and there is fire in your peripheral

vision as you swing
into the drivers’ seat and stab

the wrong key at the ignition
and there is fire

three doors down and the sky
is full of ash

and sparks
as you scrabble the right key

into the slot
and black plastic smoke

makes you weep
as you rev the engine into screaming

life and it is three slow steps
to the car

and you have idled in the driveway
before, sat and honked

and waited for them
and as you drive

away
from the fire, listening to their ragged

breaths
and small exclamations

at the fireworks of right angles
of wood siding brick vinyl siding

going up
as you drive away

from the tree you mulched
every year the tree and everything

every thing else
you have

going up
you’d like to bottle

their hesitations, their ragged
breaths

and as you lurch onto
the highway

sniffling, trying not to speed
or drift into the other lane

your daughter says
“Dad I’m not wearing my seatbelt!”

Fade (2)

On the footbridge, our brisk walk arrested, we face west

to watch the sky turn pale. A scattering of thin lines

sketched against the pink horizon: seven geese

blacker now and closer, louder. Seven more

skimming treetops, angling down. Geese converge,

each flock a wave of moving wings. Approaching,

they take on shape, heads, tails outlined against

the sky's last slip of color. Feet brake to land.

Noise, a growing gabble of calls, amplitude of honks.

Dark now. We zip up jackets in the cooling air,

thrust hands in pockets. The children want to go.

Not yet, I say. A little longer. Watch.

Noise fades with the light. Geese on sandbars,

in the shallows, settle for the night,

silhouettes against moonlit water.

Quiet now. We shiver.

Working Stiffs

Moths, I thought at first, bumbling up
to the window’s light, their clumsy orbits
as the sky stretched orange overhead and trees
turned to ink. Beer in hand, watching the old man
who shuffles, nightly, three times around the block,
I saw they were not moths, but bees,
bodies dusted with a day’s labour,
legs pollen-globed, tiny wings beating
double-time to lift their load three floors up.
A dozen or more wobble past, drunks
returning to the hive to regurgitate their efforts
for the Queen. These stiffs pull longer hours
than me, yet somehow manage to locate
their pleasure within the dance. Take
one last sip of nectar, before turning in.

Blogger!

Hey all,

As you all probably noticed, Blogger went down for the better part of two days last week. They even deleted some content, which has never happened in the 5 years I've been using the platform...

In any event, I have all the comments from poems that were deleted (they get emailed to me as blogatrix-in-chief), so if you want to re-post them, I'll cut and paste the comments back in...

Thanks! Sorry I haven't been around much of late...too many deadlines and too few hours in the day.

Dr. Clarke's Stomach and Liver Tonic

For the love of posters I work on blood
kidneys, skin. Pen and ink at Grip Ltd.

Temperance is a street full of flask-carrying men.
We sort out type area, black letter,

offset white spaces, touch thick-coated paper,
picture it as romantic. We are the artists,

the scrum assembled in taut formation,
heads bent together, though not solving

any of the world’s problems, or worrying
about the impediments typographically

exhibited: youthful follies, hindrances
to marriage, hearts, deficient virility,

pancreatic problems, or balding. Later, this dandy
skill is enough to buy me cheap therapy—

My own silk shirts worn
with sentimental realism, the designer label

marketing affections like an allopathic application
for nakedness. Opium, belladonna, maybe

someone’s manhood cured by swamp root
and patent medicine, or the bartender,

a muscle man in my own travelling
medicine show. Another pint please!

One patient sleeps in the treatment of beer,
his testimonial confirms the success

of such ministrations. How many draughts
will heal my need for west winds, or mystical

July nights sleeping amidst spruce, black birch,
surrounded by water's nudging tone?

Yom Ha Shoah

all taken from today's testimony of a man who was liberated from Buchenwald at 14 by a 20 yo black American soldier who was also present at today's memorial

"Either we love one another, either we hold one another,
or the seas will engulf us, and the lights will go out."

What happened then
can happen now.

Every April 11th I celebrate
my birthday. The day
I was reborn into
freedom at age 14.
I had never seen
a black man until
that day. I was convinced
angels must be black.

When they asked me
my name
I could only reply
with a number.

What made recovery
possible? Memory.
Impressions left of
a lost family -
4 brothers and my sister
Leah.
My mother. My father.
Warmth and security
sustained me.
Everyone I knew and loved
was gone.

I only saw one of them die.
When I was 11
I was sent to the munitions factory
with my brother Abram, & my father.
Abram was 3 years older.
He got typhoid.
When they loaded him on
the truck I ran for him.
He waved me off. They drove
to the nearby forest.

In the silence that fell
We heard the crackling
of machine gun fire
(I never will forget
that sound.) Was that the day
my father gave up hope?
The truck

returned empty.

old dress

from the back of the closet,

saucer-sized flowers on fuchsia crepe

Danish design, size 5 (European)

I threw it on, over black leggings

buttoned up a black cardigan

wrapped an apron around my waist

grabbed rubber gloves, scrubbed

walls, a floor, a freezer door

my girl smiled, "I love that dress

it makes you look like my mom

not the poet that went to war"

this took me aback,

I'm several sizes smaller now

than when I used to wear that dress

no longer a depressed housewife,

no longer fat, waiting for someone

to come home, to tell me of the world

outside my closet door.

La lune

The moon has broken through

reflecting beauty forgotten on the forked rivers tonight.

I dare gaze into the waters.

First Firepit

Shredded paper to start the blaze
twigs and pinecones entice each tongue
of flame
to lick
then rage.
Roasting food on sticks
- stars above and coals below -
the fire flaming wild but tamed
inside the cage. Sticks
sing, branches snap, greenwood
smokes and hisses. Fuel
spent, the embers ripple
heat and speak of
what they'd do to skin
with red-hot
kisses.