Red Wine and Garlic

New Hymn

2012-02-01T13:18:00.000-05:00

N.B: I am reading Reynolds Price's book A Whole New Life. What power and acuity he had:

Even our own feeble hands
Ache to seize the crown you wear
And work our private havoc through
The known and unknown lands of space

Absolute in flame beyond us
Seed and source of Dark and Day
Maker whom we beg to be

Our mother father comrade mate .

This is my prayer, too.

Still as beautiful

2012-01-22T20:29:00.004-05:00

Today, after church, I went cross-country skiing in a park 5 minutes' drive from our home (eat your hearts out, big-city people!). I had a wonderful time, so much so, that when Joyce was dropped off home after her church council meeting, and after lunch, I suggested that we both go back to the same park and snowshoe--in other words, get physical to take your mind off mental exhaustion.

Having already exercised, I was in a mood for what I call a "stroll"--no stress, no sweat. Just enjoy. Joyce decided to try it, and we loved it.

The forest at the park is full, as woods are in our part of the country, delightful little "secret places" as I call them, places like little tiny clearings hidden under boughs, or bald spots back in off the path, barely visible. We love peering into them and seeing what we can. With snowshoes, we can travel off the path into one or two of them, and that's what we did.

And always, we were surrounded by landscape out of a dream, snow like spun sugar on the spruce boughs:

This is but one reason why we love where we live.

A rest

2012-01-17T10:00:00.003-05:00

It is time to give rest to the daily Poet-Journal, an activity which I have found life-giving as well as challenging (as in, a poem first thing in the morning without warm-up). I may keep up the Saturday Poem--we'll see.

Life is commanding some new directions, and I do not quite know what they are. In the search, it is time to set down some of my burdens, and view the way before with clear eyes.

To all of you who have read these, my appreciation, and my especial appreciation for those of you who chose to comment. Although I wrote them for me and you, it has at times felt like tossing stones into a moving river, whence they disappear without a trace. Who was touched by them? Who saw them? Anyone?

Thank you all, and God bless.

We're back

2012-01-13T16:41:00.000-05:00

Relaxing on a snowshoe trip, Sibley Creek trail.

What we did on our winter vacation...

True Hiatus

2012-01-09T20:43:00.001-05:00

On Jeopardy!, there is the phenomenon of the "True Daily Double", an all-or-nothing wager. We are not wagering, but we are going for a break away for 4 days/3 nights, at a cabin in Sleeping Giant Provincial Park.

A True Hiatus, if you will.

No phone, no tv, probably no radio. Yes electricity and running water. And pin-drop quiet. Scrabble and a laptop (for movies only). Snowshoes. White-tail; deer for neighbours.

Without internet, there will be no published Poet-journal until maybe Friday or Saturday.

Peace, friends.

Poet-Journal January 9, 2012

2012-01-09T08:19:00.002-05:00

The setting

full moon

staring as though

confused

at the world

she lights.

Saturday Poem January 7, 2012

2012-01-07T08:42:00.001-05:00

Time spent

in nickels and dimes

over a puzzle's

myriad pieces,

delighting in

discovered patterns

while your pensive

humming strokes

my heart like a hand

petting a cat's head.

Time shared

in unimaginable

wealth...

Poet-Journal January 6, 2012

2012-01-06T09:24:00.003-05:00

I would one day

take a long walk

along the road

near our home

until the road

becomes

Odysseus's oar,

only I am the one

asking what it is,

never having

seen this place.

Penelope would

not weep, nor

would suitors

importune,

for somehow

I am always

wrecked on

my own doorstep

in good time.

Smiling, she

opens the door

and lets me

back in.

Poet-Journal January 5, 2012

2012-01-05T12:27:00.000-05:00

Seize the day

when you've hands

and arms

and will, or failing

all that,

simply being.

All the days

are the best

you'll

ever find.

(Allan Fergus: 1943-2012)

Allan

2012-01-04T20:37:00.000-05:00

My brother-in-law struggled with schizophrenia for most of his life. Despite that, he graduated as an electrician and worked for International Nickel as a mining electrician before his condition became unmanageable. He enjoyed scuba diving and photography in his younger days.

But while living alone in his condition, he was assaulted by persons unknown and robbed. He suffered brain damage.

Eventually, he was moved into a care home, where he was well looked after, and where he treasured visits by his family. Although Sault Ste. Marie is a full day's drive from where we have lived for 13 years, we missed only one occasion when passing through, to pay him a visit.

Visiting Allan was an exercise in precision. Allan would name each of us in order, tell what we did for a living plus a bit of family history concerning us, with precision. He would smile, and name the day of our visit as the "happiest day of my life" without fail.

His condition and medication contrived to blot out his short-term memory. He would telephone his nearest relative, my other brother-in-law, up to a dozen times a day, forgetting that he had already called. After a while, my other brother-in-law took to letting the answering machine field the calls. Yet Richard always made a point of visiting him at the home, and frequently had Allan over at his own home, to Allan's inexpressible delight.

Allan was the quintessential vulnerable, damaged man who would never hurt a fly. He was so good-natured and so interested and sociable that even his Member of Parliament knew him.

The last few years hadn't been good to Allan. His health broke down several times, requiring surgery and extended care. In the last few months, dementia set in. This evening, he died peacefully.

As I write this, his sister Joyce is writing his death notice for the newspaper. There have been phone calls. Arrangements. His body will be cremated and a graveside service, with his minister sister Joyce presiding, will take place in late spring.

We will miss Allan very much. If anyone has the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, it is Allan. Save a seat for us.

Voters

2012-01-04T14:11:00.001-05:00

Voters, originally uploaded by er1danus.

Being good citizens of Finland, my wife and daughter check out the internet to see the candidates and get a handle on the parties for the Finnish presidential election.

Poet-Journal January 4, 2012

2012-01-04T08:25:00.002-05:00

Awakening,

I thrust aside

the blankets,

toppling the peace

of the dawn:

I do not

know my own

strength.

Poet-Journal January 3, 2012

2012-01-03T09:06:00.003-05:00

We have been friends

and friends remain,

though sometimes

in a caught moment,

we wonder, how long

could this be?

The years stretch

like a hand

offering blessing.

Poet-Journal January 2, 2012

2012-01-02T07:44:00.001-05:00

To my lover

your name

is solace

against

the snow,

welcome

against

the cold--

I open

my arms

to you

to return

the blessing

Poet-Journal December 31, 2011

2011-12-31T07:57:00.003-05:00

How is it

that awakening

and rising up

this morning

is a miracle?

Poet-Journal December 30, 2011

2011-12-30T08:09:00.001-05:00

Each year

a little death

something like

the one

after coitus--

but somewhat

grimmer,

as though

for real.

Poet-Journal December 29, 2011

2011-12-29T07:58:00.002-05:00

World hugs itself

in snow--we seek

to reassure

with shovels.

Poet-Journal December 28, 2011

2011-12-28T08:29:00.000-05:00

Who knows one's own depths?

Not a time for diving boards:

there must be a

gentle slope somewhere,
and a hand to hold.

Poet-Journal December 27, 2011

2011-12-27T11:02:00.001-05:00

Winter wondered

when the switch

would be thrown:

so did we.

It's time,

said the winds.

It's time,

said the sun.

Winter yawns

and stretches,

little cat feet

of cold

on our hearts.

Poet-Journal December 26, 2011

2011-12-26T09:18:00.000-05:00

Morning anti-climax,

soft rains of sleep,

groggy wonder

at disarray

of our house:

love has come

and stayed,

as we awaken

to each other.

A Christmas present to us all

2011-12-25T09:06:00.001-05:00

Good news in 2011 that has gone largely unreported, and why we ought to feel good about it. Thanks to Toronto Star.

Saturday Poem, December 24, 2011

2011-12-24T07:26:00.001-05:00

Cold fingers,

sluggish heart,

winter sleep

is stubborn,

refusing sunlight's

stirring.

Your warm

breathing nearby

invites longer

repose:

summer can wait.

Poet-Journal December 23, 2011

2011-12-23T08:30:00.000-05:00

It's tipped: the sun

silently frolicking,

wobbling in its movement

like an enormous

obese dancer,

tripped lightly

though ponderously

over the line

that brings the days

longer and longer.

I hear no

clanking of chains,

gears, servomechanisms'

throaty whines,

only a sort of music

available to

the deaf, available

to me.

Yes...

2011-12-22T14:41:00.001-05:00

O Adonai

2011-12-22T13:28:00.002-05:00

(disclaimer; I'm not thrilled with the visuals from The Passion of the Christ--but the music is irresistable!)

Poet-Journal December 22, 2011

2011-12-22T10:16:00.000-05:00

Snow again,

determined winds,

cloud-armies:

Christmas

is already

ghostly.

Poet-Journal December 21, 2011

2011-12-21T08:00:00.003-05:00

At the Pool

Wet footprints

on the tiles,

ghostly,

persistent

in the humidity,

more so

than memory.

Poet-Journal December 20, 2011

2011-12-20T15:56:00.004-05:00

Raw wind,

beckoning fire,

choose neither,

or drift through

the day.

Poet-Journal December 19, 2011

2011-12-19T09:24:00.002-05:00

Frisky wind

like a pup

loosed from leash,

lapping up

faces, racing

round knees,

indiscriminately

happy.

Saturday Poem December 17, 2011

2011-12-17T07:41:00.003-05:00

O quiet wonder

of embracing cold

and intimate blanket,

of the surprise

of daylight,

of small domestic sounds,

murmured greetings,

amazement that

night was survived.

Thank you, St. Matthew-in-the-City, for humanizing Christmas

2011-12-17T07:27:00.001-05:00

Enjoy, friends!

http://www.thestar.com/news/world/article/1103531--virgin-mary-s-surprise-pregnancy-test-in-billboard-a-shocker?bn=1

Poet-Journal December 16, 2011

2011-12-16T08:14:00.002-05:00

No wind now--

but for the snow,

this could be

the Horse Latitudes.

I desire

a time of sun

and calm,
quietly,
so as to
awaken nothing.

Poet-Journal December 15, 2011

2011-12-15T08:38:00.004-05:00

Silence,

sound

made of

coffee.

Poet-Journal December 14, 2011

2011-12-14T07:32:00.004-05:00

Awakening

from the

persistent

dream,

I touch

myself

to make

certain

I am truly

here.

Poet-Journal December 13, 2011

2011-12-13T16:40:00.005-05:00

I type "3011"

by mistake--

a hundred years?

Impossible.

I know

my mortality

in tiny hints.

Poet-Journal December 12, 2011

2011-12-12T07:44:00.000-05:00

To my Lover:

On our First Time

My question

posed

without

expectation

of assent,

your quiet

but firm "yes",

then our

preparing

the bed,

anticipating

a lengthy

domesticity

as beautiful

that one act.

Saturday Poem December 10, 2011

2011-12-10T07:42:00.001-05:00

All along the side

of the building,

the snow had built

a facade of quiet.

An Advent reposting: "The Birth of Christ, Exploding the Myth"

2011-12-09T10:40:00.001-05:00

This book, scandalously titled The Birth of Christ, Exploding the Myth, isn't a bad read, but it's regrettably packaged as a sensationalistic myth-buster when in fact it has the effect of confirming Jesus' Messiahship.

Written by South African astronomer Phillip Seymour, TBOC is a careful, if edgy--and occasionally stodgy--examination of the Magi tradition, and how the Magi came to their conclusion that a) there was a star to be followed, and b) it signified the birth of a Messiah for the Jews in the Bethlehem area.

A couple of things are important, here. Firstly, Dr. Seymour, though not obviously a man of any faith stance that I can determine, is nonetheless a scientist who is not reflexively hostile to the "pseudo sciences", especially astrology. Hold on: it's going to get complicated. Furthermore, discard from the word "astrology" the daily/weekly/etc horoscopes published in newspapers. Now, take a deep breath. OK?

Seymour studied the works of several colleagues who had set aside their prejudices as astronomers and researchers of physics to try to establish whether there was any scientific basis for astrology. To Seymour's (and their own) evident surprise, they found a statistical correlation between the sun's position (i.e: against the backdrop of a given constellation in the zodiac), and the position of certain planets, at the birth of a child, and that child's development as an adult as predicted by astrological analysis. Got that? Seymour describes "lines of force" (my words) that seem to link the planets to the sun and vice versa, that are the reason for these influences. He describes this interaction much better than I can, and it seems rather plausible.

Right, then. Having established that in his introduction and first chapter, Seymour goes on to name the birth of Jesus as being September 15, 7 BCE. In other words, he is "exploding" the December 25 Christmas myth, not the foundation of the faith. But, there's yet another complication. To show how he arrived at that date (and what that date really means), Seymour has to stop engines and deliver a not-half-bad extensive lecture that could be titled Astronomy for Dummies: The Present and The Historical Night Skies, and How They are Different.

Two things again: in the 4000 years since astronomy seems to have begun, the night sky has changed in the northern hemisphere considerably. This is due to the earth's precession, or a slight wobble as it spins on its axis. This changes the observable star pattern somewhat over a long period of time, but noticeably over a very long period of time. In the 2000 years, give or take a few, since Jesus was born, the position of the polar or north star has changed dramatically. So has the position of the sun and planets vis a vis the zodiac. Still with me? Good.

Now, when Jesus was born, the sun was rising against the backdrop of Pisces. It's now about to start rising against the constellation Aquarius (hence the Age of...). By the way, Pisces was thought by Jews of the time (and they watched the sky as much as anyone) and importantly by Chaldean astronomers to be the sign of Israel and the Messiah. It was also the sign of the city Jerusalem and region. NB: it isn't explained why these associations were made, only that they were. Interestingly, given the Magi's presence in at least one of the Natvity's narratives, the new faith's evident hostility to "magic and necromancy" (easily a description of astrology and the like) is puzzling.

At the same time, some 2000 years ago, there was a remarkable and rare celestial event that astronomers (notably the Magi) would have noticed, but most of the rest of us (notably Herod) would not: Jupiter and Saturn lined up, or went into conjunction with one another, three times in the space of that year (May, October and December, according to a 1925 paper)--note that the two planets go into conjunction about once every 20 years, but a triple conjunction within a year's time is extremely rare. (NB again: Seymour takes on and demolishes several other theories around the Nativity date and the astronomical signs, interestingly because the theorists were blinded by their rationalism and hadn't taken into account the world view of the Magi.)

The effect would have been a somewhat brighter planet than usual, but to veteran skywatchers and astrologers, something Big was happening. Saturn was associated as being influential in the first hour of the Jewish Sabbath, while Jupiter's rising meant that a king was being born (I'm oversimplifying things here a bit). Still there? Good. Everything pointed to a Messianic event--specifically a birth-- among the Jews in the region of Jerusalem in that particular year, as far as the Magi could tell.

Interestingly, it was Herod's own corps of wise men (astrologers) who pinpointed Bethlehem as the probable birthplace from the prophecies (Micah, in fact: the same one who exhorts us to Do justice and walk humbly with our God)--they inadvertently guided the eastern astrologers to the actual birthplace by responding to some of the latter's questions. Seymour goes to considerable trouble to explain exactly why the Magi would have travelled where and when they did, by laying out the night sky was it would have looked to them some 2000 years ago.

OK, now there's a problem: September 15, 7 BCE does not immediately mean that 2007 is the real 2000-year mark of the Nativity because our reckoning of the passage of days and years is very much out of whack. Again Seymour painstakingly explains how the calendars' revisions and many inaccuracies have thrown off any accurate calculations of exact days and weeks of events those thousands of years ago. He explains his above calculation with impressive caveats. In other words, September 15, 7 BCE is close "ballpark". Close enough for jazz, if you will.

However, given what Seymour lays out here and Matthew's Nativity story, I'd say in all probability that the Magi, whoever they were individually, sought and found, to their satisfaction, a Jewish Messianic figure around the time of his birth, and that that child grew up to be Yoshua ben Joseph, or Jesus, to use his Aramaic nicname.

To me, none of this does any harm to Christmas--we already know the December date was a later deliberate setting to combat pagan celebrations occurring at the same time of year (notably Saturnalia, which we arguably continue to celebrate every Christmas in our shopping and gift-giving)--we can celebrate this event in July if we choose to. I'd say what is important is our ongoing journey in our faith without some of the underpinnings of literalism and exact historicity.

And that's part of the irony of this badly-titled book. Our faith is based on myth, or an overarching story of birth and loss, of slavery and freedom, of darkness and light, of oppression and liberation. And that's a good thing. The book may explode the December myth, but it enhances and confirms, as far as it goes, the event on which our collective Christian myth is based. And that's a good thing, too.

Poet-Journal December 9, 2011

2011-12-09T07:20:00.001-05:00

We huddle,

weary already,

the balm of

Christmas

distant--

was that

a star?

Poet-Journal December 8, 2011

2011-12-08T15:58:00.001-05:00

Winds winds

more winds

and all the

punishing snow

frenzied,

our faces

stern

over our disarray.

From my daughter

2011-12-06T19:04:00.001-05:00

An unexpected gift of a song by U2--

Thank you, Gish!

Poet-Journal December 6, 2011

2011-12-06T07:57:00.001-05:00

The light in the window

is invisible during the day,

its electric scream drowned

by the sun.

Inside, many lights

drown out the sun.

Poet-Journal December 5, 2011

2011-12-05T08:04:00.001-05:00

I am swallowed by the city,

content in its stomach

until I am disgorged

unharmed but changed,
returned to my home and family
with haunted eyes.

Saturday Poem December 3, 2011

2011-12-03T07:34:00.001-05:00

O time

which will not

be cajoled,

why is

every word

an action verb

with you?

May nothing

simply be?

Poet-Journal December 2, 2011 To my lover

2011-12-02T10:46:00.001-05:00

Awaken me in winter,

even before it is light,

awaken me with a touch,

when I least expect,

from dreams of sunshine

to your own warmth,

awaken me.

Poet-Journal December 1, 2011

2011-12-01T10:03:00.001-05:00

It goes deeper,

not longer:

I thought it

was a road,

but it may be

a mineshaft--

journeys have

their own logic.

Poet-Journal November 30, 2011

2011-11-30T07:51:00.001-05:00

A ghazal for my beloved:

You are so close, I smell sweet almonds

on your breath--why is fate so adamant?

I am sick with love for you, I waste away,

you are the rising sun, giving life to the day.

O wait for me, wait! O beloved,
every moment with you, I covet.

(Note: ghazal is pronounced "guzzle")

Out of ambush

2011-11-29T14:46:00.001-05:00

I had quite a weekend. I had completed two paid assignments (yes, I moonlight writing and editing) on top of the various ADD-pushing things I had been involved in. It was a tiring time, altogether, but it felt good to be finished the work.

On Saturday morning, while in the middle of one assignment, I was listening to some music on the headphones while I worked.

Something whispered in my heart, and I found myself weeping suddenly over the loss of Sheba this last June. All over again, just as if it had just happened. The wound burst open, and I was lost in the flow.

I've heard of it before, and experienced it: the ambush of grieving. Just after the first intense outpouring, an evening out of emotions for a time, and then a fresh onslaught.

It means, if I choose to grieve (as opposed to distraction with a new pet or some equivalent dodging of the process), then I can expect these recurrences for some time to come. I'd like to say it's OK, but that's like saying that it's fine when I have just hit my thumb with a hammer. The "OK" is in the final healing, not the pain while it happens.

We had just had our first snowfall of the winter. Sheba was born in early December and her first memories were of snow and all the puppy-fun she had with it. Our first memories of her are of that little furball so enjoying herself in the snow.

I think the snowflakes brought on the tears.

Poet-Journal November 28, 2011

2011-11-28T08:44:00.001-05:00

Taut ropes

slacken,

stretched wire

loosens,

awkward now,

without the beauty

of tension,

focused purpose,

strain aimed

like a spear

into time and event,

flaccid,

more beautiful now

to the caring eye

for the acceptance

of rest.

Poet-Journal November 25, 2011 Poolside

2011-11-25T07:54:00.001-05:00

His story is simple:

wood splinter

jammed in his eye,

the worksite

four miles from

the nearest camp--

I can walk it,

he told his partner.

They got the stick out,

then next morning

he remembers

the bark came out

on its own.

He needed surgery

for the scar tissue

this fall--

takes forty years

to grow over his eye,

he says.

I'll be dead

by the time

I'll need it again,

he says.

We will see.

Poet-Journal November 24, 2011

2011-11-24T07:20:00.001-05:00

Winter is

slow to wake:

fall is tired

of vamping

for the

grand entrance.

Call her agent.

Poet-Journal November 23, 2011

2011-11-23T07:49:00.001-05:00

After

the freedom

of the water,

how can we

stand, move,

be?

Dry land a prison?

Poet-Journal November 22, 2011

2011-11-22T07:52:00.001-05:00

Deer tracks

everywhere:

ghosts

outing

themselves

after

the fact.

Poet-Journal November 21, 2011

2011-11-21T08:11:00.001-05:00

Air crisp enough

to bend,

but not break--

trees roll over

in their sleep.

Somewhere, a bear

scratches herself,

while far away,

a human

lies silently

waiting for sunlight.

Saturday Poem November 19, 2011

2011-11-19T10:00:00.001-05:00

I awaken

to discover that,

against all odds,

I am alive.

But am I

really awake?

Maybe another

breath

will tell me.

Poet-Journal November 18, 2011 Poolside

2011-11-18T07:57:00.001-05:00

Shouted request,

querulous voice

reminds me

to be

human

Sneaking in the last walks before the snow flies

2011-11-18T07:48:00.001-05:00

This morning, there is enough snow to see, and it will likely stay on the ground. That's fine: there is so much we can do with snow, and this year, we are prepared.

But before the snow came to stay, Joyce and I seized the day twice last week. The first time, we went for a walk on a familiar urban trail at our local Centennial Park, by the Current River. Here's the river at a relatively low ebb in late, late fall:

Slate is ubiquitous here in the earth, and Current has been carving out a pathway through layers of slate for centuries and centuries:

Next, we took an afternoon and walked the short Joe Creek trail at the Sleeping Giant Provincial Park:

Though the day was cloudier than we'd hoped, the trail itself was lovely. Here is one of several tiny cataracts on the Joe Creek:

Eventually, we came out into a bay that is part of the larger Black Bay east of the peninsula that makes up Sleeping Giant.

Right there, a beaver was busy getting ready to reinforce his/her dam, seen in the foreground. The beaver eyeballed us from a safe distance, while swimming close and closer to see if we'd go away. If you look Very carefully, you'll the wary beaver's wake on the far left side of the photo below. I dared not raise the camera to aim it better, lest the beaver decided (which it eventually did) to give us a wide berth. On the upper right of the photo below, you can just make out the tip of a swath of cut brush in a neat line in the water that the beaver is going to use either to build its lodge, or reinforce its dam:

The snow has fallen. There isn't enough to snowshoe or ski with, but it portends some great times this winter.

Poet-Journal November 17, 2011

2011-11-17T07:51:00.001-05:00

Cold like

a blanket--

no escape.

Even the trees

are asleep.

Poet-Journal November 16, 2011

2011-11-16T07:51:00.001-05:00

Grace visits

a succubus

seducing hope

into joy.

Poet-Journal November 15, 2011

2011-11-15T09:13:00.001-05:00

Is it that you wish us

to sleep, November?

Already?

Gray, gray blanket

of cloud over our

somnolence,

defied by the birds'

frantic pre-migration

energy, the bears'

desperate scrounging.

We are too tired

to defy. Do you

want us to

roll over,

breathe deeply,

breathe...?

Poet-Journal November 14, 2011

2011-11-14T08:52:00.001-05:00

Ducks wheeling and wheeling,

marshaling for the long haul,

wheeling and wheeling,

a whirlpool of motes

in the sunrise.

Saturday Poem November 12, 2011

2011-11-12T09:13:00.001-05:00

Welcome, snow:

I, the waiting one,

welcome you

knowing that

my welcome

is insignificant.

You will fall

and cover

and envelop

and smother

colour and shape,

distinctness.

You make me

rest against

my will,

hunker and huddle

and watch from inside,

until I remember

you as the

companion of

my frolic

and play.

Welcome.

Poet-Journal November 11, 2011

2011-11-11T07:45:00.001-05:00

The lost men,

the lost women,

the lost children,

the lost time,

the lost youth,

the lost innocence,

the lost crowd us

begging us

to remenber--

we cannot

though we try.

Poet-Journal November 9, 2011

2011-11-09T07:36:00.001-05:00

To my lover

the prodigious moon

of your breast

in night's

hint of light--

this astronomer

is grateful

for the sight

of the

smallest star

Poet-Journal November 8, 2011

2011-11-08T07:53:00.001-05:00

Freedom

is the

freedom

between us

to touch

or touch not.

Poet-Journal November 7, 2011

2011-11-07T09:00:00.001-05:00

November

forgives nothing:

the earth's

cold nakedness

shames our eyes.

November is a

pitiless mirror.

Saturday Poem November 5, 2011

2011-11-05T12:31:00.001-04:00

My distant relatives

are poised to

blow up Parliament

again this year,

though with much

smaller ordnance.

Noisily, they set them off

hollaring no doubt,

perhaps wistfully

wishing

to finish Guy Fawkes' job.

Poet-Journal November 4, 2011 Day of the Dead: Mother-in-law (Anoppi)

2011-11-04T07:49:00.004-04:00

Olkaa hyvaa,

be so kind,

you told me

as you tutored me

in your mother/mother's

tongue,

the soft vowels

like zephyrs

in sunlight.

I see you and hear you

in your daughter's

strength

and gentleness,

her compassion

and righteous indignation

at injustice.

If you could visit here now

I would wait on you,

offering you tea and cookies,

seeing to your comfort.

I wait on your daughter

gladly, remembering you.

Poet-Journal November 4, 2011 Day of the Dead: Aunt

2011-11-03T07:55:00.002-04:00

Did you manage

to mellow out,

or are you making

some winged messenger's

life miserable?

Assuming, of course,

that there are angels,

and that you

perversely so,

are probably one of them.

But I remember

your caring,

when I was rudderless

and minus one,

wandering and wondering,

there you were,

with your earthy humour

and ribald encouragement:

go play that field, boy!

you said, and you meant it well,

as I mean these words.

Poet-Journal November 2, 2011 Day of the Dead: Father's father

2011-11-02T07:44:00.001-04:00

I love that story

about how you

would ask to see

that loose front tooth

in your daughter's mouth

and quicker than thought

tug it out.

No, I'm sure it wasn't

pleasant for them,

but none of the girls--

my aunts--had a bad word

to say about you,

and that's something.

I've wondered over the years

why such a strapping young widower

never remarried: was it so hard, then?

And now, while you're visiting,

I lack the courage to ask you.

Even now, you deserve

your privacy.

Poet-Journal November 1, 2011 Day of the Dead: Father

2011-11-01T07:46:00.002-04:00

Come,

sit by me here,

tell me of yourself

and how you've

been keeping.

Is it true

what they say?

Nothing much

happens

afterward?

I've been busy, yes,

and--what?--

no, I don't mean

the job or your grandchild

or the

daughter-in-law

you never got to meet.

I mean, growing up.

That's right:

you wouldn't recognize me

now, or maybe I'd look like

one of your hopes.

Have a drink:
it's 25-year-old Scotch.
You deserve it.

Poet-Journal October 31, 2011

2011-10-31T08:55:00.000-04:00

The returned traveler

blinks, uncertain

of the space between

then and now,

there and here,

awake and asleep,

alive and not alive.

Saturday Poem october 29, 2011

2011-10-29T10:46:00.003-04:00

Sun finds

covert ways

to hold

onto summer--

leaves glitter

blinding

autumned eyes

while

trickster wind

shivers our skin,

reminding us

of the

inevitable

Poet-Journal October 28, 2011 Barrie, Ontario

2011-10-28T14:24:00.000-04:00

Broad southern leaves,

woods of beech and hemlock,

deep black soil,

longer warmth and shorter

shallower cold--

I think of the leanness

of my home's landscape,

the spare construction

of tree and rock and water,

flamboyance denied,

grace evident.

Poet-Journal October 27, 2011

2011-10-27T08:14:00.001-04:00

May those

who fear

know mercy,

may those

who cause fear

know

compassion

Poet-Journal October 25, 2011

2011-10-25T07:48:00.004-04:00

solace

in the

darkness

gratitude

in the

light

In the Spirit of the Wilderness

2011-10-24T15:22:00.000-04:00

Joyce and I traveled south to church on Sunday: a 288 km round trip in fact, into Grand Marais, Minnesota. We had been once already to this church, an Episcopalian (or, as we Canadians like to say, Anglican) church. Joyce wanted to go at least once more before her sabbatical was up (very soon! :0 ) and before the winter makes road conditions on western Lake Superior shore treacherous.

As for me, I'm the happy tag-along, and besides, I'd e-mailed to the folks at SotW that I'd be pleased to do Bob Franke's Thanksgiving Eve as an anthem if they wanted. They certainly wanted.

We had a great time there. No, the theology isn't where we are, but the church started out of an expressed need in the community, and it shows in the way the people are with one another, and with newcomers like us.

We gloried in the autumn colours and the moody gray-blue of the Lake, the peekaboo sun and just being together on a road trip, another adventure.

Bonus: because the vicar and partner have a new dog and the nearest dog obedience school is--you guessed it--right here in Thunder Bay, they will be in our city once a month. Mary-Ellen would like guitar lessons and asked if I could give them to her. It took a split-second to say yes--I'm not sure why, but the more I think about this, the more I see Providence operating in some unfathomable way. This is a right thing, and it will be good.

Poet-Journal October 24, 2011

2011-10-24T08:06:00.003-04:00

Hours are long

when stretched

to breaking.

Saturday Poem October 22, 2100

2011-10-22T10:22:00.002-04:00

Laundry,

the little

hand towel

from Japan

those years ago:

you remember

from where--

I don't.

A solitary ray

of light emerges

through

the closed curtain

like a

blessing

Poet-Journal October 21, 2011 In the pool

2011-10-21T07:49:00.003-04:00

two older guys

reflect noisily

on the world

oil supply,

China's

economic hegemony--

a CNN conversation

while outside,

the sun waits

patiently

Poet-Journal October 20, 2011

2011-10-20T07:49:00.003-04:00

Does

the dawn

know its beauty?

Alas, there is

no mirror

save for

our eyes.

Poet-Journal October 19, 2011

2011-10-19T07:12:00.005-04:00

Marvel

at how

the curve

of the

raven's wing

in flight

perfectly

delineates

heaven

Poet-Journal October 18, 2011

2011-10-18T07:54:00.003-04:00

Now, now,

murmurs the rain,

go back to sleep.

Wait!

says the wind,

so much to see!

The leaves

tickle our noses.

Sleep is slow

to come.

Poet-Journal October 17, 2011

2011-10-17T10:18:00.004-04:00

If you wait

long enough

the wind

will blow

away the leaves,

and

you, too.

Saturday Poem October 15, 2011

2011-10-15T08:05:00.002-04:00

Piles of leaves,

relentless rain--

you would think

the world

has ended,

and so it has:

the trees

roll over

and

go to sleep,

the bears feed

desperately,

already

the rabbits are

changing colour,

and nothing remains

of the summer frenzy

except longing.

How we wish,

and then it snows--

but before then,

the hungry waiting

and sighing.

Poet-Journal October 14, 2011

2011-10-14T07:48:00.001-04:00

Rain

never

quite

sweeps

it all

away.

Poet-Journal October 13, 2011

2011-10-13T07:57:00.003-04:00

quiet

you can

almost hear

the

full moon

sing

Endless summer?

2011-10-13T07:45:00.001-04:00

We hiked another trail on our Thanksgiving Monday. It wasn't just that we had the Monday off from work, but that the weather was stunning: sunny and warm, with a nice breeze. As the weather promised to get cooler and possibly rainy through the ensuing week, we felt that it was wise to get out and enjoy ourselves.

And we did, to the trails of the Pigeon River Provincial Park.

This trail is down by the American border: in fact, the US Customs building is a stone's throw from the Park interpretive centre. At one time, the park was a camping facility, but was downgraded to a day use place. Still, some nice trails, plenty of history (see link), and some spectacular scenery make for a nice day's outing.

We first did the easy, obvious trail: the boardwalk to the Pigeon Bay itself. However, an informal trail (somebody's ad hoc path) led off to one side, to where the bay ended. Here, we saw the remnants of the rapacious logging industry that decimated the pine forests of the area in only 20 years (1890--1910): the entire beach was covered with decomposed sawdust (imagine the methyl mercury that must be in those waters!). Superior herself contributed the other aspect of the site: gobs of grey-white driftwood, some of which had been set up in a sort of a "tipi", much of which just lay strewn about.

Afterward, we set off to the High Falls, a more difficult hike due to the uphill and downhill of the trail. This is a "head-down" trail, as in, you need to keep your eyes on the path in front of you so that you don't wind up tripping on exposed tree roots, a consequence of the relative shallowness of the soil. Still, we saw much and enjoyed, as we always do, our time in the forest. I remember one moment in particular where it seemed like my metabolism slowed down to a crawl, a sense of peace yawning and stretching, as it were.

The Falls themselves were spectacular, and we risked a certain closeness to the precipice above the river gorge to get some nice shots.

On the way, we had been warned by a well-intentioned person not to try the return leg by the river, as it had steep stairs and some slippery rocks. Yet, by the time we were ready to go back, we chose this trail and are glad we did. Yes, steep stairs--it's going down an escarpment after all. And yes, some slate rock steps where we had to mind our footing, but the river trail was well worth the doing.

We encountered the historic Voyageur route of the Pigeon River more directly, cringing at the thought of the straight-up portages of the escarpment with 1/2-tonne canoes. And we saw the remains of one of the lodges that catered to vacationers there in the 1930s.

We are so enjoying ourselves that we are actively looking for other trails to hike even as the season changes. We are avoiding some of the more remote ones until the bears are asleep, but that leaves plenty to hike and to see. In this endless summer...

Poet-Journal October 12, 2011

2011-10-12T07:34:00.001-04:00

Does the seed grieve its growth,

a flower its bud,

The infant his womb,

the adolescent her innocence?

O, hothouse world, brutal growth,

imposed metamorphosis,

the wail of the egg,

the tears of the sperm--

the rape of youth

to spurt maturity,

let there be a moment

where trust is cupped

by loving hands,

reassured--just a moment...

Poet-Journal October 11, 2011

2011-10-11T08:13:00.003-04:00

beneath

the setting moon

I cherish

the rhythms

of our

joining

and parting

of rising

and setting

of flesh

and absence

A cause to mourn: Rob Buckman

2011-10-11T07:58:00.000-04:00

Dr. Rob Buckman died in his sleep at 63 (my age, which gives me fresh pause). He was a gentle, funny, humane, compassionate man, a colleague in comedy of no less than John Cleese, a producer of splendid documentaries, a fine writer. And above all that, a terrific medical doctor who understood suffering so well, that he was unafraid to dialogue about it with his patients.

He was also an atheist and although his writings on spirituality were, like Carl Sagan's, ultimately attempting to discredit religion and spirituality altogether, he was never strident about it like, say, Richard Dawkins.

He was a good man.

Poet-Journal October 10, 2011

2011-10-10T07:59:00.001-04:00

I carry

an armload

of blessings--

where might

I set them

down?

Saturday Poem October 8, 2011

2011-10-08T09:25:00.004-04:00

If I don't hear you,

are you making no sound?

If I don't see you,

are you an absence of light?

If I don't feel you,

do you have no body?

If I don't,

do I exist?

Poet-Journal October 7, 2011

2011-10-07T14:34:00.002-04:00

The sun

like the guest

we thought

gone,

lingers,

perhaps

teasing us

with

intimation of

lingering

summer.

We are

not fooled--

we are

very fooled.

Respect, yes; mourn, no...

2011-10-07T08:08:00.003-04:00

Steve Jobs has died, too young, of pancreatic cancer, a death no one wishes on anybody. That there is considerable public acknowledgment of his life and death is no surprise, but I am surprised, frankly, at the emotional content of it. I am surprised at the warmth with which many people seem to remember him. For reasons that I will state shortly, I do not share that feeling, nor will I join that public mourning.

Steve Jobs was a visionary, brilliant, extremely hard-working man. He co-created and then later rescued, Apple from at first nothing and then oblivion. Apple was and remains the only viable alternative to Microsoft: I am a Mac user and have been for close to 20 years. I use Windows only because I have to, at my workplace. And here I agree with Steve Jobs: Microsoft is 3rd rate.

Steve Jobs almost single-handedly changed the way we communicate, for worse and for better. He gave us, in the words of one commentator, technology we didn't know we needed. He was still creating almost up to the end of his life.

Why do I not mourn, beyond acknowledging his premature death, and his existence as a fellow child of God?

Because he was a tyrant. He verbally abused his employees, and in the already insane corporate world in which he operated, he behaved like a flipped-out tank driver on a crowded six-lane highway. He imposed his world view on us through his technology. Furthermore, he all but imposed the rate at which our lives are changing, changing beyond our ability to cope. When we mourn the absence of stillness in our lives, when we cringe at cell phone users at the wheel of cars and trucks, when we grow annoyed at one-sided conversations everywhere in public and wonder what happened to 8-hour work days, we are mourning what Steve Jobs helped to destroy.

Umberto Eco, in an essay comparing Windows and Macintosh to, respectively, the Protestant and Roman Catholic churches, said that the Mac "imposes a subtle hermeneutic on the user." In other words, subtly alters our way of looking at the world, without our awareness and consent. I do not claim to be immune to that, at all. It has happened. For worse and for better.

I am typing this on an older eMac. I don't have a cell or an iPhone and don't plan to get one. I have enough chaos in my life. Furthermore, I am weary of single-minded tyrants being held up as role models, uncritically admired as great achievers. I do not subscribe to the credo of tyrants everywhere: the end justifies the means. I do not believe that people are meant to be the means to an end, no matter how noble the end might be.

The world was better before Sam Walton opened his first store, and was arguably more peaceful before the onset of iPhone technology. Even so, and accepting the very real achievements of Steve Jobs, I cannot mourn him the way I see so many mourn his passing.

Poet-Journal October 6, 2011

2011-10-06T08:18:00.000-04:00

Dark

getting

strong

and

knows it--

winter

already

yawning.

George goes to vote

2011-10-05T16:44:00.002-04:00

Part of my mandate as an adult literacy instructor is what I call political literacy, and for my students, that means, more often than not, simply going through the experience, at least once in their lives, of voting in an election (besides that of a reserve chief and council). Aboriginal people are among the lowest-represented in voting numbers in almost any election.

So, every municipal, provincial and federal election, I try to get the candidates from the two adjacent ridings in the city to come to our class individually and speak about voting, the election at hand, and their own take on issues, and to field some occasionally sharp questions. I also get a representative of the electoral office to come and speak about registration, etc.

And, where possible, grab the workplace van and run some students down to the advance poll (because it's easier than trotting over to their individual polls) to vote. This time round, I managed to get the van on Friday (September 30), and my call snagged only one taker: George.

One is better than none, and as I drove George over to the advance poll, we talked over the election and what he could expect at the electoral office. George lived for quite a number of years in the United States and was unequivocal in his putting down of minority people who didn't vote. He just couldn't understand it. I didn't ask him if he voted.

I must say, they were very good at the office, guiding him through the steps. I was there to provide vouching for his identity, if need be, but it was not needed. Within 15 minutes, he had voted, for probably the first time in many years. And he was rather proud of himself, chuckling over it on the way back to the classroom.

Yes, I wish I had had a van load. But some things you have to do one person at a time, it seems.

Poet-Journal October 5, 2011

2011-10-05T08:19:00.000-04:00

Skies washed clean

of our presence:

we are once more

grounded.

Both are thankful.

II

I'd
sell
my kids
for a
scratch
ticket,
or so
he says,
flinging
away
his pack,
his words.

Poet-Journal October 4, 2011

2011-10-04T06:57:00.004-04:00

Rain

dresses

pavement

transparently

offering

no cover,

protection.

Poet-Journal October 3, 2011 At the Hotel

2011-10-03T08:37:00.003-04:00

Collapse

on floor 25

Pool Area

10-4

Load and go

Revival

Paperwork

Sorry about that

what we're here for

Sign here

Thanks