4 O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

Old woman sips coffee
Four o’clock in the morning
Legs up to keep ankles
From swelling

Hair all curly curled
Eighty dollar permanent
Big chunk of old age pension
Worth shelling

Shopping Day at WalMart
Bus picks tenants up at ten
Make a list before leaving
Her dwelling

Thinking ’bout olden days
Husband, children, laughter
All alone in the dark with

Tears welling

YOU RAISE ME UP

“You raise me up…”
The three-year-old sings this song
At an outdoor sidewalk venue.
People stop by, smiling as they listen
To the well formed notes that
Emanate from a microphone.

Tiny pony- tailed brunette
Perched on a high stool.
Shining brown eyes.
Serious demeanor until she
Has voiced the first high notes
Successfully.
Then there is a faint flickering
Smile on her sweet rounded face.

“You raise me up…” she finishes
The final lines of the chorus.
Our spirits are raised up
By her singing

THE LANGUAGE OF MUSIC

The language of music is
Not my forte
Allegro, aria, bagatelle, ballet

I’m more of a lowbrow
Tone deaf old lady
But Google will help me
I’m hoping that may be.

Allegro’s brisk tempo
Makes my heart sing along
While aria’s melody is
Elaborate and strong

A lighthearted bagatelle
In Beethoven’s Fifth
Helps me remember that
Life is a gift

Ballet is a dance with
Pretty girls flouncing
And pointy toed gentlemen
Preening and prancing

DEAR LATE HUSBAND

You were seldom late when
You were alive.
You were usually on time.
And you were kind. Mostly.

I didn’t want to love you. In fact
I didn’t want to love anyone.
But you were fascinating.
And you loved me.

I was in a state of recovery
From a past love.

An outdoor guy, you blended
In well with the wilderness.
When you died, my daughter,
Who knows such things, said
You’d been welcomed into
The World of Nature.

She loved you even though
You were flawed. Damaged.

You were the “It” guy at musical
Gatherings. “The best guitar player
In the land,” they said.
I was a proud groupie.

I still love the sound of a guitar
Played well. Even though you
Were flawed. Damaged.

I AM NOT MAMA COUGAR

(From Robert Bateman’s Painting)

I am not Mama Cougar
Although like me
She’s perched
On the edge of
A dilemma
Whether to pull her child back
From his instinctive
Curiosity
His need to explore
To not become overly
Afraid of potential
Hazards lurking
In the community
Like me she wrestles
With the need to ensure
Cautionary skills
Are also developing
In the synapses of his
Youthful mind
I am not Mama Cougar
I am barely able to climb
Small hills
Let alone mountains
The hair I have left is
Mostly on my scalp
Rather than elsewhere
As Mama flaunts her fleace
So becomingly…

WHY I AM NOT AN ARTIST (ANYMORE)

As a child I was categorized as being artistic
My stick drawings of people and animals were stunning
I basked in the glory of parental applause
Women were my favourite stick people
I became proficient at fattening them up
with big eyes, kissable lips and large pointy breasts.
In my adulthood I gave in to periodic urges of
applying colour to canvas. My paintings were
seldom up my expectations.
It was easier to describe scenes in words
than by wielding a brush to canvas

THE WHITE MOOSE & HER CALF

I remember the white moose we used
To spot in the wilderness
They blended in with the snow in winter
But stuck out like a sore thumb
The rest of the year.

Where, oh where have the white moose gone
It’s been so long since we’ve seen one
So many paintings and so many photos
To prove that there’s actually been some

Have they become a lost race
In the genetic pool?

A  RIPE BANANA

Long and yellow
What kind of fruit is this?
It grows on trees
In a faraway forest
Supposed to be
Healthful

I peel the skin
Soft and pliable
Don’t think we’re
Supposed to eat it
Though
It has a hard stem.
Probably aggravate
My sore tongue
Which feels as if
It’s been scraped with
A metal rasp

Could be from the
Vodka I drank
Last night
Or the spicy food
Hope I wasn’t uncouth
At this high class
Convention
That would be
Unpardonable

Ooh, the inner part
Of this fruit is lovely
Soft and delicious
Sweet but not too sweet
Soothes my sore tongue

HOPE AND CHANGE -THEME. In four parts as in musical composition

1.

Hope is that tiny glimpse of sunshine

peeping through seemingly endless

layers of dark clouds and grimy smoke

obstructing thinly veiled memories of

when times were tough,

but we danced in expectation

of better days

2.

Hoping lives will soon improve

Hoping we won’t have to move

Knowing rich folk living fine,

Caring not for lives like mine

Unemployed in dark despair

Coughing up polluted air

3.

Changes will occur

Change occurs when one committed being

Communicating with another and yet a third,

lights a fire, stirs the pot, adding sticks

Of kindling

Not a big fire. Not at first. New fires will soon be lit

New ideas discussed

4.

Change, change, we gotta have change

Elect a new leader, a new him or her

Minorities in the mix

From the cities, from the sticks

Working for change and cleaner air

SUNDAY BRUNCH

Sunday brunch with senior carpet bowling buddies
We throw our bowls on Monday at the Legion hall
A rousing sport for arthritic, wrinkled seniors
We take our pills, then toddle to the Legion hall
We drive or walk depending on the weather
It may rain or snow but we’re not scared of weather

Tomorrow we will draw for team and play positions
The carpets will be laid with coloured balls in place
The skips align themselves as captain of their teams
Small white jack will then be thrown to set its place
A-team may throw a bowl which rolls way past the jack
B-team may smile when her bowl stops beside the jack

At Sunday brunch the talk’s about the weather
Mary has her garden in and Jerry’s car won’t start
MRIs, scans, medical appointments and
Wondering when zone bowling tournament will start
No one mentions my bad throw at last Monday’s game
Causing B-team to win what should have been our game.

WISH YOU WERE HERE

It was October1945
Our family was caught up
in the excitement
joy and relief
A sense of freedom
The WAR was over

There had been dancing
on the streets
The baby-sitter was
jitter-bugging
in our kitchen
our mother singing
along with the radio
No more blackout curtains
on the windows at night
No more listening intently
for a blast from the siren
somewhere on the Coast
three miles away
which would indicate
an enemy
invasion

Let us move Up North
to the Cariboo District
Two big steamer trunks filled
with all our possessions.
Except for the doll I had
named Rosamund.
Rosamund had a
composition head
Some kind of cardboard
that fell apart
when I left her
outdoors in the rain.

Wish you were here,
Rosamund
On our journey toward
a new adventure.
I miss you!

PROCREATION

A woman and a man are
drawn to each other
through a biochemical process
that no one has ever
explained
At first
they may ignore or even resist
the intensity of the lure that
exists between them.
But soon
they may find themselves
fascinated
with one another
The fascination
transforms into
adoration.
Adoration often leads
to recreation
Whoops….
Procreation!!

HUCKLEBERRY HILL

The choicest harbinger
of delicious
jam and desserts
can be found
amongst the alder
bushes in darkened
crevices of a once
forested hill
Huckleberries thrive
on logged-off clear cuts.

For the human seeker
there’s boulders, thorn
bushes and blow downs
of dead trees
obscuring the way.
There’s devils club
on the ground and
blackflies in the air.
Not to mention
yellow-jack hornets.
That are very protective
of their privacy

Back Bear knows best
about how to find
these coveted
delicasies.
His olfactory organ
points the way.
Black bears may be
short sighted but their
noses work just fine.

Black Bear king of
the hill, feasts upon
his favourite berries
Leaves and all.
And leaves none for me.

WHY, IF WE BELIEVE IN GOD

Why, if we believe in God
Do we judge others
Why do we judge ourselves
We are neither better nor worse
Than what’s required
God has a plan

DORIS AND IVY (JEAN) (AT THE HOME)

With our kids we climbed hills
And swam in the lake
The girls figure skated
Shared birthdays with cake

When the children moved South
We had thoughts in our minds
Of assisting the elderly
And the feebly inclined

We joked and we laughed
With the youthfully challenged
We cleaned and we cooked
Made their lives more managed

When we worked at The Home
Our clients seemed happy
“Perhaps we’ll live here
In our robes and our nappies?”

Now I live at The Home, it is very nice
There’s a senior’s bus to a play
I phone my friend and she’s going as well
To “Doris and Ivy” today

Rick Hansen

As heroes fare,
there’s no one out there
Who can top “The Man in Motion”
Four decades have passed
But memories last of
His tour from ocean to ocean

In my mind’s eye
There was once a young guy
With a fishing rod in hand
He’d caught a few fish,
Enough for a dish
As he roamed the rural bush land.

Riding home in a truck
Was when his good luck
Ran out for the rest of his life.
The accident left his spine badly bent
Depression cut in like a knife.

A natural athlete
He began to repeat
The gym-work which had to incur
To built up his strength
To wheelchair the length
Of his journey around the world

Folks gave him donations
As he crossed their nations
Money for research ‘n support
He became the speaker
For those that were weaker
And those in handicapped sports

As he continuously tries
He exemplifies
A spirit that will not be gone
To change tragedy into victory,
His legacy will live on

And perhaps even transfer onto
The rest of humanity

A PROSE POEM OF AN EVENT THAT GOES AWRY

The wedding party was lavishly garbed in matching tafetta skirts, slacks, and blouses. The groom staggered in, positioned upright by his in-laws to-be. Music festooned the building in joyous waves. The bride arrived, accompanied by strangers whom she had recently met. They too were lavishly garbed.

The orchestra struggled to maintain the decorum of the event, managing the Waltz of the Wind beautifully, til the drummer lay down his sticks in defiance. The poor man was off his head as he stepped down from the stage and began howling in a foreign language. Turned out he was a longtime rock and roller, unable to handle the staid waltz tempo.

“Do you promise to love this woman?” The words boomed from a microphone, replacing the usual Chaplin In Charge

A barely audible “yeah” being heard from the groom; the words were repeated, this time as a query to the bride, whom as it turned out, was nowhere to be found. She had fallen in love with one of the strangers, a Canadian-born musician from Edmonton Alberta.

The band played on, continuing with the waltz-laden repetoire and without the deposed drummer. The lavishly garbed wedding guests danced joyously til dawn.

Day 23 a simple song about a bird

A robin is out on the lawn
He’s warbling his old sweet song
There’s spring in the air
When a robin’s out there
Our winter was six months long!

S

25 How Live Music Affected Me

The message arrived
while I was devoting
myself to the tasks
I had been assigned
to do.
I cleaned and I cared
and completed all that
had to be done.

Then
the time came for me
to drive home
To where I must
acknowlege the pain,
the anguish, the sorrow
that had arrived along with
the message

But then
there was a reprieve.
I found myself rocking slowly
in my rocking chair
along with the melodious
strains of live music
from guitars, a bass, voices
performing in my living room

I allowed myself to feel
the warm, joyous music
It was like cream
flowing
through my veins
easing for a short while
the pain
that lay gasping
inside my heart