Late March The deck has collected a weight of snow. How else to describe that body? Laying flat across the foot of the door blocking my exit, detailing the railings as snow swirls on winds that howl like voices in the channel where roof meets the walls of my shelter during a mid-winter storm. In
As if unknowns have not always been nearby, hovering at edge of sight, beyond reach but closing in now, still unknown. All our questions rise without reply. Peace workers, be praised. May you multiply until there’s no more need. May you rest till the rest is easy. May your harvest be in health not death,
Opal Dusk Sun sets in the west birdsong is a background lullaby. Pinks weave with blues that mingle with amber. The opal dusk summons creatures of the night – the dark side of life. Golden owl eyes light a silent flight path. Masked scavengers hunt and cavort. The fragrance of an alabaster moonflower tantalizes a
My Human Identity I am a social construct. Word upon word like blood. Image upon image like flesh. A technicolour film Of places and stories I have lived through. I am walking, breathing memory. Frame by frame repository Of history’s collective thoughts In my seemingly separate cranium. I walk this Earth for a slice of
In memory of Norma West Linder I have photos of us standing by painted moose in Toronto, standing next to Pierre Burton, beside other poets, in taverns and living rooms. I wonder where you are now, Spirit Island girl. Arranging letters in some heavenly Scrabble game? Sitting on a park bench under lemon trees humming
In loving memory of Norma West Linder September 4, 1928 – August 26, 2023 Winter entered with November, the first frost falling on All Souls’ Day. Overnight, the yellow leaves of my mulberry became clenched brown fists, late-blooming coneflowers shriveled. For once the lake lay subdued, its great trout rising towards the surface, the air
I first met Norma West Linder at a local writers’ group called Writers in Transition. Over the years, she was a kind, gentle, and encouraging mentor who assisted many with the craft of writing. In addition to being a prolific writer, she was an avid Scrabble player. I regret not playing the game with her,
(On Cabbages and Kings, Poems 2012-2019, Aeolus House) Dusting a book shelf, I came across a poem venerating life in simple phrases hopeful even in the face of illness. From time to time lines from them return to haunt me. We had a lot to say that wouldn’t keep till morning. Always we have questions
As she flows in and out, we wait. Attending. Attentive. A tension. What is to be paid? What owed? The river is shallow for the season but its current runs deep. Consciousness flickers, will-o’-the-wisp only altered by constant choice. Sharp shards hold us close to home since she is almost ninety -five, almost ready to
shorts and sandals on a hot October day 30.1 degrees Celsius this is a riff on changing times on changing ways on changing days salmon are jumping and people are oohing the weir too high, they spawn and die the water runs swift like the beat of a riff cormorants soar while cascades roar susurrant,