Monday poem 2017.8


Dry-Bones

1. For the paradox of wandering

in a mapped landscape,

for my half-blind eyes

and Your tiny blinding light,

I give you thanks, Oh Lord.

2. For the altered state of

ice over lake water, the kindness

of snow on snow on snow covering

a multitude of sins,

I give you thanks, Oh Lord.

3. For the cravings of knowledge

and the fear of the unknown,

for all that is or will be

and all that never will be so,

I give you thanks, Oh Lord.

4. For endings of childhoods

and each best loved dog,

the incremental demise of body and mind

that You say one day will rise,

I give you thanks, Oh Lord.

5. For closed doors

and open roads,

for edges of the wild world

and the nothing that is everything,

I give you thanks, Oh Lord.

6. For this moment, this chair,

fingers synapsed and sure,

breath, room, silence,

Your imagined and almost certain presence,

I give you thanks, Oh Lord.

LAE2017

Friday Poem 2017.7


dsc_06472017.7

The heart,

always the heart. Those matters

of heritage, lifestyle,

and circumstance.

We make promises

and say what we mean

when we first say it.

Forever after we are somewhat unsure;

Did I say always? Sometimes?

Yes, I will walk each day,

eat more raw broccoli

and taste collard greens.

Yes, we will be kinder to one another, practice

lightheartedness, and forgetfulness.

By now some arteries are permanently closed,

but collaterals may grow, who knows.

Damage is indicated by various dashed lines

on the cardiac print-out. Your family doctor

will interpret these with you, and review

your wellness plan.

Blockages, self-righteous debates,

where to win feels like death by drowning;

selfish for air we grasp at anything.

How much tissue

has been greyed out

where once bloody and vital?

LAE2017

Another Thursday poem


 

DSC_2406Crane

They call on her for one thing only;

she is built to lift the weight

they cannot. They attach safety chains

and she swings beam after beam,

rafter upon rafter,

up and over the building site,

and lays down each piece

in its place. She knows

her capacity and her reach,

the stabilizing legs

hold her firm.

Do not ask her to dig

or scoop or drag.

Do not ask her to change

what she does best,

her gentle lift, the ballet

of all she carries.

 

LAE2017

Poem for Thursday


dsc_0907Mandarin

Plump curves and

burnished skin glowing,

not without imperfections but

what you see now is

what you already know

of her taste, nectar, quenching.

You imagine how your thumbs will gently open her

and your tongue will wrap itself

around the lusciousness

of each soft segment.

The air will carry her scent

long after satiation.

You reach for her

and close your eyes.

Oh, how her cool skin meets

the heat of your hands.

New poems


DSC_0275

2017.3

She will do what she will do

no matter what words

your lips form into love knots,

no matter how long you stand

with your arms wrapping her sorrow.

There is nothing she will not do,

nothing held back. She is quicksand

seeded with landmines.

You must not walk here. Run.

Don’t look back. You could never save her.

Merciful Jesus, won’t you

gather her up like broken bread?

There is more than enough

to feed a multitude.

LAE2017

 

 

2017.4

The miracle would be…

the miracle would be going back,

to before we did what we’ve done

to each other,

back to kindness, and loving

exactly how you came to me

raw and imperfect,

magic and raucous,

before I dreamed up all the ways

I might mold you

into something less mighty.

The miracle would be

waking up and discovering

heaviness dropped in the dark

and a wheel within a wheel, turning,

like a movie’s opening

repeating, repeating, repeating

the part where she

notices him, just briefly,

then carries on. The moment where

what happens next

is anyone’s guess.

LAE2017

Poetry again


dsc_05361.jpgRitual

It isn’t far
along the road
to where merganser calls
from the lake shallows. Swallows swoop
to kiss the surface, and in the scruffed willow
a canary seeks what she needs most.
Beauty is always here, the creek
emptying her season of heaviness
as I too will be emptied. This inevitable
ebb and flow, the grief
of making way. Waves wash
and return like a promise.
The mallard drake treads water
steady as the hen dips and eats
and dips again. Each calm repetition,
the layered mountains to the south,
receding soft
in the coming rain.

© Lesley-Anne Evans 2016

 

Haiku for the Hours

Dawn

Sun’s love is certain,
turns night storms to diamond fire,
each raindrop, a light.

Day

The orchard calls you,
trees are laden with words.
You of lack, come, eat.

Dusk

Monochromatic heart,
learn to hold the almost dark,
learn why robin sings.

Dark

Wild, nocturnal cat,
compulsive tracker of clues,
nine types of darkness.

© Lesley-Anne Evans 2016

More poetry…


I’m giving them away, I know it. Instead of saving them up for some bigger purpose, I let them trickle through my fingers like sand. Time passes so quickly, and these are only words. Why not say them now.

DSC_0505

Sub Zero

The fridge trickles and pops,
the ice maker oblivious to the deep freeze
outside, and our growing thirst 
for wine, and flames.
The lake is thick skinned with ice.
Like our winterizing bodies layered in
blankets, Fazl socks, and comfort foods,
water is a memory of itself,
a dream of what comes next.
We have done this before, hunkered down
in tired horizons when darkness comes.
We will wait it out,
try not to think about
four season sleeping bags
or Fentanyl
or our saviour complex.
On a night like this
our hands are empty. We need
mercy. We all need mercy.

LAE2016

 

Enough

You come to conclusions
like you know
the end from the beginning 
have the verdict from the judge,
are a presiding member
of an end-times jury.
You call it child abuse,
and murder – you are
a character assassin,
your slogans a series
of slicing pronouncements resulting in
curbside fatalities, pedestrian
bleed out. 

He was silent
and then he said, let you
who has no sin cast the first stone,
let you who has no sin.

I try to look away but see
you are an elder, with a time worn face
and commitment to a particular flavour faith.
I see sandwich boards and signs,
team huddles on your gang turf
railing against the other side
where girls walk, drive, and ride
a gauntlet to the clinic.
I imagine they have tried
to find another way through tears
and bargained prayers, lost sleep,
arrival at a cross-road and
a choice. This.
And you choose. That.

I drive by. Each Tuesday.
I want to drive through… my over-righteous
indignation, then I am ashamed
I am not blameless, yet I blame.
I once shared your state of mind.
No longer sure, I am witness while I drive by,
every Tuesday, before 9.

He was silent, finger marking dirt
with what…a symbol of his throne?
And then he said, let you
who is without sin cast a stone,
and the righteous weaponed ones all left.
And only he and she remained.
Neither do I condemn you, proclaimed the voice
of overcoming Love.

How then does it end,
me judging you judging them?
(apart from any conversation about sin
which I am clearly choosing not to enter in
because it is bigger than I can entertain.)
My commentary though cathartic is just the same
as you. This is how we cancel love. Enough.
Enough. Enough. Enough.
Dear God forgive me I have said enough.
Forgive me for what I do not do,
and what I do, not knowing.

LAE2016

Just write


A new year, and always I begin again. To wake up. To write. To cast my thoughts, words, dreams upon the water. To wonder at what it all means. What’s next, what’s new, what’s possible, what’s true, what’s better left unsaid, what’s needed now.

Just write…

dsc_0045.jpg

2017.1

Slant light on the neighbour’s roof;
the first sun we’ve seen in days.
The snow glows with it. White hot. Hopeful.
Trapezoid rooflines point high up to the clear dome
and down to where the New Year and me sit
and concoct plans sharp enough
to pierce the ozone. Cold. Silence. Window.
The Monashee and their inhalations of sky. Breathe. Breathe.
Light is fading fast now, a vague
idea of what it was, what I thought
it might mean. Dusk. Blue land. Monochrome.

LAE2017

2017.2

After you pour the seed
they will come close,
like they already know something.
Chicka-dee-dee, rosy finch, black-capped junko
compete for one perch,
unaware of other openings
in the feeding tower,
or your kitchen table admiration.
They appear to trust you
and your “original mix” from Buckerfields,
but the glass between you is a false promise,
closer contact will prove harsh, or final.
Still you feed them. See how
they dart and depart,
dine and dash,
your lush communion brief, at best. See how
they wing away and eat at a distance,
heads cocked,
eyes on the sky
for sparrow hawk
who, like you, has dined here before.

LAE2017

Poems, like prayer flags


This way of being continues to call me forward…

pop-up-poetry

This week I was reminded that not all is good, and not all is good for me. I want to un-see what I saw, erase forever the images that popped up on my computer screen immediately after an opera video I was watching on Youtube. No warning, and there it was, cruel, shocking, and cutting through my soul like a knife. I didn’t know what to do. I gasped. I turned it off. But my mind played the images over and over again. I was hooked into darkness for a time.

And then, serendipitously and providentially, I was invited into a soul healing activity that is beginning to help me forget what I saw, not that I saw it, but take the edge of pain of it away.

A friend invited me to join a social media love challenge, posting only good messages. I’ve always tried to be that kind…

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