It’s been a while… trying to recapture ‘normal’ in my life after the passing of my Buddy. Words have not been flowing, nor has the desire to post much other than a few pictures and comments on Facebook. Yet, there’s a growing tickle in my gut that prompts me to take steps back toward creative expression, rather than holding it all close and tight inside me. God’s gift of life purpose has been marked by the discovery of my voice, and knowing that, I cannot long be silent. In the past five years, God has taught me that the posture of my hands needs to be open and surrendered to what He has for me. Although right now I feel like curling up in a ball and crying, I know that’s not a posture of acceptance or expectation for what comes next. While I must grieve, I must also step into God’s future for me. Today’s post is just that. Although these poems are not new, they are some of my favourites.
Here then is a collection of poems and photographs for your pleasure.
by Lesley-Anne Evans, Jan. 2008
Gulls are drifting inland on updrafts from the sea.
Wantonly weightless they float overhead,
Calling boldly of flight and freedom.
Creature of the middle earth I stand in salt spray, toes
Sink in wet sand, thoughts sink deeper.
I lift my face skyward, consider their foreign tongue.
Then, rusty hinges on the screen door and
You call from the cottage.
Warm voice carried on the wind, you beckon me.
Choose the welcoming parameters of our love and life.
Lesley-Anne Evans, Feb. 2009
Shredded strips of newspaper
On the bottom of your fancy cage —
Evidence of neurotic tendencies, as
You wait for daily offerings
Of fruit and seed in outstretched hands.
Still, a hunger is embedded in
Your dull remembrances of
Open skies and temperate winds
And clipped wings healed.
by Lesley-Anne Evans, August 2009
There’s music in the vineyard
A rising tympani of leaves
Exposing their soft bellies to
The western wind.
Harmonies of vine and wire
Vine and wire, vine and wire
And the rhythm of staccato posts
Support the melody.
Bees buzz, tasting floral hints
Of autumn’s fruit
While heavy hot summer sun
Pulls the song from root to blossom tip.
There’s music in the vineyard
A complex composition carries on.
And, the cry of red-tailed hawk
A grace note.
Lesley-Anne Evans, December 2009
It’s not like you haven’t tried to adapt to the new ways
In your old age. Like gun licensing – forcing you through bureaucratic
Hoops to hang onto that part of you that only comes alive in pine
And birch, aspen, fir and poplar. Then you gave in, gave your guns away
To your brother, left you having to ask him to use them. Instead,
You told hunting stories, like the time you were about a hundred
Miles up on the Spruce River Road with a bunch of buddies, came around a corner, and
There were all these white birds — Snow Ptarmigan — white and fluffed up and floating
Over the first dusting of October snow. It stopped all of you in your tracks —
The sheer blessing of that moment.
In contrast to your most recent conversation with the clerk at the
Ministry of Natural Resources, who advised you in no uncertain terms
That you couldn’t even buy a game tag anymore. You felt the door closing
On yet another chapter of your life. So you fought back, 83 year old
Disarmed hunter, in the only way you knew how —
Told the guy to ‘Go to hell’, as you hung up the phone.