Poetry again

Ritual

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

Naming one thousand gifts… day 6

81. car wash patterns of soap bubbled water

82. sharp edge silhouettes against sunset sky glow

83. kids friends hanging around, laughter wafting from other rooms

84. dark not dark at 10 pm.

85. fridge front covered with v.i.p. photographs

86. waking up to first thoughts

87. catching myself smiling

88. buying another copy of my new favourite book, waiting to see who it’s for

89. asking

90. supper prepared, served, eaten, enjoyed

91. anticipation of writing time

92. going home after

93. ospreys stand nest edge

94. muskrat v in the marsh

95. walking and talking with a friend

96. knowing all shall be well

97. fresh

Related articles

• One thousand gifts… my beginning. (buddybreathing.wordpress.com)

Tuesday Poem 003

Look! See!

Look! Exclamation of two year olds and middle age whale watchers
commands immediate attention in sand box and off starboard side
offers a guards down gift of sudden sight.

Lookie-here is Old Country, like wrinkled grandpa porch rocking
hound at his feet. Mind my words son, my wise, year-full words. Makes
no difference, young-uns reckless, half-eared things.

Looking is committed motion. Cranks your neck to acute angle, drops
what you’re doing. Like when a toddler palm-holds your face by the cheeks
pulls your chin up, demands eye level “look at me” looking.

As if God had to ignore everything else and concentrate carefully on
the right mix of clay and spit in his hands. No. God’s mountain view
was pregnant with infinity. Visions of good, also for our eyes.

Imagine looking, seeing, like you just found out it’s the bonus question
on the exam. Like myopic tending to what is forming in your sweaty palms
is secondary to seeing what is very good. Like snow days matter.

Behold and see, lift your eyes and see, look and see.
Pay attention. Look long and hard. Imagine.
Look! See!