New poems



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.





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.


We are not done


We Are Not Done

We are not done. We are
ongoing conversation,
sometime monologue, sometime soliloquy.
Done is undone in our transforming reality,
our we that is, and will be.
As perplexing as speech sometimes seems,
I will wrap my errant tongue unceasingly
around the shape of this dialect we long for
yet hesitantly speak. Years down the road
we’ll continue our halting imperfect communion
because we have chosen this holy union.

No. We are not done.
Done is baked bread filling the air
with aromas of childhood, golden crust, served up,
butter and jam, eaten, gone, done.
Done is my hair, washed, cut, coloured, and styled.
Done is your fishing trip into the wild.
Done is each finished task, our completed to do lists,
but done is not done when we both choose us.
Yes we will disagree for a time,
but when emotions
and the need to be right mellow and calm
we’ll be right back here; take my hand, carry on.

Because we are not done
striving, surviving, staying alive, relational jiving.
We are not done doing and undoing
all we’ve messed up, gluing what’s come unglued.
We don’t live the
“you complete me” sentiment.
We chose, our promise remains.
We are not done. Always, we begin again.

One day, I imagine
you will hear my breath reach
between the words I cannot speak,
nearly there, almost, there.
In that pregnant space you will hear
the language of your heart, beloved.

My heart will be the echo.

Poetry Friday039

New Utility Poles

Image by misternaxal via Flickr

Grace is hosting tonight at Open Mic night at dVerse Poet’s Pub dVerse… come on over, share your words, read what others are creating…

If you look closely you can see where we’ve been


windbreaks, hedgerows and telegraph poles
white, free falling water down mountains breast
sedimentary layers thrusting out of cold earth
fingers tracing ultimatums in dusty ground
runoff lost to gravity, air and quiet desperation.


furrows pulled into earth’s womb by plows
blue-green tributaries beneath translucent skin
edges, property lines, borders, divisions
our attempts to limit nature’s abandon
yellow edged pavement promising escape
concentric circles you will not cross.


on a page, over, over, cursive, circuitous
thoughts I read and write and memorize and say
homeless men waiting for shelter from the urban storm
florescent buoys, and all definitions of safety
fences topped with barbed-wire. Topics
held prisoner by decades of married life.


love, traced onto flesh by a lingering tongue
incisions cut into virgin land, primeval forest
scar tissue on our hearts
history, life and death, and passings
time, trails, tracks and animal prints in snow.

fine lines…

the part in a baby’s hair
what I see around your eyes
when you smile.

Lesley-Anne Evans, March 2011

Poetry Friday016

The Complexity of being Human

Good mousers can smell a trail
long gone cold, and will
Persist with haunches quivering
Tail erect and short inhalations
More like snorts, noses
Pressed down into wet, mouldy tunnels
With enough memory of mouse to illicit
Pavlovian response and anticipation of
Warm bodies, scratching, scrambling chase, blood letting.

On the other hand, desire leads down rabbit trails of
Mysterious occurrences, confusion and disappointment
Forks of indecision where one trail leads to ecstasy
The other, a cold grave.
Blood-warmed bodies become comfortable in their skin
Numb. Complacency is a dead end trail.

Yet, sometimes, on a sleepy Sunday morning
With the house shifting and creaking and ticking a lullaby
Stirring possibility presses its’ timid nose to the ground
In search of the scent that remains.

Lesley-Anne Evans

February 14, 2010

‘Sol Deo Gloria’

Poetry Friday015

Garage sale Harry

What’s the measure of a life anyway? Can you find proof in
Stuffed bags of mason jars, or the patina of well used garden tools at $2 a piece?
I don’t know what to say to you
as we stand on the driveway of the house where you
plowed furrows into the garden with the rototiller, sowed and tended and helped her
Preserve abundance in matching canning jars and fruit
pies set on the counter to cool. The ‘Sold’ sign’s up, resulting in
This Saturday morning bargain basement sale of your life stuff… is this the end… really?

Leaves me filled with sympathy like spoon fed mush, unappetizing to the likes of you.

I make small talk. You look slightly pained, as if longing for closure.

As for her, death might be more humane, as they say, “A Blessing.”
Her children, mere acquaintances.
Grandchildren are strangers, and it’s like a coma,
A lingering death… mind going going gone. For now
At least she knows you sometimes when you visit the sterile room where they keep her tucked in safe.

The worst part for you aren’t her blank stares or angry questions, but
The dirt under her fingers nails that will soon be scrubbed clean by competent staff, washing away more evidence of the farmer’s wife you’ve loved since Kamloops.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2010

American Gothic, by Grant Wood 1930

Why my husband is hot!

A few years ago I would have cringed at the word ‘hot’, as it brought, in my opinion, a certain air of disrespect or familiarity or blatant sexuality that I didn’t care for. It made me feel uncomfortable to hear kids referring to the opposite sex in this manner, and I warned my kids to not say it. But, as I have become fully immersed in the world of teen-dome (three kids aged 12, 14, 17), and slowly desensitized to terminology that comes with it, I guess I’ve allowed myself to open up to this word and to others to a certain extent. Perhaps I was being a prude before? Perhaps I didn’t know the kids who were using the language as much as I know my own kids and their friends? Like other youthful vocabulary through the ages, the word says what it says with no pretense. Although it’s still not used commonplace in our family, I like the rawness of it, the honesty.

That’s why I think ‘hot’ is a perfect way to describe my husband, Bob!

Sure, there’s the obvious superficial outwardly sexy part of him that makes him hot. He’s fashionable, trendy and good looking, he’s up to speed on current events and politics, he’s always the visionary and creative thinker that never grows tired of dreaming of a future that is brighter, better, bigger than life as it is. And he’s a hard worker, never a slacker, growing a business from nothing with integrity and talent. He’s funny, bright, charismatic, a true leader who has honed his ability to work well with teams, be it board members or staff or volunteers. He is driven. He is honest.

He never stops asking questions, naturally inquisitive. He loves to talk. He is interesting to listen to, and a great story teller.

My husband loves God, his church and his family. And he’s not afraid to tell anyone that. His faith is active and alive and visionary and even in this, always asking questions… which is refreshing in a sometimes stale Christianity. My hubby keeps me honest and on the straight and narrow.

But what makes my husband hot is the fact that he is faithful. Including the 2 years we dated, my husband has been faithful to me and to our marriage for 25 years. I trust him whole heartedly because he is trust worthy. He has proved that over and over again. With all the junk coming at him from the media, and everything else that bombards him on a daily basis, still he comes home to me. He loves me. He chooses me. Even when I don’t deserve it!

I admit that I often allow life and the kids to get in the way of our marriage. I forget that the kids will go and even friends might move away and life will change. The constant in it all is Bob. I can’t afford to take him for granted, now can I?

I just attended my Uncle Dave’s funeral in Orlando, Florida last week. He was 70 years old, and married to my Aunt Betty Lou for 48 years. They had no children, so she was his world and vice-versa. Their life together was a love story, although she admits they’ve had ups and downs too. She showed me the valentine’s bear he gave her… his very last gift to her. He adored her. He prioritized her. He took care of her needs. And she basked in the glory of his love. He was hot to her. I’m certain of that.

My Aunt shared some marital wisdom with me as we cried and talked together late one night. She told me to never stop taking time to look into Bob’s eyes. She looked into my eyes as she said that… and she was very serious.

So, for the past week my hubby and I have been dating, going to a neighbourhood cafe for wine and Jazz, out for dinner to celebrate our 23rd anniversary, spontaneously calling and texting each other during the day. And we’ve gone for walks with the dog, and we’ve looked into each others eyes. And the fire is still there.

I can feel a shift happening within me as I see some areas where I need to make adjustments to how I’ve been lacking in love. I’m thankful for the chance to make change. I’m thankful for my hot husband.