NaPoMo poetry party.3

Sally Quon is joining us today from Kelowna, British Columbia. Sally is a writer, photographer (see the feature image above), and self professed dirt road diva. Sally’s essays and  accompanying photos at Featherstone Creative are insightful, and genuine. Welcome to our poetry party, Sally!

You can experience more of Sally’s creative work by following these links;

Instagram:  @sallyquon

Blog:  Featherstone Creative

These are unique times for us all, and perhaps even more so for those with the sensibilities and perceptions of a creative. So I’m wondering, Sally, if you might give us a window into how today looks for you by answering these three questions?

1. What is this quieter version of life teaching you?
Sally: There has been a lot of “white noise” in my life.  By eliminating that which isn’t necessary, I have more room to appreciate that which is.

2. We often say we wish we had more time for certain things. Having been given this gift of more time, what are you spending it on?

Sally: Examining my priorities.  Deciding what and with whom I want to invest my time.

3. What is one surprising thing that happened today?

Sally: I received an Honorable Mention for a short Creative Non-Fiction piece.

That’s a wonderful bit of good news…congratulations! Thank you again for being here today, and for sharing your lovely poem.

Blessings and peace,
Lesley-Anne

The Eyes of a Child

I close my eyes and picture
places I once was -
the streets where I grew up,
the steps behind the church,
the woodpile where I used to hide
my cigarettes.Are they still there?

Years between spaces,
sand-worn with age,
polished beyond recognition.
A glimmer, maybe,

like hope.
Like thinking somewhere out there
things are what they were.
Another child’s eyes
will widen to see
the mice in the shed,
the perfect nook in the crab apple tree,
the brook that used to flow
behind Charley Shipley’s house.

There was a game we used to play
--  hidden treasure.
My sister and I would hide things,
each for the other to find.
Silver coins and bangles
beads from our mother’s chest.

I wonder if we found it all?
Or if something was forgotten,
left waiting all these years?
Can you imagine,

just for a minute,

to be a child
discovering long-lost treasure?
A Spanish bracelet, or
that worn-out exercise book

filled with my lost poems.

 

 

Friday Poem 2017.7

2017.7

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

 

Crane

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

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

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…

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