The flight home

English: Greylag Geese (Anser anser) in flight...

 

Beautiful rows of geese

 

Formation flying

 

follow the form

 

Riding in the crease  of wind

 

ridges and rivels from the pair of wings in front

 

Except…

 

Gusts erase the smoothly lined path

 

replaced and misplaced

 

the perfect order and sequence

 

now swirling clusters

 

swooping

 

turning

 

flowing through and around the unseen wake of fate

 

Gathering up and flying on

 

finding

 

wing to wing

 

and all the while,

 

me staring at a vast blue sky,

 

wondering how to go beyond avoiding,

 

and transcend

 

aloft

 

soaring.

 

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Moments

Tangerine streaks across lavender.
Chasing indigo and periwinkle.
Shade outlined on crisp relief.
soft tipped coal presses to the outline
violet embraces midnight.

The soft pause at dusk.
held, intake, waiting
pupils spiral outward
a still hush
before raucous song
erupts as one last defender
shouts triumph
the day’s long slumber, over.
Night awakes to her feasting form.

Crimson devoured
ochre eaten
vermillion carefully prepped and supped.

Hearth heart gold,
flickers, flickers, flickers,
out.

Till
still,
still,
still awake
momma and babe.
Her soft ink cloak thrown over their heads.
Held in tender darkness,
Till,
till
till
Morning breathes in russet, ruby, carnelian, amber, ember, remember, ever, every, early, morning, held, momma, baby, baby, mommy, mine, mine, hold me, hold you, love you, love.

Calgary

Memorial Drive looking west from the Zoo bridge

Memorial Drive looking west from the Zoo bridge (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Calgary
It is home to me.
My family tree,
Started me
and my roots here.
But I stayed and planted myself
Here.

And why?
Why linger?

“Because I love her.”
Seems to be the only answer.

I cringe at my melodrama
I really want to be
cold & practical,
like the shell
of simple stories
that outsiders tell.

But, I love her.

Her, by the way, is her gender.
A single glance,
at the simple shell,
could confuse you.
Because she looks like a man.
An oilman,
a land man,
an old time pioneer,
all cowboyed up
and ready to domineer.

But no.
That is not her.
Or,
rather,
not all of her.

I stay for the city
that simmers
beneath faux buckles and fresh new ten gallons
beneath the ten days of infestation
while tourists ride the rides
the real Calgary,
She hides.

She is so much more than a mile of
red, drunk and topless,
Or a blurry night
of Buds & boots in the office.

Frontier fictions
hide the genuine.
She is the fragrance of damp grass,
let go from winter’s tight clasp,
while arching winds
rip our branches off
and beat them against
our house tops.

And, She is the surprise flurry
that catches budding leaves
AprilMayJune
and folds them in white
while we hurry.

And, She is poppies on Memorial Drive
And Deerfoot
where you don’t drive.
and Forest Lawn
where you can get sixteen bowls of Pho
in the same block.

She is not
white
either.

She is Multi
coloured.
Multicultured.

Bubble tea & Bul-go-gi
Philharmonic Strings & Blues, beers and wings

She is…
Poetry.

Yes.
Poetry!
In Calgary!

She is socialist peaks,
mountain peaks,
that share
the fine view
anchoring our western compass
no matter what the status,
Everyone
gets a peek.

Oh,
but it is dangerous to fall in love
and be blinded to
long lines & long waits,
too many poor trying to
grab a plate.

He looked at me with time weathered eyes & said,
“I’m not from here. I met a girl who was, and I fell in love.”
But,
I wonder,
did he fall for the girl
or the place?

Love,
You could fall in love here.
Fall in love with Here.

I love it here.

And so I stay.
Keeping the family tree
rooted in Seuss
for my new offshoot.

This is the place you go
when you fall in love twice
with the city you know.

To Run

Wild horse above Campo Imperatore

Wild horse above Campo Imperatore (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Pushing forward.
like the thoroughbred being squeezed into the starting stall.
Trying to coax this wild horse to go through an unnaturally small
opening.
To do what? To run?
To do what is natural, you must do what feels unnatural?

NO. NO. NO.

STOP!

You must not think about domestication.
You must not even try to run on the track that is set for you,
for another’s pleasure.

You must run free.
You are NOT a tamed & bred & fed thoroughbred
but a wild one.
A wild horse, feral, free.
No, not feral even,
wild, wild, wild.
You are not from this place.
You are pure wilderness,
condensed.

Do NOT go back into captivity!
You must RUN.
Run free.
Be free.

Be free & wild & natural.
Release the cage clasp
held tight
in your tight grasp.

Release the need
to need
another,
even one other
to feed the ego chip.
The chip carved deep
into shoulder & neck & shoulder.

“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN DIFFERENT!”
You shout.
But, seriously,
let it out
already.
You are trapped & caged
now by your own hand.

So let loose your reins,
it is time to reign.
Time to claim
your rightful
reign
over your own crop & field & wild reel.

Run.

Just run.

Let loose & run.
run, run, run, run…

Us runners share
the nuchal ligament
a strong filament
to reach the firmament
of Earth & Stars.

To have my foot
touch & stomp & stride & step
and have small swirls of dust
rise around my instep.

foot
fall
& off and gone
off, gone
up & gone
a step & stride
stride, swing, step, move
arch, move, foot
move, leg
swing, swing, swing…

Graceful ease
fills each track
& where soft dust
swirls & swirls & swirls
Eyes are filled with visions
of swirls & swirls & swirls
of stars & galaxies
and stars &

endless black

endless night

eternal light.

Spring chickens

Away
Awake
A little hen
A little egg
Crack
Break
Start a new day.
Promise
Hope
Spring.

Easter moon

I saw
The moon
And thought of
You.

In that mirror
I thought
I saw
Your face.

Wrapped in your misty throne
Hiding
Peeking

I’m sure I saw you

In that moon

On Easter

When I was wishing
you were here.

But for now
I will be satisfied
With your clear
Light
In my eyes.

Letting happiness catch me

There are times
When
If I just slow down long enough
I feel a creeping
A tingle
A tickle
A happy sensation warm me cell by cell.

My rushing
My burdensome
My grown-up grieving
And heaving my way
Through day after day.

I forget
The carefree ease
Of childhood days
Warmed by ladybug conversations
And hopscotch chalkdust.

When I slow my pace
And breathe
And share
And craft
And tickle
I remember
What happy feels like.

Standing in the sun today
I was slammed into by
An unexpected wave of happiness.
It threatens, now
to take over my
Waking days
And peacefilled sleep
Until all I see
Are roses and buttercups
Tiny elevators
And toy trucks.

What will become of me
When happy is a part of me?
Not some far flung
Exotic adventure
But
Here
And
Now
Always
Adventure.

I will be
Like the bee
On the tree
Just me
Happy.

This moment

Stillness n' Peace (View in full size)

Stillness n' Peace (Photo credit: . Dileepan .)

This moment.
Breathing in, breathe out.
Awareness.

When you recognize
Time is happening right, now
You love each moment.

With a breath
In and a long sigh
Out, you love.

In the gaze of angels

Roe deer with yellow flowers 3c

Roe deer with yellow flowers 3c (Photo credit: Dluogs)

I am held
In the gaze of angels
Two strong women
Two strong men

No wait.
There are more.
Cousins, greatgrands… Ancestors.

My ancestry, they watch over me.
Waiting for me
To ask for their help.

My aunt Roe,
She was a feisty one.
She got things done.
I don’t pray to God, I pray to Roe.
She still gets things done.

My uncle Mike,
He had a good time.
He knew
Which ones to trust
And which ones to toss.
He helps me with the math.
He still has a good time.

And my Grandma,
She loved and listened.
She helps me keep my yap shut.
And know what to say when no words will help.
She still listens.

And Alice and Cliff,
They help me in my garden.
Anne,
She still writes and tells me to travel.

And… And… And… So many more.

All of them.
Still here but not here.
Just like me.

I am more than just here.
There is more here than meets the eye.
And when your eyes no longer see me.
I will be here still,
Holding you in my gaze.

Tear duct tango, part two

The tango of tears
Has slowed to a tangled
Step.

How do tears form?
A slow filling, a sudden squeeze, the flow and drip of memories left unfinished.

But my eyes want to refuse this dance.
And stubbornly refuse to fill
And squeeze this last memory out of my vision.

A last dance and last goodbye.
A last dance and a last goodbye.
When is my last dance and last goodbye?

Not today.
Not tonight.
Someday.

But not tonight,
So I can dance
And cry

And say goodbye.

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