Poetry

Two Ravens

2 big ravens
in the tallest tree
on the highest branches
squawking, like a couple of truckers
can be heard for kilometers

for Harriet and Harry, it was
love-at-first sight, forever together

50-ish children

now in their twilight years
their bones ache – it is harder to fly
maybe, I am just projecting

they want to share their truths

“Do you speak raven?”
I asked myself, or did I hear someone or something ask me
“No, but I wish I could.”

I imagine what a raven has to say, often
I imagine they are kind of a funny bird
yet, serious when they have to be

a biting, social commentary on environmental concerns - perhaps
followed by proud anecdotes of their children
then, there’s a new fast food drive-thru opening soon
excitement, at all the possibilities – that’s what I’m thinking

"They are talking to me," my ancestors told me to listen

The tree stands beside a mythological waterway
with a rusty wrought iron fence growing into its’ side
holding it from falling, with the erosion, into the river
the fence is a remnant from when my great-grandfather used to live there
my grandfather told me the stories - his name was Harry
I smile as I walk towards them
I gave them their names, it’s a personal thing
a kind-of jest – something they would do, I think

the ravens love their tall old perch
they have been using it for 13, or so years
well, that’s as long I’ve been going back there

I see them on those days
I walk down that hidden bush path towards my secret spot

it’s nice to know they are there
talking to me - we are good friends now

I look up and say, "I too, have things to say!"

the leaves have begun to change colour
and once again, I am concerned for my old friends
there is a bite in the air, but I am warm, wearing
my nice new camo-jacket with Canada goose down

I walk slowly now – my bones ache
mostly my ankles and my knees

I touch the tree
in the same spot
I have been touching for years

I have a secret agreement with that once-great tree
this I share, only with my dark feathered friends

I look up, they are watching me, their heads crooked
partly upside down, partly backwards

from their perch, they call down to me
in low guttural croaks and gaggles

I am curious to know what they say
always, sounds like: "welcome back my friend,
how have u been, where have you been?"

I love the view from this spot
I can see a long way, both up and down the river
it speaks to me
just like I imagine it did for my grandfather and his father

I stand silent for an hour or so
listening to the sounds around me
listening to my friends above me looking at the view
that old view that my great-grandfather knew

a young raven flies close
its wings swoosh
with a soft whistling sound

one of the children, I presume

"Hello," says I, then I croak out a few raven sounds too
he seems to like that

Harriet and Harry croak out a soliloquy of sorts
and the young one carves back and upwards, landing part way up the tree

over the years, I’ve met all of the family, and
I feel like an adopted uncle – I’m happy and comfortable with that

the ravens have been talking to me, quite a lot today
and through an osmosis of time a metamorphosis has taken place

each time I understand more of what they are saying

it’s time, I begin to walk back to my truck
I turn for a quick look at the river
then up to my friends

my heart is happy
my soul is satisfied
my mind is clear

as I disappear down the trail, walking slowly into the forest
I hear my 2 old friends squawking

Names

indian, indigenous, aboriginal,
aboriginals, aborigine, first nations,
first peoples, first inhabitants, first
americans, first canadians, native,
native american, native canadian,
american indian, canadian indian

wagon burner, crazy indian, broken
arrow, chief, spear chucker, darky,
brownie, bush whacker, bush indian,
dirty indian

Cree, Dene, Metis, half breed,
breed, blood, half blood, full blood,
hybrid (this is a new one), status
indian, non-status indian, Bill C-31

drunk, savage, drunken savage,
rotten indian, brave, brave fucker,
red skin, squaw man, running deer,
beaver stretcher, big bear, running
bear

walking eagle, sitting eagle, red
hawk, black hawk, tomahawk, tonto,
tipi crawler

bannock eater, bannock butt,
bannock belly, fry bread, apple,
apple indian, light switch indian

i left out a few because they are
too strong and hurtful (like the ones
with the ‘n’ word), names I have
been called from my earliest memory
to now, yes, now –
you get the idea

but if you like, if you are willing hear
my words as I paddle down the river
with you beside me in your own
boat, listen to what I have to say,
hear my dad speak my
grandfather’s words, my ancestor’s
stories, they come from the bush
and the river

listen as we paddle, listen; I will take
you back to where I came from,
back to tradition, back to hunting,
back to fishing, back to my youth,
back to the place of my ancestors,
back to my roots and then – back to
our future

but hear this too; i was educated in
the bush, i finished high school, i’m a
red-seal ticketed journeyman, i have
a BFA and an MFA, i worked in
the oil industry on construction and
in downtown Calgary in those sky
scrapers, i traveled around the
world, i’ve been across North
America many, many times, i was an
artist before being a ceo and again
-
i am an artist

so, say my name, proper or
improperly, or if you prefer you can
call me a name, i’ve been called them
all, i’ve heard them all, call me what
you like, show me the darkness in
your soul or show me the light in
your heart

choose a title, put me in a category
(just like the governments do), be
derogatory, be funny or witty, be
up front with your comments or be
sneaky and subtle (i get it – i got it),
if you want, if you can - try to be
politically correct, but don’t forget
to remember those
sticks and stones,
and / or who amongst you
can cast the first stone....

I've lived the best I Can

I tried to live life the best that I can
Which seems amazing, from where it began
We lived on the other side of those tracks
Where so many have fallen through the cracks
Two blocks from main street and just down the hill
I have fallen too, but through strength of will
I climbed from that hole, clinging to my roots
Sometimes, wearing my father’s worn out boots

Sitting here it’s hard to know where to start
For, in each of their ways they played a part
With friends, I played baseball in the rock-filled fields
Then next day we’d make wooden swords and shields
On sunny days, we’d swim in our river
The stories of them, all kind of differ
In those vague and magical sorts of ways
They sneak back in, on those long lazy days

Our home was built by our own callused hands
Next to the tallest pines and poplar stands
Let’s talk a bit about my neighbours now
Musings of some, I try to disavow
But those old days keep pulling me back in
A few steps from that original sin
And though I remember them all fondly
Their faces slip into a darkened sea

One friend said he’d protect me to the end
He’s in jail now for killing two women
His brother dealt drugs in the big city
He was shot in a field, such a pity
A so-called friend kicked my dad in the head
His car rolled on a dark road, now he’s dead
His brother boxed, he had a few defeats
And he too died there on those city streets

Ten years ago, one girl who lived next door
Talked to me of her family’s horror
Then this boy who came to our side of town
With his sling-shot, made a girl lift her gown
Then there was Billy, forget him, never
He went boating and drowned in our river
I’d talk about more, you get the picture
They’re all a different kind of life’s fixture

Of course, I should speak of my family
I prayed God would listen and set me free
My father and his friends, alcoholics
This made my mom mad; they had no ethics
She was angry and took it out on us
Yelling and screaming, we learned how to cuss
The days of my youth were often dreadful
So, I tried for years to break the circle

I think of them in black and white some times
Of those who passed, victims, of their own crimes
I remember them, their pains and glory
They lived next door and they had their story
So, every now and then, when I look back
To our old long-gone home, that weathered shack
The place that we all built with our young hands
I think… I’ve lived my life the best I can

In Our Kitchen

John Wayne was eating breakfast in the kitchen
he was the fourth stranger
To be sitting there this month
when I woke up
So, I was not really that surprised

Bacon, eggs, beans and home-made toast
my mothers’ favourite, and ours too
the sizzling bacon sound and its’ smell wafting through my bedroom
made me crawl out of bed

Fresh off the trail, his shirt and vest still dusty
I heard his horse outside

Mom and dad had a
‘make yourself at home policy’
of course, everyone did

Last week there was some fellow
from somewhere north, Alaska I think

Mr. Wayne had made bush coffee just the way my grandfather did
there was something familiar I liked about that
I poured myself a nice hot cup
before sitting at our heavy wooden home-made table
cut from 100 year old Jack Pine

I noticed his big sweat-brimmed hat
hanging on the hook on the wall
typical kind cowboy hat

Then I noticed his boots, amongst ours
big, with the pointed toes scuffed past repair
probably, I thought, from kicking cow patties
I chuckled to myself

In his gruff smoke and whisky voice, he said,
"howdy Pilgrim,"
now that’s a bit like a cliché I thought, so I replied:
"I reckon I’m doing fine pardner, ummm, I mean Mr. Wayne"
I don’t know what came over me at that moment
"just call me John", he said
When I looked up at him he had a big grin
he took a sip from his steaming cup

Just about that time I heard faint footsteps
my brothers and sister were finally awake too
and soon there would be no food left
I jumped up, loaded my plate
started eating – shoveling it down
food was fair game in our house
even if it was on someone else’s plate

Mom walked in the back door, at that moment
with a basket full of clean clothes
something looked out of place - oh yeah...
it must have been that she didn’t have that mussed-up housewife look
her hair was done nicely
she was wearing her new red flowered summer dress
the one she had ordered from the Sears catalogue last week
That made me smile

John stood up as she entered the kitchen
he said, "let me help you with that ma’am"
of course, mom said that it was okay
looking at me and at the clothes
taking them into the front room
I knew then what my first job of the day was
I ate slower and filled my cup again
and poured John another

Mom said: "Dad’s got the boat ready,
John, you can head down anytime you like"
and to me she said that I was to go along too
but only after I finished the clothes
I shoveled down the rest of my food
Mom knew how much I loved his movies
she also knew that it would be handy for dad to have me around

Over the years many folks have made themselves
at home in our kitchen
my mom and dad would have it no other way

And as a kid there would be many more mornings
of strangers in the kitchen
but never anyone, with a dusty hat or big cowboy boots
or a horse in the back yard

Jelly Jar Logic

Living in a jelly jar,
Floating on a beam of light,
Psychedelic transcendental thoughts
Race through piles of mental junk
Looking for a place to land
Is an ancient white unicorn
Carrying multi-coloured trade beads
Speaking with my ancestors
Then, a knight of the round table
Grabs mighty Excalibur
Cutting the smoky air
While a rock n roll band
Plays a backbeat for a singing nun
Making time with 3 vestal virgins
Where preachers sermonize
On a topic of acid free rain

Now look behind the light show
You’ll find a red ball rolling and
Bouncing down the street
Where 2 naked bodies
In the distance, between
Here and the hill
Are entwined in
Passionate verbal intercourse
Stopped at a green light
At the corner of Haight and Ashbury
In a crowd of stoned-out people
Riding in a black convertible
Being driven by a
Book touting English professor
Is a young impressionable
Long-haired poet.

Scantily-clad women dance
In and along an ancient maze
Urged on by electric symphonic music
Filtered through newly-budded flowers
Leading the dancers
Away from a conformist society
Of grey-suited monkeys
Carrying their black satchels
Filled with pages-on-pages
Of contracts and memorandums
That indicate that it’s okay
To steal Indigenous water rights
Finding themselves being lead
By a bearded man
Wearing a tan-coloured gown
Looking like Jesus of Nazareth

A young man walks through hot coals
To lie down on a bed of nails
As a fire serpent
Curls up under the bushes
Of dried out branches
Trying to hide his frustration
Over the lies of political gorillas
Pounding their chests
Yelling out righteous obscenities
About the ills of society
And how they’re going to change
Legislation and make policies
That’ll better the world
And change the status quo
Looking through the curved glass
Of a half-empty jelly jar.

Sometimes, the Darkness

Sometimes, the darkness
In the middle of the night
Is darker than it should be
My heart can’t hold on anymore
And now a deep cut in my wrist
Drips with dark, cherry coloured blood
There’s a delicate trail
Of blood on the freshly cut lawn
From my backdoor down to the creek
I’m looking back at the light in the kitchen
Wondering if this is a good idea
But no one has heard my cries
The voice in my head is strong
It tells me to keep walking
As I stumble over exposed roots
I hear the crickets and frogs talking
To their own friends and mates
And to some kindred water nymphs
Woodland spirits are hidden from view just beyond
The light of dimly flickering fireflies
Floating between branches and over the open water
I am enticed to sit at the end of my short, weathered dock
I listen for my creature friends
They have called me out tonight
But I guess my presence
Made them nervous
And all has gone deathly silent
Yet, a half-light from the half moon
Wiggles off the ripples of the creek
The surface of its’ water is calming
I see a half-clothed mage floating inches above the water
Waving for me to come to her
My imagination is over-active again
Her invitation gives me something to consider
At least my late-night friends are here with me
A firefly suddenly zig-zags through this misty vision
Breaking the hypnotic spell for a split second
Giving me a chance to ask myself if this is someone
Or something that I should listen to
But, the self-pity is overwhelming
And I loathe myself for having such dark thoughts
On such a beautiful, full night
The light of a firefly disappears
And all that remains, the splash of a fish
Then the hollow sound of water lapping against rusty metal
It’s my father’s old green, two-toned ’57 Chevy
That we pushed into the river over a ¼ century ago
Giving me the sense of a lifetime flying by
I’m reminded of 4 mischievous neighbourhood kids
Running through the bush with bows and arrows
On similar summer nights, all those years ago
Happy memories of promises and hope
That have lived here along this water’s edge
For far too long, all by themselves
I tried to reach those stars
That I thought I could touch
When I climbed old Walton’s Mountain
But here I am, sitting on these grey planks
Stained by the puddle of blood at my side
Surrounded by crickets and frogs and fireflies
I look up from that red puddle
To the faint image of that lonely moon
Partially hidden by overhanging branches and leaves
I’ve been sitting there for long enough
That the crickets and frogs are talking again
A small sense of happiness slips into my thoughts
I turn to the right and push myself up from the dock
I hear my knees creak as I stand
It sounds eerily like crickets talking
Something whispers to me at the back of my mind
And I look over my left shoulder
And catch a glimpse of that beautiful mage
Such a beautiful image that time has created
One of her with an outstretched hand, holding an apple
But I can’t be so sure; she has disappeared too soon
I can see the light coming from the kitchen
It’s not as far away as it looks
I take a small step forward with my good foot first
A chill runs up my spine
As my bare feet touch the dewy grass
I continue to walk back to the old house
My pace is careful and calculated
I feel cool dewdrops running between my toes
Giving me a strange notion of urgency
I also feel the softness of the soil
And the warmth of the earth
My evening walk has heightened my senses
This is the 3rd time that I’ve made this walk
In this depressed state of mind
It may be the last, that’s hard to say
The kitchen light hurts my eyes
As I open the back door to the house
I take one more look, over my right shoulder, at the half moon

Northern Lights

There’s a sliver
of northern lights
quietly and softly

dancing like those almost
invisible solemnly veils
worn at funerals by grieving women

I am stopped beside the river
listening to Neil Diamond’s rendition of Leonard Cohen’s
Hallelujah

Here in the darkness
I am haunted by memories
of them

my mom and dad’s families
my brother
and my friends

and my friends
are their almost
imperceptible stories

the song ends
my window has been open for some fresh air
and I am cold

I hear soft sounds in the sky
behind that silver veil
of northern lights...

The Last Request

the saddle was well worn,
a deep translucent brown on
a navy-blue blanket, with red trim,
it had been made for Billy Joe’s Palomino,
whose colouration was especially beautiful
on that sunny day with the back drop of heavy clouds
hanging over the Grand Tetons

Billy mounted in one single harmonious movement

Bella Coola was especially excited
because she sensed today, as they did once a year,
they’d be going into the back country,
they had been together for 10 ½ years

Bella’s name came from her father’s favourite fishing spot

She had been Billy’s 16th birthday present
now – they were best friends,
a match made in heaven, that day

tomorrow was his birthday and as a special treat
Billy and Bella were making a long weekend journey
to her father’s most special place in the world

their cabin was on a sharp bend on the Snake River,
a secret place far enough away from the hordes
where her father would always say,
"a man could hear himself think,"
after a few years, he changed it to:
"where a father and a daughter..."
the two of them had been going there for 15 years

everyone was worried for her - but she was confident;
she had had the best teacher
and at her side the Marlin 1894 lever-action
dad gave her when she started taking long rides alone,
it was light enough for her to handle,
with enough power to take down a grizz,
if the need arose

the words of her father always in her mind:
"put the stock firm against your cheek
and make sure the butt is firm against your shoulder,"
it had a good firm kick – it packed a punch,
the first time she shot it she landed on her butt
this had made her father laugh,
his wonderful gruff, affable laugh

Billy loved that laugh - she heard it so many times,
loved the laugh lines around his deep blue eyes,
loved his deep baritone voice

this journey was both special and somber
she had been given the responsibility of
taking him back to their special place
that place in the sun, in the wind, in the peace
that place where dreams came to life,
a place for dreams

she placed his ashes, with a daughter’s tenderness,
into her saddle bag, the one with the tie-down still in-tack

it would be their last ride together,
but she knew it would not be the last time
they would be together

she looked down at her mother’s
green eyes, puffy and red
a trail of tears carved into her weathered face

"I’ll be back in a few days, don’t worry,
dad wanted me to do this – it was his last request"

with that she tightened the straps on her father’s old
cowboy hat, like the one James Stewart wore in Winchester ‘73,
stains and scrapes all in the right places

turning Bella towards the river valley
was her signal - they flew with the wind
like an arrow flying true
until they were out of sight

then easing into a nice steady pace
they followed the trail her father had shown her
all those years ago

Billy’s tears had turned to determination a few days back,
in that sterile hospital room,
her father said to her privately, because he knew she would understand:
"all is good in the world, I had a good life
and, it’s okay I leave; it’s my time,"
the spirit of those few words helped to ease her sorrow

the sun was beginning to set when she crested a high rocky rise
from there she could see their special place, and

in a way that only she knew -
tomorrow was going to be a happy birth day