PRAIRIE TRAIN

                                                                       PRAIRIE TRAIN

The white train comes from a dark tunnel
of rocky mountains with its covering of snow.
The white train looks as though it has just escaped
from the jaws of darkness.  The white train steams
from the mountains into the flat
prairie, yielding the fresh seeds around it.

The horizon is exalted.  Ancient plains.
Whole sections never to have been farmed.
Over there the strong arms of farmers who
stand in little groups.  You cannot see
warriors or lost faces. Cattlemen at a distance.
On their way to a roundup maybe.

In the dining car, behind the hardwood door...
breakfast cereal and berries, cold juice
and a smile.  Already this morning
the chef has prepared breakfast for twelve
while tracking the prairies;  the formal
waiter never spills a drop only smiles.

A clean white napkin sits on the table
like a small mountain ready to fall.  Suddenly
the train brakes and stops.  The boy and waiter
peer through the window with wonderment
as they see the farmers with silver scythes
ordering them off the train, into the prairie.

RECLUSE

                                                                     RECLUSE

with the shell of memories inwardly held
she once was approachable
ever captivating like frozen rain
her problem is what will come next
being alone is not easy

her soul has hardened
now petrified of other people
even those who love her
so she escapes from them
being alone is not easy

she likes nothing more than a sip of tea
so she can forget the dizzy race
and search for the stars in the sky
instead of watching old movies
being alone is not easy

buried deep beneath her brooding soul
remembering her life as a tale of misfortunes
and finding solace in self pity
she sees herself as a victim
being alone is not easy

thinking it best not to deal with details
she has difficulty with simple things
paralyzed by her will not to change
she feels good to be sad
being alone

HIGHWAY OF TEARS

HIGHWAY OF TEARS

they walked this highway to no end
up North, a place buses neglect
hitching rides with their fears
where the beast preys on the desperate

the dark clouds covered them in mystery
with the falling rain waiting
as angels weep for the brave
and the beast preys for the desperate

this endless highway of tears
standing at the edge of somewhere
should be leading  towards the light
towards a saviour without a dead end
as  the falling rain drowns the beast


             this photo by  Steven Kelly reminded me of HIGHWAY 16 in Northern  British Columbia
             ...known  as the Highway of Tears...since 1974, 20 or more young women or girls have either
             been murdered or gone missing along this highway.....MOSTLY aboriginal.  This has been
             horrible...and for the most part police and authorities just didn't care....anyways this is the
             poem I wrote....as many of us have cared and still care.

SILENCE

                                                                       
                                                                   original painting by Wayne
                                         
beside the timeless moment of silence
I saw eternity.  I saw the abode of angels.
nothing was happening.  the events of
a billion years ago were just as ghostly and
ungraspable as this moment or a billion
years from now, or the moments of the next four
minutes.  perfectly imperfect emptiness
of silver solitude....there were no questions
of not being alive or being alive, of dislikes or
likes, of taste or no taste, of not hearing or hearing,
of not far or far, of not seeing or seeing, of giving
or not giving without judgements.

beside the timeless moment of silence
I saw clarity with confusion.  the house of roses
standing in the wind.  the events of
tomorrow will change just as phantom and
ungraspable as this moment or a billion
years from now, or the moments of the past four
minutes.  refreshingly cool, empty from the silver
filled with solitude....there were no questions
of here or there, of up and
down, of believing or not believing,
with the sun on my eyelids telling me
where I came from and where I was returning.


                                             

STRUGGLE

                                                                    STRUGGLE


there is a struggle going on
in some distant land
a place where good and evil
take the final stand
the evil fight for their cause
with their dark forces
but the raven has the power
of the last flight

as the horns surface
from below hell
will they crush the good?
only the future will know
or will the raven triumph evil?
before taking up in flight
will light break through the dark?
you decide

HAVANA RUMBA

                                                                HAVANA RUMBA


amongst the crumbling infrastructure
funky street murals and psychedelic art
where dazzling has replaced the dismal
interlocking drum patterns,  rhythmic chants
powerful enough to awaken the spirit of Orishas

moving to the pyrotechnic explosion
of music and poetry
enticing like hurricane Sandy

magic steps transformed by the spirits of Sunday rum
in Hamel's Alley
a surreal experience of raw creativity
celebrating Afro-Cuban culture
he dances barefoot unnoticed
moments of being


      Callejon de Hamel (Hamel's Alley) in Havana..every Sunday afternoon

Miss Lonely

                                                            MISS LONELY

Today Miss Lonely comes to me,
wearing a silk blouse, lorgnettes and buttons,
and a rose in the waves of her flounces.
Today the mutable miss is friendship
and slowly strokes my heart
with her thin petal of frost.
So, today, I politely ask you to walk with me
through the garden to the flowery courtyard
of that rose the parents planted.
Today dreams are like mold on the side of the wall,
painting the chasm of love,
melancholic, faint, dim sky.

She moves towards me, she moves ever so slowly.
She moves in a bright dance, the stage.
I give over my respect and now I soar.
Hawk, it shakes the boat slow like the net,
in the soft wind, child of the blue.

Yes, melancholy, mute lover,
yesterday's faithful lover.
Yes, melancholy, blessed lover,
your enjoyment always takes me.
Yes, melancholy, woman of existence,
lips which come back like the tide.
Yes, melancholy, flower of my mouth,
speak who can love me.

Today Miss Lonely comes to me,
wearing a silk blouse, lorgnettes and buttons,
and a rose in the waves of her flounces.
Today the mutable miss is friendship
and slowly strokes my heart
with her thin petal of frost.
So, today,
yes, melancholy, lady of existence,
lips which come back like the tide.
Yes, melancholy, flower of my life,
tell me who can love me.