Archive | Encounters

Passing Through

Hoping to stay here sixty years or more,
we rent the furnished house on Shady Lane.
The highest house in town, antiques galore,
acres of garden, fields; each window pane
a lens that frames a cherished view of trees
or flowers, hills, the twinkling lights below,
and Venus on her plinth with peonies.
Each week the gardener comes to weed and mow.
We watch the seasons change and have our meals
out on the porch, play games, and hear the ghosts
of former tenants tell us that “We feel
like you, we love this magic place the most.”
They whisper from the rooms and on the lawn,
but leases end and then we, too, are gone.

– Patricia Prodie

Building a Mobile

First of all, birth dreamshapes;
azure star-twists, golden crescents
risen up like dolphins from realms
below your sight. Silvery scimitars,
pale spirals too, cut, id-guided
from spangled posterboard
and dayglo banners.

Sprawl these out in riotous array
to tease your ordered ego and
whisk it faraway. Hang them
in sibling two’s and three’s
on balance-beams to twirl
like soothing constellations
above our quirky hurts.

I’d like to be a mobile,
swirling softly over
whipped audiences of earners,
gentling them to rest, with
time to muse on destiny,
their wives, or other
minor matters.

– Jay Albrecht

Far Cries

I hear them on the west wind.
Across the Bay from the mainland shore,
they float back in faint waves.
Those mixed familiar voices, calling.

The old wooden ferry, bearer of cattle,
pigs, milk cans, cars (only seven) and
passengers of all sorts, now lies still
drawn up along the shoreline, dreaming.

Reliving the Friday trips to town;
surviving blustery chops of the Gap,
echoing jibes from the Island crew –
virtual farmers and fishermen all.

They yell back and forth, banging milk cans
on the dock, directing the placement of cars.
The Captain shouts down from the wheelhouse,
the whistle blows, the ramp winds up with a bang!

The horn bellows and she chugs away once more.
Her pistons throb, pulsating an uneven beat
as the tall, gaunt engineer struggles, swearing.
Somehow the old machinery holds, yet another trip,

The sound of her engines fade as she proudly
crosses Quinte Bay now running smooth.
A white phantom silhouetted against the
darkening sky, faithful link between two worlds.

On the Island dock, old cars splutter away.
Black and white cows low at the water’s edge.
Daylight fades, the years pass by, yet sometimes
even now, alone at night, I hear far voices cry.

– Joan Rippel

Emigrants

we left our souls behind
by leaving

across the ocean
a different sky
you sleep – we toil
while we see the sun
the moon watches over you
our quiet rains you cannot hear
when your snow falls softly
we do not see it
we travel through
each others’ lives
only in thought

we left our souls behind
by leaving

– Giselle Braeuel

Under the Bridge

As twilight darkens to dusk he sits
huddled in the fall-cooling breeze near
the old iron stove under the bridge, the one
he once sketched in his grade six art class.

Only a few of the regulars have shuffled in
yet more will arrive later bringing their
whispers, whimpers and cries to solo or
harmonize with late night winds.

His drawing of the bridge taped
to the fridge door by his father on one of
his sober afternoons, saying,
How are your others?

The “others” meant the maths and spelling,
the art and stories the boy loved were okay.
But wadda ya gonna do later? Be?
Be? He was ten.

He wanted to answer, Happy.
And he was. Not so dad, who was
a widowed boozer with one son
he didn’t really see.

Now, thirty years on, the son crouches
in the dripping shadows with those
who have folded and stapled their dreams
into the shattered corners of their lives.

He flips open his sketchbook and
with his pen begins to open his box of wonder
and become what he wants to be,
Himself.

– Jack Livesley

Stitched

I sew time and six buttons
on a shirt

let thread pull seconds
and anchor each one

then fold arms
down the body
minute
upon minute

until today
lies secure

– Joanna M Weston

Lotta Fish

Who would ever have thought
that on this grey
winter-born day
of late December,
that the man
behind the eye-glass counter,
who turns out to be
a Kensington Market
Portuguese-Canadian,
would become
in the twinkle of an eye
a lyric poet of the sea
and all its creatures

as with waving arms
and exciting mouth utterance
he describes
with all the care of a brain-surgeon
the step-by-step dissection
for the family table
of first a crab
and then a giant lobster –
the waves of the Atlantic
suddenly beating on the shores of Portugal
right outside this very store
on Dundas Street West!

– Raymond Souster

Deportment

“Seminude subway riders raise eyebrows in Toronto”

That we were admonished
When we were growing up
Did not seem inappropriate
But only what was needed
To insure predictability in social situations.
We learned to speak softly and wear a pleasant expression,
To cross our legs
And never, never pick our noses in public.
If we had body parts that needed attention,
We took care of it in private.
What would they think of us,
Those young girls
Who are not embarrassed to sit on subway trains in their underpants
(although wearing thongs is not encouraged)?
Perhaps they would be astonished that
Corseted by so many restrictions
We did not even have the sense
To feel outraged.

– Joan Shewchun

Tiffany’s

On leave in New York City
decked out in my number one’s*
Canada flashes and badges of gold
agleam, I enter Tiffany’s

well before Truman Capote
Holly Golightly and Hollywood
present its refined opulence
to the world.

Needing change for a dollar
I pose my dilemma
to a sartorially perfect gentleman
courtly as a knight.

He extends a hand
places the bill in a cylinder
pops it into a vacuum tube
and Whooooooosh! it is borne aloft.

My surroundings snap into focus:
precious gems wink seductively
elegant women glide sedately
toward a phalanx of waiting clerks.

I smile uneasily.
My gentleman smiles back.
The cylinder returns. A sprinkle
of silver is placed in my palm.

“Do have a pleasant day,” he bids.
I square my shoulders, escape
through magnificent glass doors
into Fifth Avenue’s heady air.

– Rosalee van Stelten
[* best uniform]

Epilogue of a Romance

Narcissus
camellia
prunus

three flowers of spring
the Chinese said
symbols of new life
new beginnings.

They ate plums
the deep wine fruit
oozing upon the lips.
She carried daffodils
dripping with bridal creeper.
He wore a pink camellia
in his lapel.

When winter struck
baring the branches of the plum
he was living with a divorcee
in Joondalup.
She had gone home to mother.

– Laurel Lamperd

To my Periodontist

In the beginning we needed each other.
I needed your skills.
You needed my trust, my money.

But time passed,
Trust was gone,
Along with the money.

Like the divorce lawyer,
You took twice as long as expected.
Charged double the estimate.
Delivered half the promised result.
Caused immeasurable discomfort.

I followed through with the divorce.
But, you and your surgery
I’m leaving.

– Judith Cleland

Glorious!

my friend Gloria
is the huntress
I long to be

even now
pushing seventy
she looks at
the world
through the eyes
of a squirrel
every man
she meets
is a nut
she wants to
hide away
for the long
lonely winter

– Merle Amodeo

Jet Lag

From the dark stopover sleep
she resurrects
in the Honolulu Surf Hotel
under a dazzle of counterpane flowers.

And the sun too can hardly be believed,
beaming deep into the room
from an unequivocal blue sky
as if it had never been away.

But a heaviness like clay is on her.
Gently her limbs are shepherded from sheets
and guided into clothes, like invalids
long shut away from living.

Later, there’s a small breakfast
in a room that melts to open air.
The chair and table are as light as twigs;
a small bird hops, pauses.

She drinks deep of the orange juice,
great drafts into the veins.
She wants to hold on the sun, until the blood
begins to run again.

– Norma Rowen

One Summer in the City of Light

Paris

An explosion
in Boul. St. Miche.
I was not there last night.

Paris

He bought me pastry
after church.
I don’t remember his name.

Paris

Mime performs for lunchers
in Rue de la Harpe,
holds out his skull cap for alms.

Paris

Le font Deschatelets
spills coolness
on the steamy pavement.

Paris

Poodle leads owner
on winding paths,
Ie parc Montsouris.
Do not step on the grass,
S.V.P.

Paris

Statue in sculpture garden
meditating.
The Thinker, by Rodin.

Paris

Monet’s Hay Stacks
dress the wall at Jeu de paume.
In the Louvre
Mona Lisa smiles
behind her layers of glass.

Paris

On the bridge Alexandre III
we hold our wallets close.
Street children watching
casually approach.

Paris

Flea Market day.
A damsel with a donkey
offers thread and needles.
I buy an unmatched
demitasse and saucer.
Five francs.
It’s Limoges.

Paris

Eternal summer
in my memory.

– Patricia Trudeau

Intimacy

three guys around a pool table
Redhead racks the balls
Black Jacket keys numbers in cellphone
Cowboy Boots talks earnestly
back to table ear to cell

Redhead breaks
four eyes turn at the crack

Black Jacket tucks cell in pocket
eyes line cue on cue ball
crack rumble ball jumps
hits floor rolls under nearest booth “Shit”
Black Jacket scrambles
retrieves ball fingers fly on cell

Cowboy Boots pockets cell
cradles cue clears table
retrieves cell punches numbers
“Put my girl friend on”
cigarette in hand leaves

Black Jacket cell to ear departs

Redhead cell to ear heads for bar

– Joanna Lawson

The Picture

In the crypt of St. Peter,
a statue.
Forever young:
forever serene,
as she studies
the open book lying across her hands,
communing with infinity.

In the golden surrounds
candle flames reflect
many times
the muted glow
revealing the purity of her face and form
despite the Nun’s concealing habit.

I raise my eager camera.

One slender statue finger lifts,
waves fore and back,
admonishing gently.

I bow acceptance.
She returns to immobility.

I put away my lens,
it is unnecessary.

The picture is engraved on my heart

– David Glyn-Jones

Counting

On being part of a McGill Medical School study
of Post Menopausal Women and Sex.
A 200 strong sample . . . (It paid $65!)

How many sexual partners have you had the psychologist asked
Oh. Casting my geriatric mind back
Along a long forgotten track
I surmised 10 or 15 or so it would seem
Now I have to fill the gaps
In case I’ve had a mental lapse
Put a face on to them all
From those mists of long ago

Sure beats
Counting sheep!

– Ann Lloyd

Hiding

a breeze swirls the leaves, tinkles the chimes
geese glide high in a bright blue sky
mothers push cute babies by
unaware I am here
seated in my chair
hidden by the
juniper
watching
life

– Sylvia Findlay

Delayed on the Nineteenth Hole

The golfer had finished his Saturday round,
when he stopped for a drink at the bar.

It took several pints to settle his score:
to pay for his bogeys,
to his buddies who shot
an eagle, four birdies and par.

His beagle dog gave a welcome bark . . .
his wife kept on knitting. The kitchen was dark.

“Sorry, I’m late, darlin’,
but our game was delayed.
I was hopin’ my supper
might be warm on my plate.”

Without missing a stitch, her answer was crisp:

“The stew is still warm.
You’ll find it – inside the dog.”

– Elsie Ellis

Dancing Shadow

Sea floats silently to ebb.
Stars peek through a canopy of grey.
Moon shines silver tracks on drowsy waves,
And over rippled sand and dunes.
Hand in hand with sorrow,
I stroll the night-still shore.

When I turn and look,
I see my shadow self,
Alone, elongated, aloof.
But then, in the periphery,
I glimpse another shadow,
Dancing there beside me,
On that empty moonlit beach.

– Zan Robinson

Time Travel

I walk
bent a little
steps flagging
but in my mind
I do the quick-step
and trees whisper
and dance with me.
Through the rhythm
of the wind
I lift
my pointed toe
in pirouette.

– Sharon Rothenfluch Cooper

Dance Man

let the beat
of earth thrum
in your bones

let the drum
carry your feet
in the spirit
of sound
spin the rhythm

leap to the echo
of the roll
the riff
the ripple
that lift your feet
and move deep
in your blood

– Joanna M Weston

Piano Finally Speaks Her Mind

Come, put your hand on my frame –
what you feel is potential energy brimming,
wanting conversion – into kinetic Mozart.
Or touch my strings – they’re quivering Scriabin
even though no hammer strikes. Something circles
inside me, a word? a memory? Name it.
Brahms’ Intermezzo in A Major. Yes,
that’s the piece. I remember your zeal
as you brought it to life. I know what I am
and why: a gift given long ago for love. Therefore
play me. Bring your sweet fingers, not fearing
the smallness of your gift.

– Sheila Rosen

Killing Me Softly

On the drive back Lily turned off Roberta Flack
on the radio, “Killing Me Softly with His Song”
Wondering what to do about her husband Mac.
On the drive back Lily turned off Roberta Flack;
The counselor said softly she should come back,
“I’m the one you love; to stop would be wrong.”
On the drive back Lily turned off Roberta Flack,
on the radio, “Killing Me Softly with His Song.”

– Carol Smallwood

Security

for Alan Gillmor

An ecumenical crowd,
our heads mostly balding or grey, bowed in reverence
before Brahms or Schubert, otherwise alert
to every nuance or missed note, we gather each July
for a buffet of chamber music,
all-you-can-hear in twelve days,
a hundred and ten items on the concert menu, served up hot
in sundry airless churches.
Meanwhile in the USA
as bodyguards swarm convention halls, ‘credible intelligence’
about impending attacks on New York or Washington
raises the stakes to orange, depresses the markets.
Yet here we are oblivious, fleeing office blocks at noon
for a quick swig at a Bach cantata or four part harmonies
in Christ Church Cathedral. We have no illusions that even
the Canadian Brass could bring down
the walls of Jericho or Manhattan’s Babel towers.
As for police sharpshooters here, or razor wire,
forget it: we have retained
Beethoven, Mozart, Dvorak
to provide our security.

– Christopher Levenson

Golden Anniversary

I guess it’s still an anniversary,
Exactly fifty years since we were wed
With heartfelt promises ’till death do part’
That echoed in that huge old chilly church.

For many years, it seemed, our life was charmed,
Endowed with earned degrees, a lovely child,
And grander houses every time we moved
On up the ladder. Earnestly we swore

There was no gap, no continental drift,
Until we could not hear each other’s rails,
Although we shouted loud and louder still.
So, disobeying vows, I sailed alone

Towards a life of freedom to explore
Strange worlds, and to discover my own self.
The journeys, and the ports, have taught me well.
And now – surprise! – you are my friend again.

We meet from time to time and tell our tales
Of very different fantasies and trails.
Tonight we sit and raise our glasses high
To celebrate lives richer than we dreamed.

– Pat Harvey

Sleepless Night

The night is long
still,
dark.
Sleep hides in a corner
and won’t come out
to comfort me.

Too many thoughts
push on my pillow,
crowding
wrestling,
won’t leave me.

Outside my window
tree branches wave
Lazily,
sleepily,
brushing away the dreams
I am waiting for.

– Gisela Woldenga

Now I Lay Me . . . .

As I lay on my bed
listening to the sounds
in the street below
I thought about the play
we had done :
a melodrama
faceless characters
exaggerated actions
magnified emotions.

Rose was in it
the persecuted heroine
more sinned against than most
and I was the manly hero.

Rose, I said, meet me
on the bridge at midnight!
And the words
of the deep-dyed villain
rang in my ears :

You shall pay dearly
for this night’s work!

I lay back and wondered,
What would it be like
to meet Rose at midnight
here in my room? and What
would I have to pay so dearly for?

As I stretched out, near sleep,
the giant garage door
of the Apex Hauling Company
across the street
emitted a long, rasping groan;
it creaked, broke into sections,
and lifted on its rollers to
let the trucks enter for the night.

– Bill Reynolds

One Night

The door is opened
lamps are lit
the cat rolls over
purrs a welcome
lavender lilac
scents the room
laughter rings round
friends are here – new and old
there’s help in the kitchen
wine runs free
words come fast –
tongues get tangled
moon shines –
stars shoot
happiness shimmers
and I’m lit
like the lamps
on this warm May night

– Joanna Qureshi

Haiku Written in Honor of the 50th Class Reunion at St. Louis Park High School, Class of 1956

Joy to reunite!
Perhaps if we are lucky we find
A lost self.

Years collapse into one pile
Making a confusing, rubbled
Treasure trove.

Neural pathways slashed open
As memories return.
I cannot sleep.

Hard to believe, but here
I make a new friend
From an old acquaintance.

Lined faces and old eyes
Glide into youth
As dusk darkens into night.

Looking into eyes
across the years
We find our young togetherness.

Grey coals of passion, long asleep,
Spark in the breath
Of a gentle fanning.

We cry as we embrace.
Do our hearts know it may be
For the last time?

For tonight the clock plays the fool.
Is Death no wiser
for the disguise?

– Mary Gergen

Joy

Sometimes the joy overcomes me
When I hear
Birds singing on top of a tree
Or see
Birds flying free
Sometimes the joy overcomes me
When I hear music
Kind to my ear
When I dance to a Latin rhythm
All alone in my sanctuary
Or weep to the sweep of an anthem
Sometimes the joy overcomes me
When I hear your voice
Tremor and tone – richly deep
Laughing – splitting our sides
Remembering – sharing tales
Of when we were together
Our hearts beating as one
Sometimes the joy overcomes me
When tears fill my eyes
And I cry
Sometimes the joy overcomes me

– Barbara Elizabeth Mercer

At This Ungodly Hour

So I’m driving my guy to the hospital
to find out what’s wrong.
(Nothing by mouth after midnight,
be showered, shaved, there before six.) This is April,
and we’re on daylight-saving. Dark still.

Vic General was hacked
out of hard grey rock and coastal
forest. Douglas fir, Arbutus,
tangled undergrowth and serrated Oregon grape
clustered with flowers that long to be blue and spherical,
overlap the edge of the parking lot.
I turn off the engine, walk over to the ticket machine
which wants a toonie or my Visa card –
it doesn’t care which.

We seem to be the only ones here at this ungodly hour.
Just a few cars – reflecting the long arc lights
fluorescing over precisely-white-lined tarmac –
and one insistent little bird
whose clear notes pouring into the dark
could break your heart
or fill it full of joy
though the branches of the trees are black and dense
and it’s impossible to see
the singer of the song.

– Anne Swannell

Chance

out my condo window I chanced to see
a man pass by with long black hair
– beautiful straight black hair
on the street below folks turned to stare
at the man and his black, black hair
confident he strode along in shirt and jeans
unaware of curious stare, concrete towers
or the traffic muttering by
sunlight glinted on his hair and I felt somehow
the scent of Sweetgrass followed him
and he knew the beat of drums.

– Kathleen M Lyne

Touching Memorial

In early Memorial visits
I never touched “the Wall.”
It was Yours and the Others,
Untouchable to me.

Today I touched “Your” name
Slid my fingers over “Others,”
Touching them became Renaissance

Thank You
and The Others
For my Peace.

– Andrew Jerome Zoldos

Hats

Inside the ancient country church
With Norman tower and noble tomb,
The wedding service passed me by,
I hardly noticed bride or groom.

What captivated me were hats,
A fashion feast before my eyes,
Row on row of elegance,
Each one worthy of a prize.

Picture-hats in rainbow colors,
Voluptuous, festive, rich with trim,
Ribboned, flowered, feathered, fringed,
I marvelled as I sang a hymn.

So hat-distracted was I that
The words “I do” I did not hear,
The wedding service was a blur,
Only the millinery was clear.

Like Wordsworth, who in pensive mood,
Saw golden daffodils in bloom,
I see those hats that graced the church
With Norman tower and noble tomb.

– Brenda M Corr

Rain

A fine rain – a rain so fine
I tilt back my lavender umbrella,
glad I left home my old ratty boots
sneaker my way around and through
gathering estuaries and puddles
as I move among on-rushing co-eds
all backpack, jeans and hoodies –
fooling no one.

– Sandy Wicker

Tai Chi Musings while Repulsing Monkeys

I thought
when I moved to Warfield,
this small village in the Kootenays,
that monkeys
would be the least of my problems.
Yet every Thursday night
I find myself in a silent crowd of
people, slowly retreating, step by step,
repulsing monkeys.
The monkeys, equally silent,
push back with invisible hands.
Century after century
they have been repulsed.
But here they
are
again
in Warfield of all places.

– Lynne Phillips