Robert’s Point
she
calls it a graveyard
searches
for headstones
lava
that once flowed into
the
open jaws of the Pacific
swallowed
by the sea
a
young aspen’s femur
bleached
white lies silent
nearby
a crab’s claw
points
heavenward besides
gaping
clam shells
chaotically
haphazard
logs
and other bodies are
strewn
like a battlefield
from
waves and winds
ocean
the lapping victor
several
hours soaking sun
picking
purple pebbles
she
grows ever weary
spreads
a colored blanket
dozes through
gull cries
a
hundred steps round the point
an
eagle lights upon a carcass
shreds
rotting sea lion flesh
a
vulture flies high circle
the woman
dozes peacefully
when
the moon arises
she levitates
by its magnetism
her
heart promises to return
as
does the capricious West wind
the fickle
rain and declining sun
A Beach Bum
Oh to
be a beach bum
for a
month or two
a year
or three
build
a house of logs
driftwood
piled against
a big
old stump
the
floors sand and pebbles
sea
moss filling cracks
bull
kelp on the roof
I hear
the sea gulls cry
see
the eagles swoop
smell
timeless scent
the
sun warms my chest
burns my
back and nose
peels my Arbutus arms
well
seasoned I’m content
those
that know me may wonder
to
what land I departed
I live
my dream fulfilled
in a
crescent bay of joy
forsake
the civil life
thoughts
gather contented
between
the drifting clouds
my bum
nuzzles sand
Mother’s Hands
they became chapped
when she milked “Bossy”
our Jersey milk cow
she covered each hand
with zinc ointment, Vaseline
healing salves, liniment
she did not complain
cracks, cuts, bruises
came without permission
with those same hands
she would tenderly cup
faces of children
her husband in his casket
her fingers became gnarled
crooked from arthritis
prints nearly worn away
one finger leaned upward
always pointed to heaven
mother taught her hands to obey
to crochet, wash clothes
shuck corn, peal potatoes,
hill potatoes, pluck feathers
fill lunch boxes, pulled weeds
tuck children in bed
decorate birthday cakes
many a times they folded
in quiet supplication
clapped in exclamation
never were they lifted in anger
in any way threatening
they witnessed many a miracle
the escape from Stalin’s Siberia
in cattle cars
crossing the Atlantic
a train ride across Canada
the kindness of neighbours
lived in an underground Soddy
witnessed burying a teenage sister
two babies
a fifteen-year-old granddaughter
husband
her hands placed cool
compresses on feverish foreheads
stroked wracked bodies
folded in faith
made life palatable
enjoyable, delightful
yes joyful
her hands had pumped air into kerosene
lanterns
trimmed wicks
placed coal in stoves
shoveled wheat, barley, flax, oats
cow, chicken and pig manure
pitched hay, stooked oat bundles,
pickled cucumbers, beets
cut cabbage, pounded sauerkraut
picked gooseberries, crab-apples,
currents, pin cherries, raspberries, chokecherries, strawberries, apples,
cherries, saskatoons, pears, plumbs, rhubarb, squash, watermelons
prairie roses, bluebells, sage
buffalo beans, honeysuckles,
buttercups, sunflowers, mint leaves,
brought jars of ice water to parched
workers
washed her father’s feet
washed the pants of hired men who
had been drunk
shit themselves
washed dishes, floors, walls, cars,
half tons
scrubbed kids once a week in a
galvanized tub in
reused water to conserve
had written letters to a brother
conscripted by Stalin
and relatives who never got visas
but survived, died, or went missing
her hands kneaded dough
cut spaghetti, cut hair,
shaped loaves
our lives
they patted dogs, cats, cows,
horses, neighbour’s kids
stroked chicks, ducks, geese,
our heads
her hands turned steering wheels
trucks and cars to children’s camps,
sports games
scouting club, music lessons,
church events, marriages, funerals
traversed miles and miles of dirt
and gravel roads
before that prairie trails
mother’s hands were always helping
continued touching lovingly
in the senior’s complex
they reached across the gulfs of
residents
who stared into distant lands
a touch brought reassurance,
faint Mona Listic smiles
even now
those hands stretch through dimensions
touch the world
touch me Painful Options
you
know you have a friend
when
they say compassionately
pass
me some of your pain
and
you say inside your head
I do
not wish this on anyone - especially you
pain
is a burning purgatory
you
might be there only for a time
or in
hell to the end of your days
but
pain passes one way or another
even
from generation to generation
the
local Town Crier announces
“pain
has a purpose”
awake -
take note - something is amiss
awake
the king and his household
wave a
scepter and pass the pain
pain may
produce thoughtful consideration
expressed
purposefully in explicit language
it provides
the option to search
to
accept or reject possibilities
pain might
move us to consider our purpose.
but
pass your pain to a friend
what
friend would dare to do that
OK maybe
for the briefest moment
if you
really want it - I can be generous too
try to
understand my testy misery
Lay Brother
with
an innocent heart
family
encouragement
he
decided not to be
a
priest
a
shepherd
but a
lay brother
humbly
honour God
his
family
in the
lowest fashion
consequently
did
not inherit the family farm
owned
nothing
owed
obedience
took
on the name
of a
Hungarian hunter
killed
by a boar
canonized
by a
family member
beneath
his robe
hid
pride
like a
forbidden puppy
in a
community
with
pet restricted bylaws
the
licks
warm
cuddling
smug
smile
his
only sin
he is
ready for sainthood
YOU ARE THE BREEZE
You are that special breeze,
On a stifling hot day, you cool,
On a cold winter day, you warm,
You ripple the stagnant waters,
Cause the surface to dance,
Cause the waves to shimmer.
You are that playful breeze,
That teases the hair of lovers,
That tickles the noses of children.
You sail through the tree tops,
Lift the butterflies higher and
higher,
Lift thirsty spirits and bring hope.
You are that joyful breeze, you
Bring the promise of spring,
Bring the golden of autumn,
You float above the seascapes,
Bless the parched with showers
Bless the land with gladness.
With love and faith do continue
To be the breeze you are…..
Breathe out the truth always,
Do not linger by deceitful mirrors,
By shuttered windows, in the closet,
Flow forth to the farthest nations.
Cause those in your path to exclaim,
Remind them of undreamed possibilities,
Continue to encourage one-and -all.
With your soft, light touch say,
“Go on, you can make it, yes you can,
You can be more than exceptional!”
So be the breeze you are…..
With your hands, you can reach
Heaven and massage rain clouds,
Lift the spirits of orphans lonely,
Bring fragrance and colour to widows,
Push the sails of the less fortunate.
Yes, be fulfilled in being you,
Raise your head high, humbly,
Be the breeze in all her wonder,
Not knowing from where you came
Not knowing where you are going
Believing, trusting, yet moving on.
The world wants to float on your
tongue
See the blending of your rainbows,
Smell the fragrance of your hands,
Hear the poetry of your compositions,
And possibly, kiss the heart of your
soul.
Be you, be the breeze, share the
Ahhh.
The Evening Scribe
she is
happy there
between
the lines
remembering,
reminiscing
squeezing
her pen
till
stories stream indigo
one
after another
like
graffiti painted boxcars
not
necessarily in order
but
they come
at
times she hurries
the
words tumble faster
than
the ink flows
and
she finds herself
two
pages ahead of the plot
but
she returns
reshuffles
the paragraphs
repackages
them
ties
with a rainbow
Mozart
plays on
the
fireplace sparks encouragement
concentration
sets in
Gather Your Pesos
Who would even guess
when the Berlin wall
fell
and relations warmed
between East and West
monuments would appear
in the most unusual
places
Bomb shelters in Canada
missile silos in
Colorado
nuclear plants in Cuba
burned out tanks in
Croatia
what remains are the
divisions
those that have and
have not
The elite and the
homeless
the powerful and
powerless
the North and the South
rhetoric is still
launched
from East to West
and vice a versa
From the literate to illiterate
from the resource
greedy
to those who have yet
to sell
on amazon one may buy
pieces
of the Berlin Wall
bomb shelters for homes
silos for hotels
Soon we may bid on the
nuclear
plant in Cuba
get ready
gather your pesos
The
Tattooist
I was
born in a moment
between
mother
and father stalking
away
I
witnessed both backs
receding
like a
hound I crawled
sniffing
searching
their trails left
fear
a
familiar shadow followed
loss
my
tail wagged sometimes
lonely
hung
between haunches
drooping
responded
to the shouting
vibrating
I daydream
of annihilation
judgement
resentment
resides in bones
brittle
sustenance
for which I crave
evaporates
on
clients backs I needle
slogans
on
arms and torsos
love
on the
backside of hands
hate
match ink
with empty eyes
hopeless
my
nights scream shrapnel
Allah
Akbar
learn
to scan for enemies
hunting
turbans
appear between rocks
I shoot
watch
their backs slide away
undefeated
unlike
my father and mother
departing
they
carry their wounded
embracing
their
commitment remains
constant
they
live for paradise
dying
I
write on homeless backs
veteran
with
needles I inscribe
forgiveness
on
flesh I carve daily
hell
one day
heaven will tattoo
redemption
The
Beauty of Loneliness
Loneliness
is a sly lover,
she
comes from behind
without
warning massages
your
memories, your whole being.
One
might limp, become paralyzed,
one
could be flying high
over
the powdered ski slope,
or
fishing off the West Coast
for
Tyee salmon or shrimp
and
suddenly get bonked, flattened.
Yes,
she often hides in the shadows
lurking
inside old stories, experiences,
just
outside one’s peripheral vision,
one
might feel, but not see her
until
suddenly she suffocates.
She
has devised ways of wrapping
her
arms around your heart,
squeezing
until the pangs are deep,
even
unnerving. Her subtle curves
and
penetrating kiss are too much
to
describe in my numbness.
Hold Lightly
my mother’s
prized teacup
favourite china
delicate porcelain
baby blue paper thin
some how it slipped
my tears the gold
melds the memories
shards into beauty
a new art form
precious
Momentous
at this
very moment
babies
emerge pink
babies
die
old
men cry
clench
their teeth
raise
guns to the sky
scream
breathe
emptiness
eyes
turn to stone
lips
smack hate
babies
emerge blue
babies
whacked
mothers
smile
cry
joyful tears
reach
out arms
lullaby
breathe
life
eyes devour
lips kiss soft skinDiscover Your Why
My
counselor said
“Write
with your opposite hand.”
So, I
do.
“Search
for some answers,
Some
reasons, motivations if you will,
Ask
questions.”
So, I
do.
Why do
I carry resentment?
Now
wish to let it go?
Release
it?
Is it
for my freedom?
An
exercise?
Is it
for the good of all?
A
commandment?
Don’t
enslave those I love?
Be
generous?
My
father was ambidextrous.
He
could nail with both hands.
So why
my left hand?
Cross
my wires?
View
from a different perspective?
This I
know for sure,
When
you know to do right,
Do It.
In the middle of winter
when the snow packs hard
lies heavy in the fields
fills the coulee’s gullies
the moon comes out to play
crosses a cloudless sky
toboggans down the slopes
dances on the valley floor.
It’s a grand time to bundle
in coats and scarves and mitts
fill insulated winter boots
feel the crisp cold air
have blood rush to your cheeks
feel the edge of pain
from breathing icicles
taste the blue.
Take in the fullness of sight
the clear, bright full moon
twinkling air crystals
the stillness of stars
feel your thoughts travelling
the gladness of being here now
the wonder of earth and sky
the joyful chill of love.
Mother’s Hands
became chapped
when she milked “Bossy”
our Jersey milk cow
she covered each hand
with zinc ointment, Vaseline
healing salves, liniment
she did not complain
cracks, cuts, bruises
came without permission
with those same hands
she would tenderly cup
faces of children
her husband in his casket
her fingers became gnarled
crooked from arthritis
prints nearly worn away
one finger leaned upward
always pointed to heaven
they were taught to obey
to crochet, wash clothes
shuck corn, peal potatoes,
hill potatoes, pluck feathers
fill lunch boxes, pulled weeds
tuck children in bed
decorate birthday cakes
many a times they were folded
in quiet supplication
clapped in exclamation
never were they lifted in anger
in any way threatening
they witnessed many a miracle
the escape from Stalin’s Siberia
crossing the Atlantic
riding across Canada
the kindness of neighbours
lived in an underground Soddy
witnessed
two babies
a fifteen-year-old granddaughter
husband
her hands placed cool
compresses on feverish foreheads
stroked wracked bodies
folded in faith
made life palatable
enjoyable, delightful
yes joyful
her hands had pumped air into kerosene
lanterns
trimmed wicks
placed coal in stoves
shoveled wheat, barley, flax, oats
cow, chicken and pig manure
pitched hay, stooked sheaves,
pickled cucumbers, beets
cut cabbage, pounded sauerkraut
picked gooseberries, crab-apples,
currents,
pin cherries, raspberries, chokecherries,
strawberries, apples, cherries, saskatoons,
pears, plumbs, rhubarb, squash, watermelons
pin cherries, raspberries, chokecherries,
strawberries, apples, cherries, saskatoons,
pears, plumbs, rhubarb, squash, watermelons
prairie roses, bluebells,
buffalo beans, honeysuckles,
buttercups,
sunflowers, mint leaves, sage
sunflowers, mint leaves, sage
brought jars of ice water to
parched workers
washed her father’s feet
washed the pants of hired men
who had been drunk
who had been drunk
shit themselves
washed dishes, floors, walls, cars,
half tons
scrubbed kids once a week
in a galvanized tub
in a galvanized tub
reused water to conserve
had written letters to a brother
conscripted by Stalin
and relatives who never got visas
but survived, died, or went missing
but survived, died, or went missing
her hands kneaded dough
cut spaghetti, cut hair,
shaped loaves
our lives
they patted dogs, cats, cows,
horses, neighbour’s kids
stroked chicks, ducks, geese,
our heads
her hands turned steering wheels
trucks and cars to children’s camps
scouting club, music lessons,
church events, marriages, funerals
traversed miles and miles of dirt
and gravel roads
before that prairie trails
mother’s hands were always helping
always touching lovingly
in the senior’s complex
they reached across the gulfs of
residents
who stared into distant lands
their touch brought reassurance,
faint Mona Listic smiles
even now
those hands stretch through
dimensions
touch the world
touch me
The Sky Pioneer
For those who sail the universe’s ocean
there are many firsts,
the first small step on the moon,
the first flight of man to mars,
it begs the question.
Who will be the first,
we jettison into space,
push out the air lock,
no room inside for floating carcasses,
or will his minerals be reconstituted,
reused by fellow crew members?
Will he be remembered,
named a new volcano on earth
pushing into the sky?
Will it be christened with the name
“Alpha Spittoon”?
Honoured as the first pioneer
fertilizing space,
travelling forever, restlessly?
Will he go into orbit, shrouded
in a black plastic litter bag
eventually to fold into the sun?
or will he float onward, outward
indestructible by time
ever searching a new home,
reconnecting, resurrecting?
And will his spirit remain within
the ship to dock on distant stars
or float without oxygen back to earth?
If this traveler is a woman,
future generations will sing ballads,
write sonnets, compose plays, dances
of she who birthed new constellations,
was wooed in the void
by a tall dark stranger in a super space ship
with racy red strips, or
Might some far off alien
experimenter, extract her DNA,
decode it and follow her scent,
backtrack her to this planet?
Heaven forbid!
Better still, may a distant star
be named in her honour
and her children propagate
new colonies on planets in
other galaxies, other universes
and she be remembered as
the lamp lady of space
Flying Nightengale.
a Pioneer Extraordinaire.
Holding the Moment
I
want to squeeze my heart,
pour out the red juices and write -
write
of my mother’s joy of seeing me,
of taking her home to inhale again
voices, familiar touches that fill each
room,
of her looking out the window searching
for her husband ducking through the back
fence
or some moving shadow she might recognize
write
of her sharing stories of their driving
across the road-less prairie in winter and
Harry walking seven miles, each way, for mail
his coming home cold and empty handed,
her heart full of his safe arrival
having prayed and watched the North for hours
write
of her naming children after good folk
like the boy who had been so kind and caring
when she first arrived, not knowing English,
Edwin now wears his name in honor.
me, I am named after Richard Edwards,
their boss and best man from New Dayton
write
of this middle-aged son still trying
to understand himself and his feelings
of trying to ascertain what should be my
steps
both now and in preparing for the afterlife;
of connecting with siblings and their
journey,
their fears, their joys and long dead
memories
I
squeeze my heart, taste the tears
Weighing Advice
Someone once gave me some advice
Don’t live for a moment of pleasure,
It will pass all to quickly, then comes
Residual years of regret, even bitterness.
Someone else gave me consultation,
Live in the NOW for it is all you have,
Enjoy the season, the colours, the snow,
Tomorrow may never come, nor be known.
Now that I have lived these three hundred
Thirty-three seasons, what are my thoughts
For those who come looking for sage advice,
A beard bleached from living experiences?
Be the Breeze, for you are meant to flow.
See the Big picture but enjoy the small.
Both are beautiful and for your enjoyment
As you are meant to live out God’s pleasure.
Live by principles, reject quick profit,
Gaze into innocent, wondering eyes,
Kiss the tender soft cheeks of babies,
Stand against bullies, lobby for justice.
Be grateful out-loud for kindnesses,
Hug those you are given to love dearly,
Care for the homeless and hurting,
Be an advocate for those who are voiceless.
Alas there are no trite answers to living,
Each day will be filled with opportunities
To love, be loved, be cared for, care,
Enjoy creation, be alive, and be creative.
Look to the Stars
In ancient times the Psalmist
wrote we should star gaze,
yet that of which he referred
were only light trails,
ghosts if you will.
Their tails still burn images
on retinas, memory cards.
We who are called romantics
write poetry, sing lyrics,
are awed with light reflections
in the eyes of our lover.
Imagine someone with power,
tosses sparks into space,
and before you can blink
makes them disappear, then
fly in formation behind your back,
constellations within galaxies.
Everywhere magic dances,
flickering, firefly orchestrations.
Moon Gaze
There
once was a time
When
the moon was black,
We hid
in caves, lit bonfires,
Nations
slaughtered their neighbours.
When
the moon was full,
Burned bulls for offerings,
Gauchos strummed, cowboys
sang,
Gypsies made love
in the moonlight.
There
once was a time
We believed in old moons,
New moons, the moon’s
creator,
Then in plotting,
we circled to view.
When
the moon was half mast,
We landed our spacecraft,
Touched
down if you will,
Shattered its crust with our footprints.
Being
proud of our state,
Said of steps we are great,
There
are thousands of planets
We now
shall begin to conquer.
Tonight,
we moon gaze again,
The moon orange blood red,
Edges a hint of gaseous blue,
Our crystal wine
twinkles diamonds.
Now
the moon seems to wink,
Is it the wine that we drink?
Confused thoughts that we
think?
We’re tiny, fragile,
so mortal.
And
the moon hangs in full view.
Doesn’t
whine, complain or mew,
It’s a
sight to behold, paint, brew,
In all
I see, it compares not to you,
The
shining in your eyes is nothing new,
The
shining in your eyes is so lovely too.
Its
True
I now understand why
old men sit by fireplaces.
In countries of no central heat,
Omas sleep on the top shelves
of the huge clay ovens.
I’ve also learned why men
Chew, minus ivories, it makes
their salivary juices flow,
stimulates brain waves,
why men push with their toes,
rock chairs backward and
forward, again and again.
It takes years of experience,
a lifetime of walking paths
to derive ancient wisdom,
blood thins, heartbeats slow,
fluids nourish motors,
the brain receives signals,
toes need to complete
unfinished journeys,
relive old conquests.
Smoke
Rises
Of success it seems
there is no season
which is in not in our hands.
We the perpetrators,
descendants of the 1940’s,
load yellow boxcars,
stack cages with barely enough space.
Air is precious like water,
worth more than jewels,
no bathrooms, cages
move through the night
from the countryside.
Could it be Siemens, Sunrise Farms
setting the sun forever and ever?
But first to the factory
with smoking chimney high,
windowless walls, numbed,
dull eyed workers.
Engels twisted words,
the general population
ate the lies, now we chew
swallow the nuggets
dipped in honey
mustard.
Balance Café
I’m in the basket chair,
in my head, my own space,
rocking, humming, swinging,
gently, soothing, listening,
milk steaming, coffee grinding,
enjoying cappuccino murmurs.
It’s a time of reflection,
a time for introspection,
a re-centering moment
and for an hour or so,
I have space to reflect,
a time to re-balance.
The password is “coffeefix”,
the Café – ‘In Balance’.
All too soon, time’s up,
reprieve over and its back
to the grind once again,
with too much caffeine, but
ReBaLanCeD
Harvest
Kid
There’s
nothing so great as being a kid at harvest,
lying
in field of ripe grain towering above you,
looking
up at the blue sky,
seeing
cumulus white fluffy clouds,
lazily
drift across your window,
framed
by tall golden wheat stems.
If
that field happens to be Durham or rye,
standing
about four feet high,
stiff
and strong, and
if
the early summer rains came at the right time,
if
there had been no pea or golf ball hail,
the
heads would be full,
the
beards four inches long,
whiskers
hanging down like serrated swords,
poised
ready to pierce the ground.
If
you lay still long enough,
a
conductor will appear from the West,
begin
to create waves,
surf
the plump heads above you,
play
with undulating shadows, and
if
you listened closely,
you
will hear the prairie orchestra,
choir
and soloists,
crickets
chirping,
a
cock pheasant,
a
partridge family,
a
red wing black bird,
a
night hawk swooping for insects,
grasshoppers
playing their violins, and
if
you were extremely lucky,
you
might catch the hunting cry of a golden eagle.
It
is then you take a deep breath,
inhale
the sweet stalk scent,
milk
and honey to sawflies,
have
a leaf might tickle your nose,
a
smile spread across your body
from
head to toes.
It’s
a great time to be alive,
to
be young,
to
lie there,
to
lift your arms to the sky,
wiggle
your back into the soil,
leave
your mark.
You
are here,
this
is your place!
After
a time, you sit up,
grab
a couple heads of wheat,
rub
them together in your hands,
shell
the gold kernels,
blow
off the husks,
pop
them into your mouth,
and
you chew and chew and chew.
The
taste is to die for,
its
better than store bought “Double Bubble” gum.
You
are alive with the fullness of harvest.
Dennis
Kiffiak – Jan.’19
