Spice Trail Harvest

batik butterflies

in white and grey

flit like waves

on bengal bay 

morning climbs

Sri Lankan hills

spice trail harvests

cinnamon quills

further east

from maluccan trees

voices carry on

clove-scented breeze

legend of woe

for the indonese

came a cropper

the dutch VOC

still people climb

to earn their keep

old gnurled hands

the spice trail reaps

and every year

the middleman buys

at ridiculous rates

and profits multiply

so next time you flavour

your drink or meal

with vanilla or pepper

you’ll know the deal

remember those hands

when you reach for spice

a lifetime of labour

at a discount price

~e

Blackguard Birds

i hate the mated house sparrows

inhabiting my roof

i hate their matching costumes

and their wheezy cries

rusty brown and grey they are

with faces painted black

jaunty masks to preserve

the element of surprise

sly and brash and mean are they

stealing nesting holes

evicting purple martins

gaining homes but making foes

taking nectar from the flowers

and breaking others’ eggs

blue jays and barn swallows

return to find the dregs

house sparrows flap about

bathing in the dust

blackguard birds without care

wee devils in the boughs

~e

Two Ways

core intact, sun-bleached

white and pearly

a circle grown on a shell

spinning life into beauty

shale from the river, pearl from the sea

I hold a broken arrow and a piece of shell–see?

carved by time and water’s rhythm’s flowing

two symbols of extremes their truth showing

lessons teaching design and destiny

ebbing out of history, floating up to me

the shell of opaque lustre glows in the light

the arrow’s jagged edges honed for piercing flight

one magnificent home-creation

one cutting tool of death

singing song of the oceans

stealing enemy’s last breath

a broken arrow falling

cut from stone for cutting well

hearts of those still ignorant

to fear’s narcoleptic spell

two sides of the same coin (my face)

showing my love and my fear

two means of living opposite

two ways to be: Cordelia or Lear

~e

Greens and Blues and Red Canoes

come with me up to a glen

where we may deeply breathe again

put aside your laden air

there is no time for toil up there

come sip some wine and spend an hour

sniffing every lily pad’s flower

and we will float in moonlit dreams

painting venetian lovers scenes

i know a scene for you to sketch

of lake and sky and wilderness

as you render greens and blues

i will capture your artist’s muse

come rest awhile beneath this willow

i will be your napping pillow

blackbird’s cry and seagull’s sigh

shall be for us a lullaby

wake up love the sky is blazing

this morn won’t be one of lazing

grab your book and bathing suit

i’ve packed bread and cheese and fruit

o’er the dams and up the stream

beaver’s foils can’t keep this team

from a picnic on a blanket of moss

by a swirling pool under waterfalls

swim once more out to the island

eye that graceful great blue heron

as he weaves his azure quilt

our souls alight on breezy lilt

clouds of whimsical shape and form

wisps of water and air transformed

when you reflect upon such gifts

do you not feel a part of it

greet our guests with hugs and jests

close the door and swat the pests

euchred again can’t you play faster

would you prefer a hand of canasta

put up your feet and tell some stories

make us laugh until we’re sorry

come see the sunset’s watery pun

rising mist hazing sinking sun

september’s song shall soon be played

i’ll miss bullfrog’s serenade

i’ll strum six strings for his delight

please my sweet sing starry night

another season of swims and walks

snoozes, canoes and midnight talks

i lament summer’s passing but

within our hearts love’s light glows, lasting

we grow drowsy by the fire

admiring ashes’ ascending gyre

goodnight my sweet the dew has fallen

can’t you hear the loons a-calling

close the curtains brush your hair

dim the candle say a prayer

yellow moon yellow moon keep this night

shimmering coal in harvest light

~e

Courseulles sur Mer

can you hear the waves rolling

and the boom of cannon fire

and the smell of sulfa spent

on wounds acquired crossing wire

can you feel sand in your boots

from the concussion of mortar shells

can you feel fear’s icy grip

their steely grit repelled

June 6, 2002 Courseulles sur Mer, Normandy, France

~e

Tungsten Tower

dodging the shadow of a black frisbee at night

lit by eiffel tower light

huddled groups in guarded gardens

smoking weed while one strums strings

in the shadow of the tungsten tower

I smell these and other things

June, 2002, Jardins des Tuileries, Paris

~e

White White Streaks

you hear the sound of waterfalling

high up in the Alps

and the brisk wind rattles bones

in its howling

rimmed by rock, brown and dark

white waterfalling

white waterfalling

white white streaks

May, 2002 Jungfraujoch, Switzerland

~e

Seasons of Innocence

i am a wee toboggan climbing up and sliding down

in a multi-coloured universe of giggling toddler-clowns

i know the warmth of a soup bowl emptied and refilled

and a crackling fire to thaw little toes and fingers chilled

i am a tiny tune sung throughout the meadow

in a springtime dance of wildflowers weaving to and fro

i drift down the swollen stream interpreting the clouds

rays of happiness filter through; nirvana’s riches newly plowed

i am a small stone skipping through waves of green

in a sparkling organism pulsing sun and sand and sea

i float upon a raft built with driftwood beams

and doze within the softly lapping tide of summer dreams

i am a little rake gathering leaves of vibrant hue

into piles of autumnal finery to run and jump into

i have felt the bitter wind which numbs as leaves are tossed

into patches of scenic beauty to catch the season’s first frost

i am a little chestnut wrapped in hope and love and peace

a spinning helicopter seed flying to life’s abundant feast

every teeming moment brings possibility and wonder

to this undiscovered soul alive with the silence and the thunder

i know not the burdens each life must brave and bear

or the overwhelming anguish endured in heart’s despair

life is a patient canvas and a palette of infinite choice

awaiting my gentle brushstrokes, awaiting my true voice

~e

Two Ravens

two ravens

mark my path

they steal dark glances at me

thick with knowing

i have been down this way

many times

they know where to wait

unbidden, they alight

wings dragging

unsheathed talons clenching

into the air

circling round me

eager for sport

eyes never flicker

long razored beaks shrieking like

the urgent screech of metal

on sparking tracks

i lift my legs to move past

they are as ice

half numb

balls tingling

in my shoes

i can’t move

but i can see her face

and taste her lips

gather in her saucy smiles

just for me

two ravens

mark my path

they steal dark glances at me

thick with knowing

~e

These Weeks

wind blew through

these weeks

like some stray

mistral muse

on her way

to distant places

too wild and winsome

to refuse

such a fuss stirred up

all the little birds

who flap’d from tree

to roof to nest

but still the hungry young

kept crying

little wings

found little rest

while in the soil

seeds were sprouting

on trickling rain

and earthly food

buds were forming

slowly growing

May's fine flowers

taking root

April's storms have

slashed my windows

the trees outside

shook to and fro

but inside

warm and safe

no life is tended

and nothing grows

~e

A Phantom Chill

february's snowy cold

sees slushy feet and frozen toes

and brief dark days that leave me low

i feel a phantom chill

motorcycle traffic brings

vexing noise and ears that ring

drowning out the birds who sing

was it supper made me ill?

when all the kids are out of school

no more books nor golden rule

and the rites of spring seize every fool

my scientists are getting close

the heat of august slows me down

i'm sleepy 'til the sun goes round

comes the cicada's droning sound

my malady is at last disclosed

i like when all the leaves let fly

helicopter seeds twirl high

bare branches set against the sky

the simple truth cannot be believed

november's grey and dreary feel

does autumn's vibrant hue conceal

distant does the warm sun wheel

tho mocked, it gives me great relief

december of the shortest days

of ice and snow and deep malaise

hark the herald holidays

all along it's lain 'neath our nose

my clothes are beautiful–all agree

of finest weave so hard to see

but this chill will be the death of me

for the emperor wears no clothes

~e

One Last Mandarin

one last mandarin

in the crystal bowl

warming in sunbeams

eight minutes old

two young travellers

kissing in the dark

jeans slide down

in a night train car

three together wait

'til nurses find a space

funny as a heart attack

but you can't stay awake

four red leaves

on a snowy bough

woodsmoke rises

silent as the snow

five smiling friends

sipping local red

plotting adventures
for the day ahead

six stout mayors

hoist their village flags

honouring the fallen

who won their liberté

seven score pinecones

musty underneath

bring me the glue gun

and we will start a wreath 

eight little trilliums

near my mother's grave

stand and remember

in the falling rain

~e

I Miss The Happy Dog

i miss the happy dog

of copper and white

i miss the mornings

of mist and light

i miss waking to

sea gulls and loons

i miss the quiet

warm afternoons

i miss beer-battered

barbecue wings

i miss pints

and billiard things

i miss family

and family meals

i miss cards

and chuckling deals

i miss the sun

warming my skin

i miss the island

where whippoorwills sing

i miss lily pads

and the fish below

i miss a kayak

and a paddle to row

i miss the wind

in the trees as it blows

i miss the beach

its sand in my toes

i miss sleepy nights

so dark and cold

i miss the movies

twenty years old

i miss the dock

floating up and down

i miss the iced creams

on visits to town

i miss a place

without care or thought

i miss reading

as much as i want

i miss the lake

and its cooling touch

i miss quiet days

free of worry and such

i miss the dusty roads

that lead to the place

where sun and water

proved an all-too-brief grace

~e