Roots and Hooks

 

the last sips 

taste missing stories 

slipping into small days . . .

life has no recipe 

of elements chosen

from stone age caches 

of hunger seeds

kept dry 

until tears awaken them

to acquaint 

the salt marsh

with the dance

of tides

 

sound seeps 

rippling the moment

as code flees

into the layers

of paint and faces

where the tendril coils 

and rings

the essence of the story . . .

the saga always

at the centre

of family

urging roots

to hook the stars

 

 

The Blank Verse of the Young Skier

 

I had done hikes this way before,

both clockwise counterwise

between Mount French and Piggy Plus

around Mount Robertson.

 

The continental divide traced

that ridge of cols and peaks.

I planned to skinny ski the loop

one winter I was young.

 

The counter clockwise route was picked

as the west col was smooth

and opened on a glacier

where ski teams summer trained.

 

So easy through one col then east

just one kilometer to find 

the Piggy Plus and Robertson’s

two hundred meters up. 

 

That steep and jagged rock was striped

with bands of snow and ice,

but to this sharp and narrow col

the climb went very well.

 

Now whiteout visibility,

I could not see my boots

but knew there was a ten foot face 

from ridge to snow beneath.

 

But knowing was not seeing where

and whoosh! I found that drop

and dropped, and stopped, and hoped the worst 

was passed, for now, for sure.

 

Still zero visibility

and skiing on I fell

each time I stopped, because I could

not discern down from up.

 

As shapes and shades began to loom, 

some climbers there seemed shocked

to see a man emerge from white. 

. . . Was it . . . a reckless thing?

 

The Tribe

 

when I arrived lots had left

but the goodfire was high

as more were attending

from the spirit borders

 

newcomers closed the circle

tending logs of ancient lore 

as elder voices chorused

the litanies of dignity

 

there is a hole in the wind

that funnels the horizon

sounding the legend 

of the sunset aura

 

we were figures in the vision

we are the voices to sooth

the ghosts of every story 

and calm a lake of time

 

Rant of Ages

 

Life is a process and a bit of a princess.

Explaining the world by having a mover

is like answering a query with “Answer!”

A grasshopper feels in the wisdom fields;

inedible/edible/my genes are getting tight.

Time is a maker that needs things to pass.

The sole thing humans create is meaning. 

When is there an inconstancy of time?

Where does physics fade to religion

when we ultimately divide matter

plowing it into a nameless field? 

Knowing there are few answers 

questions sometimes have to do.

I would like to be preserved, in amber.

 

It is Even Stranger Than That Master Jack

               

The things we are do not occur in time,

it is their stir that causes time to be.

To see the wall where we record our life

you must stand back, yes, away, away back.

 

The elemental units interact

creating space and pace and cognizance.

The universe, with us, has just one course

and flow results, along one path of age . . .

 

Emerge repeating truth if it exists.

Please know that even if you understand

there still is unpredictability

and inner space that precedes the particle.

 

It is not loss that causes pain to us,

but love, and insufficiency of time.

 

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