MORNING AT BABINE LAKE

I followed a narrow leaf-strewn trail
down from my campsite at Babine Lake
to the placid water’s edge.

The lake covered its secrets like a mirror,
smooth multi-colored stones cobbled its shallows.
birds warbbled and gossiped in busy cacauphony
a flicker rattled a tree trunk, a grouse drummed his passion,
a trout lept with a splash, loons sailed fishing by,
a moment of reverence,
then,
one met me eye to eye and flew,
wings beating in labourious panic,

moments of meditative silence,
then,
nearby, a quiet family of ducks,
peacefulness torn remotely at distant edges
like mist when
somewhere a squirrel scolded,

I sat on a gnarled root at the foot of a great life,
a cottonwood tree, very still, growing there,
a gnarled man, a poet watching God’s world
from a window in his poem

life is for moments like this,
thoughts leaning branches,
reflections undulating upon gentle
water

POUNDED AIR

the mountain shook
rocks broke, some tore
as if one would lift a city bridge
from its concrete base
and tear it down the dotted line

there was a voice like thunder
that pounded atmosphere
into pyramids of solid stone
hearts of brazen men ran like water
one word they heard reverberating
ten commandments from it written
one deep space and galaxies of stars
one word made melted sinners of every man

one word and on faces fall
every proud thought and pinnacle

“worship no God but me,”

“make no alternate reality,”

“do not speak my name and nature
but in reverance,”

“every seventh day is mine
keep it holy unto me,”

“Honor your father and mother,”

“do not kill”

“do not steal”

“do not commit adultery”

“do not lie”

“do not envy others for any reason at all.”

The voice was not heard for hundreds of years,
but then it shattered the cosmos again.
Jesus was being baptized by John

a dove descended ,
thunder rolled,
“THIS IS MY BELOVED SON,
HEAR YE HIM”

There is no hope but him
should that thunder roll once more,
by single word topple pyramids
of pounded air.

ST. STEPHAN'S CATHEDRAL CONCERT

There is beauty in a cathedral,
an edifice built labouriously by hand,
with sacrifice of many lives
that stands for hundreds of years
carved of stone made living
by faith of many calloused hands,
santified by worship of generations
of faithful souls,
beauty in the stainglass, the sculpture
the archetecture.

there must be truth here
could all this be spent to build a lie?
so I come to a concert here
not a worshipper, but searching.

I found karma creating
a world without grace,
crowds seated with backs to the altar,
karmic poetry sung with remarkable voice
thrown from a tower,
clothes torn from a battle of axes and swords,
a violent rape in mouldy hay,
singing at the matrix of the crucifix
where Jesus’ heart would dying beat
in a sanctuary monument to a saviour, forgiveness,
death and victorious resurrection,
built and filled generation after generation
with simple foolish unsophisticatd faith.

Empty now, spiders fill it
with gigantic webs catching stainglass lights
in colors sorrowing among
ensnaring strands,
flashing spotlights,
pounding drums,
mindless repeating phrases,
descending, descending, descending
into relflective shallow pools of self pity,
perfect circles before a giant
lifeless idol in silent repose.

THEY COME

Dirty jackals with glowing eyes
gather this black of moon;
upon what prey are they intent,
glaring past midnight into the Charybdis?

coarse hair, protruding ribs,
slavering bitten tongues,
what malevolent doom
keeps them circle-milling
on dancing feet
beneath my blackened spruce?

coiled springs,
crouching in this wild north,
what civilization about to fall,
bleeding from too many wounds,
what nation, what system collapse?

Jackals have been strangers to this land,
where shall be found
a Carcass for them on this green continent
and bones?

The jackal’s God has summoned them,
He will provide.

Upon This Rock

Hard bones rise from edges of the sea,
slippery descending walls of stone,
smooth, rounded, grooved
refuge for tenacious life,

underestimated by iron hulls
wrecked upon them,
by waves of centuries
smashed upon them,
they rise, skeleton of the world
at low tide.

Not cultures, nor cities
in all their fine millenia
sail through them undestroyed.

What countless waves,
scouring sand,
wear of weakness away,
leave sculpted bones
skeleton of one unchanging,
original word.

TO HIS WAYWARD BRIDE

I will purchase you for thirty
silver coins from the seller,
from Ebay, from under the falling
mallet of time will I buy you
who once were mine,
I will make you my wife again,
I will pay the price,
love you with an everlasting love.

To the desert I will take you,
no internet or cell phone,
you shall depend upon me
for your food and clothes,

I will woo you with desert flower,
plucked guitar and silver moon,
beside the fountain in a courtyard
I will make you mine again.

The auctioneer’s wooden hammer falls
with the city’s collapsing towers,
your beauty, when I find you,
blood-grimed in destroyer’s dust
beneath a crimson setting sun,
a bitter twisted smile.

Your cities are in ruins,
dangling in tatters,
there are many stupified in the chaos
who would seize you like hope,
climb you like rope or stepping stone,
but I have bought you, paid the price,
you are my own.

Who among your lovers
gave his life for you?
Who among them can match
my price?

You sold yourself for savory soup,
a tradesman’s skillful hands,
his wrench and hammer.

But you I valued more
than love of my Father God,
I gave my life for you
that you might live.

He loved us both to life again.

Softly we are bound with cords of love,
the desert shall wonder with coyote and owl
at the songs they hear.

A DAY FOR GRACE

This is a day of slow fire,
birch quietly burning in a black wood stove,
no wind, little sound, even when dust
falls mote by mote upon crusted
white snow and smoke rises
white from a dozen chimneys.

Today the markets are closed,
a day between skirmishes,
houses on Wall Street
assaulting pension funds for the infirm,
elderly and helpless,
bankrupting the retired,
collateral damage that yielded someone
a hefty bonus.

A Sabbath for children driven
homeless into dirty streets,
a day coyotes howl in broad daylight
and dogs answer defiantly
through trees on another farm.

A few feathers from a small bird
lie scattered on the snow,
a chickadee for something’s meal,
must have been an owl,
could a fox do that?

As I walk by, the horse is glad for company.
He stands all winter in his paddock under trees
He gallops fluidly in circles when coyotes or wolves
give voice.
His fear expressed so gracefully!

Somewhere this is a day of packed freeways,
lines at theatres, soup kitchens
border crossings between famine and war.
911 will be dialled a thousand times today,
as if something dark and twisted
from another planet
is prowling our streets

A day of fear.
the debtor weaves his credit
into blankets too thin for winter cold.
The fallen on every side,
cancerous flesh dissolving
before the toxic chewing of a million
microscopic mouths.

A day for filling the woodbox,
a cold front arrives tonight,
last summer’s cutting and splitting
keeps us warm while a gypsy jazz
violin plays softly,
stars dancing like tiny flakes of snow.

The evening news is filled with stories
of lay-offs, unemployment, foreclosures,
bankruptcies, mark-downs, write-offs,
shut-downs, inflation, price increases.

A time of uncertainty
who will be homeless, a refugee,
and who will survive?

A day that calls for great faith,
great love, the graceful same.