I watch you watching the sun rise
With your face turned upward, expectant, excited.
The City reveals itself slowly
Gradually becoming visible after a long night’s sleep
Glittering and shiny
Red gold
Your face too shines in the reflection.
When you see me watching
You smile sheepishly
As if I have caught you doing something wrong
This staring in awe at a new day
You sit on the window sill
So golden, so still
Like some forgotten icon.
.
In the August 2013 edition of the Rat Creek Press, I wrote a poem entitled Don’t send a poet to do a dog’s work, which was about our dog JoJo. Several weeks ago, we found out that he had cancer and he died. He was a wonderful spirit and a good friend to our family. Thanks, buddy.
Video JoJo
I sit in the vet’s office, in a straight-backed chair,
not moving,
as I watch the shadows miming stories behind the window blinds
I find myself projecting your life onto that shadowland.
You are a puppy
Your big paws and big ears- too large for your small body.
I remember you running in between the pine trees,
following the fence-line of our acreage
you moved in and out of the whispering shade,
the trees’ lower limbs, patting your back gently as you leapt with abandon,
diving under the pines and back into the light.
Outside this room, the outlined limbs of a tree scratches at the window,
the black silhouette beckoning.
I hear the doctor’s verdict in a far-off voice, you are dying,
like a skipped stone-never reaching the other side of the lake.
When I send my friend, Mary, a video of you
I type ” Video JoJo ” in the subject line.
We buried you there in the trees
on a day filled with light.
Picking up your beloved squeaky cow toy,
I still think that it is the worst excuse for a squeaky that I have ever heard!
I place it on top of your grave
the squeaking moan breaking the silence
making its way to my heart.
Kaleido 2013 was a lot of fun. Colorful and lively. Here are three poetic impressions of what I saw on Saturday.
First Date
They pause in front of me, two smiling teenagers
Shyly holding hands
Torn between a rocking Cuban band,
And the performance artist, Spandy Andy.
I wonder if this is their first date.
As they separate-her hand flutters apart from his,
Like a bird gently released into flight
Her fingers look back as she lets go.
Behind them a middle-aged couple spontaneously starts dancing in the street,
In their own world
Their joy in the moment so real
That you want to reach out and grab it.
Shiny Objects
When in line at a bistro, a little girl shows me her new, sparkly, butterfly tattoo
She’s so proud of it.
The food line consists of my new friend with the tattoo, a policeman and, me, dressed in Shakespearian
garb. An ordinary Kaleido line-up.
Outside the restaurant, there is a drum circle, the drum beat is magnetic.
In the middle, a little boy, with a blue dolphin painted on his cheek,
is playing a triangle and dancing.
From the Nina Haggerty Centre emerges a youngster clutching his blue and green watercolor
painting, which he tells his dad is “magic,” as he skips away with his arm in the air,
the painting fluttering in the breeze.
At the building’s corner, two human flies are waving at the kids below.
On a balcony, farther up the street,
Hojo is singing an old Monkees tune, ” I’m a Believer,” in acapella
A kite pokes its nose above the crowd,
As I watch a flash mob of “YMCA”
And two helicopters continue to circle above-adding to the cacophony of sound.
Dancers
Three aboriginal Cree women,
sway and drum as they sing beautiful, breathy songs
about the women who went before them, and about their concern for Mother Earth.
Down the street, exotic belly dancers, encased in glittering fabrics and flashing jewelry,
enchant the onlookers with their finger cymbal playing,
while the crowd hoots its encouragement.
I turn and see Mary Rankin dancing up a storm with Spandy Andy,
as people make way, laughing and smiling.
This is the Kaleido view,
a view of Alberta Avenue filled with joy, acceptance and love-
and maybe a little magic.
This is piece which I really enjoyed writing. Hope you enjoy it too!
Don’t Send a Poet to Do a Dog’s Job
I pull the pillow over my head and pretend that I don’t hear him. I really do not hear that ninety pounds of German shepherd, who is fiercely barking and staring directly at the large elm tree in front of our house. It is six o’clock on a Sunday morning in Norwood and the world is in slumber—it sleeps. That is, all but our house.
JoJo barely acknowledges my presence, when I enter the living-room. Invader alert! The squirrel is back! Our furry sentinel stands with his front paws braced against the tattered couch arm and stares statue-like after the offending presence.
We do a mind-meld. “Do something!” he commands. So, I go outside and look up: and the shade-giving canopy into which our nefarious squirrel has disappeared envelopes me.
I am lost in wonder…
I feel the slow tremble of the leaves as the air moves through the trees
My eyes absorb the vivid green
This wondrous monarch, with her living crown of flora, dwarfs me.
I reach out my hand to a feeble ray of light, which has slipped through the twiggy arms
As the wind ruffles my hair, brushing it gently back from my face
The elm moves—a pantomime of some loose-limbed creative dancer,
Communicating a story of larger worlds than mine.
I go back into the house, and sit with JoJo, his head resting on my knee now.
“Don’t send a poet to do a dog’s work,” he mutters. You’re probably right buddy, you’re probably right.
When the Edmonton Fringe was on I passed a young couple, both of whom had dyed their hair a matching green color, leaving a nearby store on a windy afternoon and wrote this poem.
Lovers with Green Hair
I see them coming out of a neighbourhood store on 115 street
Two young lovers with green hair.
The wind is gusting as he enfolds her in his arms,
Like the giant elm trees, which line our street,
Enfold my mind, when I turn to go home.
Moving as one, heads close together, speaking
Yet the wind takes their words away.
They are like some silent movie about two lovers leaving a store
As they huddle against the airborne grit
And pass in front of the lottery sign in the shop window
Their green hair tossed by the wind
Like new blades of grass.
Hello all!
Just a note to let you know that I will be reading my poem ” Little Violet” at the Bridge Songs
Saturday night ( 7:30-9:00) performance at St. Faith’s Anglican Church – 11725 93rd Street .
Hope to see you there!
This month Jonathan Weller continued in his series of articles in the Rat Creek Press on the history of the Alberta Avenue community. I was struck by the change of street names to numbers ( Rat Creek Press April 2013: 10) , and decided to have a bit of fun with the idea of Otter Street.
Otter Street
I slip quietly out of the Rat Creek
I am sleek, and furry and musky
It is night, but my eyes gleam red like lasers.
I am headed for 90th street, once Otter Street- named after me.
I scratch dirt into a pile, marking my place- my street
Then I stop and groom my beautiful fur ,
Dirty from an afternoon of sliding on the river’s muddy banks
Wheeee!
I stop, peering into the darkness, nose twitching, listening
Then a sound
Another otter.
We exchange an otter salutation
Standing together, glistening, shining in the moonlight.
This street- this Otter Street- this 90th Street
My home.
Here’s a link to Jonathan’s article. Enjoy!
My Bottle Picking Man
I see you immersed in your metal sea of blue,
Searching through the bags of garbage and the hollow boxes
Seeking your treasured bottles and milk cartons.
Suddenly you come up for air and stand – your knees in a sea of garbage,
Which washes around you flowing backwards
As you shake out a castaway cigarette pack-
One left
You gaze at it with amazement and pleasure,
Like a beachcomber, who has found the perfect seashell.
You raise your hand to me in a friendly “hello”
When I look again , you are gone
But will return on the morning tide.
Local poet becomes Bard of the Ave
by Harvey Voogd
Marlene Salmonson, a woman who has been writing poetry all her life, is our first Bard of the Ave. Her role is to write and perform poetry that reflects the life of the area’s seven neighbourhoods. She began her two-year term on September 1 and will serve in this role until August 31, 2014. Her first public event was judging the recent Words From The Ave poetry slam, which was part of the Kaleido Family Arts Festival. “I was totally impressed with the level of poetry,” said Marlene. “To read your own stuff and have the guts to put it out there is awesome.”Marlene will receive an honorarium of $1,000 a year and produce at least two original works each year. The Bard will also initiate one legacy project during her two-year term. As the Bard, Marlene will be available for any community activity, be it a local festival, Community League event, or other community functions. Marlene’s ideas as the Bard include doing a piece on restaurants on the Ave, getting a feel for all the neighbourhoods she’ll serve and reflecting the change that is underway. The challenge, the diversity of the area, her love of the community and the struggle to change its image led Marlene to apply to be the Bard. “I want to positively reflect what is happening in the community, but also be realistic,” said Marlene. “My house is next to the 111 Avenue Fire Hall, on the Norwood Trail to the Universal Bottle Depot. When people talk about the Avenue, no one knows better than I do. Nobody has to tell me what it is like living here.”
Bard of the Avenue 