I was born here. It is a simple place on the outside, enigmatic and strange underneath. I’m proud to have grown up in this city. I miss her still.

Bucking horse buckles meet with boots and three-piece suits,

Escalades and pick-up trucks the steed of choice –

these well-oiled good ole boys;

progressive-cosmo melds with oil-baron cowboys.

_____

Living here but not from here,

indigenous works only with Natives, deer, bugs and rivers running

that tuck themselves into rambling folds

of hills, foothills; apprentice mountains.

_____

They call it home but it remains a cash crucible,

laboratory for oil rigs, lusty roughnecks and lonely geologists.

Sucked from deep, sub-soil banks and changed

from raw and black to spent and smoke…smells like money.

Bust to boom and back again,

they put their trust in fuel’s gold fossils.

Then, from up to down they bounce and sway,

this fickle ground beneath their feet.

Build when rich and bitch when poor,

the story stays the same.

_____

Here, newer West trumps older East;

old passive-aggressions grumble on.

Yet, step up closer still and dance to an eclectic tune –

maybe Ukraine,

or Pakistan,

or Thailand.

This global congregation comes in praise of promise and better days.

In the West where whiteness wins and rich is best,

this place can boast all that and still

gloat through gritted teeth over their leader brown,

a Muslim, by God.

_____

Here, for all her thriving hypocrisy,

she still reeks of home.

I know her best and she knows me,

this urban sprawl McMansion sea –

this Calgary.

Golden Spur Ranchetta is the retirement hobby and home of my Mom and her husband Sam Young. It is a place of repose and quiet contemplation. It is also a place of rowdy jam sessions and tall tales told over mosquito infested backyard shenanigans. Perfect. Count me in.

Bare awake but sleeping sound,

outer still and inner, found,

goodness, grace and green abound,

here at Golden Spur.

_____

Horses play where sunrise goes,

swishing tales and snorting nose,

oh, for strength like one of those,

here at Golden Spur.

_____

‘Squitoes reap their dividends,

filling up their sorry ends,

they’ll be sorry in the end,

here at Golden Spur.

_____

Faces known and seeds are sown,

too much beer, the story’s grown,

then it is the truth gets known,

here at Golden Spur.

_____

Sleep like stone when darkness comes,

only light from lightening comes,

I see why they call this home,

here at Golden Spur.

_____

One will hear when one is still,

that holy voice, the soul to fill,

and learn to love God’s loving will,

here at Golden Spur.

_____

Here at Golden Spur.

 

In supine repose she reaches out

with verdant arms of brown and yellow-green,

to clasp her bony fingers in sensuous release

with the vertical horizon.

Skies, gray and whole, play ninety degree tug-o’-war

with grass, prickly hay and knobby-need shrubbery –

rough ‘n tumble farm stubble.

Short shacks and weathered barns

pimple her broad back

alive with promise of more.

Suggesting we but see,

she insists upon her miles-wide self.

Sometimes she sleeps and forfeits life,

longing for heaven’s lusty drool.

This long land has much to speak,

her hard, crusted lips pursed

to kiss only those who see her –

and hold their breath.

 

Buzzing here and floating there,

No conscience, heart, nor tether.

You fill your guts on all my guts

And love this perfect weather.

You bob and weave, you little wretch

To seek your bloody booty.

Your little pin-prick savag’ry,

Your loathsome call of duty.

To squash and maim and flatten you,

‘tis all my heart’s desire.

But conquer one and ten more come

With no plans to retire.

And when I stand at heaven’s gate

My journey to unravel,

Says God, the Lord, the judge of all,

“mosquitoes were my gavel.”

 

My previous poem, Waiting was the first of the series. Here is the second in an oncoming barrage of poetry culled from my recent vacation back to my home stomping grounds in and around Calgary, Alberta.

 

These stands of poplar stand,

alone and stolid and sure;

rejecting all

but light and warm and good.

Their sullen song, languid and low,

lulls my mind from sure to still,

from still to rest,

from rest to rise once more –

to stand.

Their hands upraised, entwining fingers

united in their thoughts;

committed to their cause.

Here, no injustice nor impatience find –

only singing.

 

Shoulders, steeped and round,

massaged by sun of warming, come.

Toward a future point of reference

a heart sits still, its mourning not yet done.

Below deck, crouched in the basement

of this soul, a candle flickers, reluctantly warm,

the only light in this small room.

Crouched, alone in this auditory poise,

tired muscles quiver, weary from waiting,

taut from this long and painful silence,

outrageously shouting their demands –

“be still

and still, be.”

I love Oregon. Whenever I come here from my home in Washington state I instantly feel at home. The following short poem is intended as a word picture of my conversations with God in, through, around and because of, the Oregon forest.

 

Forest Conversations

Darkling and twisted in orgiastic biospherean splendor,

the forest tweaks the shoulders of the mountain

and turns her head to speak of things unknown.

The hump-ed shoulders of mornings’ mild and misty manner,

spreads like green butter before the feet of day.

I can hear her whispers, stirrings on the woodland floor

where creatures run and leavings left behind from

windy hollows and sapling’d soldiers standing still

in disciplined ranks en-mossed in jade

and rustic, ruined wonder.

Had I been here before, there might not have been

these turning, tree-worn thoughts of a day

fit for sharing.

 

Knowing

Seldom have I felt this low,

my voice, still stuck inside.

A soul, left alone,

reveals its need

to suffer,

rejoice;

be.

Old for New

Let’s trade our foreign cargo:

our death, oblique and strange,

tagged for redemption,

but stirred to know

the story,

re-lived,

new.

Gift

Satisfaction guaranteed

to broken hearts that need

all that sorrow brings;

a song to sing,

promising

death to

death.

Presence

Let’s walk on distant shorelines,

ragged, rough and romping;

nuanced as the night

for we should not

assume that

we’re not

there.

Breakfast

I ask you, “do you love me?”

You tell me that you do.

I ask you twice more.

You answer me.

My answer?

Broiling

fish.