The Cousins

   My father, Arsene, was descended from French Canadians who had crossed the United States border several times, heading south or north in search of land and work. Thus it was on the American side that he was born. Not long after this event, my grandfather heard the call of the Canadian west. He was a machinist on the railway who one day bought a book on farming, an ironic purchase, as he had never learned to read. He hated school within a few days and ran away to hang around the shipyards. He never went back even though his mother was a teacher.
    My grandmother probably read the book for him and he decided he wanted his growing family of one girl and five boys, Arsene being the youngest, to be raised away from the industrial smoke of the city. Arsene was just five years old when they boarded the train that took them through the mountains and far away to northern Alberta.
   My grandmother was the eldest of her family and her widowed mother went north with them. They left behind her other children and grandchildren, including Arsene's cousin Gregory, who was ten years his senior.
   Gregory was the only son in his family. I heard tales of an unhappy childhood with a strange and aloof father. There would come the usual shaking of the head and shrugging of shoulders, as if to explain Gregory. He had the ability to spin entertaining yarn and delighted in being an eccentric.
   Arsene grew up a farm boy with cows to milk and horses to ride. He endured the tumbling that he got from his older brothers when his father was away on the railroad working to pay for the homestead, became an expert rider and joined the Canadian cavalry just before it was disbanded.
   Gregory showed up when Arsene was about thirteen; he came north to visit his grandmother. He took the only picture in our photograph album that showed all of Arsene's family together. They all looked at the camera from in front of the little lake by their home. Within six years both the grandmother and Arsene's mother had died and the siblings scattered.
   Gregory traveled many places with the railroad and settled in Washington state in a little town. It was the era of the automobile and my family had a little trailer that Arsene built to spend their holidays camping. One of those trips was down to Gregory's place. There was a picture of the cousins standing together. Arsene did not look very athletic next to Gregory who had gym sculptured muscles, Hemingway style, in a white muscle shirt, leaning against his motor cycle.
   By the time I was born a small farm tied my parents to the land and it was Gregory and his wife Kate that came north with a little trailer to camp in the summertime. There are pictures of the small me with Kate but I don't remember her, as she died soon after.
   Gregory continued to visit. It was at this time that Gregory's restless energy set Arsene to work to build me a small swimming pool. Gregory, the muscular Christian, thought I should have a place to safely swim away from the deep waters of the lake.
   I  have no idea why it was thought I should swim. I vividly remember the panic the gripped me as I floundered in deep water trying to negotiate around a boathouse. My mother had rescued me. I might have refused to go near the lake again. Perhaps Gregory had heard the story of my near drowning.
   So the little square pool was built. There was a lot of dirt to remove and cement to pour. Arsene did a lot of muttering when the "idea" man had departed. The water intake was from the nearby creek that flowed cold and clear from a spring high up the mountain. My chattering teeth and shivering frame found ways to avoid its chill. It sat empty until my older sister designed a fountain in the middle- a beautiful copper butterfly gracefully sprouting delicate plumes of water from its wings as it sat on a rock pillar above the offending temperature. Whatever Gregory thought of the result never reached my ears.
    I always loved to listen to Gregory's stories at bed-time. They were filled with Indians and railway adventures. The natives were revered for their forest skills and Gregory swore we had a Native ancestor of our own but no-one else had ever heard of him. The most dramatic story that haunted my imagination told of a man being caught on a railway trestle. He lay down on the track as the on coming train passed over head leaving him unharmed.  I pondered its imagery many times in my mind. It haunted me in a quiet way.
   Gregory drove a big Cadillac with huge tail fins, left over from the big statements of the fifties. Our old Dodge didn't flash in the same way. One year, Arsene got caught in a snowstorm, went over a steep bank and walked away unhurt leaving his footprints on the ceiling of the car for me to ponder. He later rebuilt the car out of two old ones and the paint job never betrayed its mixed origins.
   Gregory used to speculate that  he could have been a priest. He was devout in his reading and delved into some of the classics popular at that time. Arsene wouldn't say much when he heard all this. He was extremely suspicious of anything out of the ordinary. Gregory used to tell me we were related to the Little Flower as she and our great grandmother had the same last name. It impressed me no end that we might have a canonized saint in the family.
   When I myself later entered into the difficult paths of the spiritual life I soon grew to love her as a role model. This was fortunate as the story was a fragment from Gregory's imagination.
   The happiest times with Gregory would be on summer afternoons when he would retreat up the hill to a hammock he had strung between two small trees, next to a little meandering brook where the wild spearmint and pale blue forget-me-not grew profusely. At a suitable time I could join him, his nap over, and I would climb up into the hammock and we would sing together. He knew lots of old songs, the Mitch Miller type, filled with folksy images of American life. He brought me a Melodica, a funny little keyboard instrument I could blow into and I began to pick out tunes from memory. It sounded a bit like a duck, but its simplicity made it easy to learn.
   Arsene never ventured to sing or play an instrument but he loved music and was always humming. When he listened to his few classical records he would be the conductor for the invisible orchestra. It would always make me smile to see this side of him.
   Then one year Gregory arrived with a new wife. A soft spoken Irish New Yorker who had been a single working girl all her life, with a warm heart that won us all instantly as friends.
   We visited them in their little house across the border surrounded by fields and a quiet rambling creek called the Icicle, well named for those who tried to swim in it. I still wasn't endeared to ice water. When I was eleven I went to stay there for a month. Mostly to get out of my mother's hair as she was busy moving from our house up on the hill to a trailer next to the service station that Arsene had built next to the highway.
   The visit south was fun at first. An adventure. We had bicycles to explore the gentle countryside. Gregory had lots of interesting things left over from raising his family and lots of games to play. One day the games got personal. Suddenly I was trapped with an adult who had become a predator.  I recoiled from his obscene advances and would no longer spend time with him. I sat in the kitchen with his wife and ate my way through the remaining time before I could return home. His wife always said I kissed the ground when we crossed into Canada. Home was so badly missed. She mentioned to  my mother that something had happened, but I was never asked.
   A couple of years later Gregory came to visit with his grand daughter a little younger than me. He lavished attention and money on her and it felt like he was punishing me for my refusal to cooperate with his filthy games.  For the first time in my life I hated an adult. It was a sickening feeling and I couldn't find words to tell my parents or my spiritual director. It was one of those events that live beneath articulation. I was happy to see him leave. He never returned to visit.
   Briefly, years later, I traveled with my parents to visit Gregory and his wife. He was almost blind and smelled old. He was surprised at my lack of so-called worldly airs. No thanks to you I thought. He told me to look through his books and take what I wanted. I found some spiritual classics, but as I was gathering the books I was not happy to have him enter the room. The look on my face as I prepared to bolt must have told him of our lost friendship. No words were exchanged as he handed me a hundred dollar bill. I said thank-you and left.  I suppose it was a token of atonement and regret which I could not dwell on. That would belong to a higher power.
   My own life entered upon a spiritual journey that brought me into conflict with Arsene. When I turned nineteen we shook hands like those who have fought a bitter battle, and then agreed to a truce.  I was now an adult and would have to answer for my own choices.
   Over the years we exercised an uneasy peace.When he was old Arsene became a widower and for the next nine years, no longer shielded by my mother, we were face to face with each other.
   Before he died we learned to speak the same language. At times he, too, would become a story teller with tales of growing up on the farm and his boyish giggle endeared him to me. As he neared death his parents became visible to him. He told me that he could see them, but I couldn't. I was happy for him in his waiting. One day when I draw near to the leaving, I hope he will be waiting for me.

Winter Grace

The turn of the seasons
Unpredictable at best,
This cold winter wind
With snow in its arms
Descends upon the mountain valley
Bitter, cold, dry snow
Caught in whirlwinds
Circling the evergreens,
Swooping along rocky cliffs,
Picking us up like a mother cat her kittens
Moving us quickly against onslaught,
Reminding our small creature selves
Might is not ours,
In case we hadn't noticed.

Thus winds of grace
Flow floods through our lives,
Leaving us turned upside down
Overwhelmed, often helpless,
The gusts of this Divine author
Leaving all asunder.

Or perhaps in other moods
This same Artist lets the early snow
Settle around the landscape,
To show off this time of brown
All shades and shapes,
Against the dark blue green waters,
With the occasional red bark or
Brilliant yellow,
The lingering sandy grass
Grey green tufts accenting
The last few golden leaves clinging to
The top outlines of bushes and trees,
The Artist's brush must dapple it seems
In many colored strokes.

And then the white snow
Dominates all forms
Clings to the exposed tree's bark,
Decorates delicate branches
Tiny red berries glow beneath,
Thus heaven makes all white,
Shining clean and wholesome
Nature enveloped in whiteness of light
In the working of Divine graces.

The Dead

The day of the dead
Dawned brilliant sunshine
The blue sky set free
Above the autumnal hues
The drenched earth downpour
Lying now in puddles
As we walk the lake shore
Inhaling the crisp November air.

Out of the corner of my eye
I catch the glimpse of a tree
It stopped suddenly it seems
Like a dancer with curved arms
Lean and graceful
The dawn had caught it in mid-flight
And it froze in haste to await the nightfall
For it's next move.

It is the leaves fallen
Exposing branches as we
Will one day be stripped
All pretenses gone
In the blink of an eye or
A half turned glance
We catch a glimpse
To the world beyond.

In solemn silence we tread
The leaves festival track
Surrounded by green forest bending
Humble unto the season
Brown bracken the dying time.

I am a part of the world
I was born into and yet
I often wonder if in the future
My real work begins like
Those in the past that sowed
Often with tears
Never opening their eyes upon
Completion of their task
Believing their contribution
A thread bound tightly in
This frail fabric of existence.

The wind comes rushing now
Through our little yard
The yellow maple leaves
Caught up with haste
Tossed in circular motions
Higher into the open sky
Their movement a melody
Sung by the boisterous wind
How cheerful they seem
Set free to roll around the hills
Like children let out to play
On this the month of the dead.

Football and the Willows

When I was younger I never thought of myself as a writer as I have no talent for writing fiction. My attempts at prose usually broke down after a few paragraphs. However, when cleaning up some old papers the other day I found this short story I had written Feb 28, 1978.   I thought it rang true about being sixteen. 


   It was a lousy idea in the first place. As much as I was a fan of our football team, I really didn't know any of the players very well and some of their fans even less. But I was determined to go to this game as it was a make or break it one and I felt the team fires burning in my bones, or so I thought.
   Penticton was thirty miles away so the team was traveling by bus along with the cheerleaders, and the rest were obliged to find their own ways. I hung around as everyone was gathering at the school parking lot after dinner, looking for a friendly grade twelve who would take an extra passenger.
    It was dark earlier now, soon to be November, and the evening air was tinged with the smell of burning leaves. I hesitated. Maybe it was a nice evening for a walk. It felt like too much to summon up the courage to ask and as I shrank back into the shadows a kind voice came from behind me asking,  "Do you need a ride?"
I immediately regained my composure and turned to answer Ellen who always seemed to take an older girl's interest in me.
   "Yes, I said"
   "Then let's go. Doug has room"
   He sure did. There was just Ellen and me. Maybe Ellen liked him but felt the need of another person. Anyway, the arrangement seemed to suit us all and I settled into the back seat.
   There wasn't much to see, just occasional twinkling lights and since Doug and Ellen seemed interested in their own conversation, I was left to my own thoughts. They weren't many. I kept asking myself what I thought I was doing, maybe my English essay needed retouching and then in some quiet moment I knew that I was probably more interested in team player number eleven than the game. Good heavens. Why was I pursuing him I wondered. I had only met him briefly at summer camp, a nervous, high-strung character and I certainly wasn't the rock of Gibraltar. Maybe I thought I was. Oh, well, this was the important football game ....my thoughts were interrupted by Doug calling to me over his shoulder
   "Look under the front seat, Marnie There's a bag, a little one. Could you get it for me?"
   "Sure" I replied as I fumbled around in the dark and at last drew out a not so little plastic bag and handed it to him.
   "Thanks" he said and turning to Ellen he winked and said he'd managed to get some that morning.
   Some of what I asked myself.
   "Here", he said again and I was handed back the bag."Hide it, I wouldn't want the cops to find it if we get stopped" he said.
   Good heavens, I thought. Could it be? Oh, no, it is! What would my father say if we were caught and I shrank back into the car seat extremely nervous. What had I done? Here I was in the middle of nowhere expected to stand guard over a bag of marijuana and a fair sized one too.
   I held my breath, metaphorically speaking, until the car was safely parked near the playing field. I hopped out with barely a civil word of thanks and hurried to find some familiar faces of classmates.
   The game had already begun, an eerie playing of shadows darting under the humming outdoor field lights. I could hear the curses of the players as they slipped on the muddy turf.
   It was a bad game. The slippery field slowed the play down and a lot of our players got injured. At one point more people were watching the outskirts of the park where the kids from the rival schools fought and beat on each other. I felt sick. We lost the game completely and now our team was eliminated from the play offs.
   "Are you coming Marnie" called Ellen from an already running car.
   To say the least it was a gloomy ride home. I didn't even mind sharing the car with our illegal stowaway.
   Now what, I thought, and joined in the the general lamentations. I felt part of the conversation and the return ride home was passed quietly in conversing. If only the evening had ended thus!
   Back at the school when the equipment was put away there were immediate plans for a party.
   "Meet you at the Willows" I heard someone call out as they left.
   "Where are the Willows?" I asked Ellen.
   "On the outskirts of Kelowna, we usually meet there." Aha, I thought picturing a nice old type cafe, a haunting ground for the gang. Maybe I could go. Here's my chance to talk to #11. He can't ignore me now. Maybe he will be glad to have some company.
   Hurriedly I ran over to the phone and after waiting my turn I dialed home.
   "Carol" I said "We lost the game. Some of us want to go to the Willows for awhile to wind down. Can I go?
   "Sure" she said "but don't be late.
   "Oh, no, " I said. "I won't."
   Putting down the phone I roared outside, saw my object of pursuit and ran over.
 " Hey, Clarke, can I come with you? "
   "Oh, Hi" he said hesitating to answer. "Sure, I guess. How are you? I haven't seen you for awhile." He didn't add that he had been avoiding me. He'd been rashly romantic the past summer. I suppose he figured he could write all those gushy letters to me as long as I was at a distance. My sudden decision to come to school in Kelowna had fixed that. I think he felt surrounded and wisely laid low all fall. So much for a someone, somewhere far away, to dream about when things got dull. Here I was in living color!
   Again he hesitated, fumbling nervously for a cigarette. "I'm in a bad mood" he said, "but come on" and he headed for the parking lot. I watched his thin retreating figure, the glow of his cigarette in the darkness, and gritting my teeth I ran after him.
   Here I go again, I thought, tagging along in typical little sister style.
   I found myself jammed in a car with nine other people. No one said much. There was a certain deadly mood about them all. I didn't know anyone and kept quiet. We soon left the lights of the city and turned down a windy country road. It was dark and only a few farm house lights glowed. Here I go again I thought. A few twinkling lights and a strange road. With one final turn we bumped down to the end of a road then into a small clearing surrounded by trees. We jerked to a stop.
   "Where are we ?" I asked Clarke.
   "The Willows!"
   "The Willows" I repeated very carefully. Oh, what was I going to say to Carol.
   Doors opened, I stumbled out in the general rush for fresh air and stood beside the car blinking until my eyes became accustomed to the dark. Everyone had seemed to disappear.
   "Have a beer" Clarke said pulling one out of a case he held under his arm. And opening it he handed me one.
   "Thanks" and we stood drinking in silence, leaning against the car.
   Gradually the night noises became audible. I could hear the trickling of a creek nearby, the woosh of automobiles passing by on the road we'd come off and the murmured conversation coming from the edge of the clearing. Clarke lit a cigarette. I could hear him inhaling, the glowing ember flaring up and then dulling.
   Suddenly more cars drove towards us and people burst out of them, talking loudly, calling to each other, clinking bottles together and laughing.
   I shivered. Clarke ground his cigarette out  and roughly grabbed my arm, leading me to the group of noisy partiers. He dropped my arm, and muttering something disappeared towards a white van. I stood unnoticed and thankful to be so. I could feel my face reddening as anger began throbbing inside of me. I paced away from everyone, gulped my beer and felt my ire rising.
  Damn him, I thought. Damn them all. I stamped my foot. Misery swept over me, then anger, I flung  my empty bottle into the bushes and stamped towards the white van. I paused, then taking a deep breath I knocked on the door.
   It opened and the light went on. A bleary pair of eyes looked out. 'Yeah?"
   "Is Clarke there?' I asked.
   "Yah, sure, come on in."
   I determinedly sat down beside Clarke. He grinned lazily at me and as if to explain my presence he said 'Uh, this is Marnie" I gradually became aware of the pairs of eyes acknowledging his words. Everyone was silent. What was it, I thought and squirmed a little.
   "Hey," Clarke stuttered over towards me. "Hey, have you ever toked?"
   "Toked? No", I said and knew it was the wrong thing to have said.
   "Hey, you guys did you hear that? We've got someone here who's never smoked and he started drunkenly groping for another beer.
   "Roll one up, Gerry" he hiccuped over his shoulder and I felt trapped. Trapped like an animal in a cave, part of a circle that was slowly closing in on me.
   Clarke, I cried inside, don't be this way. You're not this ugly, are you? Are you? and no-one answered, not even myself
   Gerry carefully rolled a joint. Conversation resumed. And slowly the match lit up the "white cigarette" and one by one it was passed along.
   My throat went dry. "Hey, Clarke," I said, "Let me have a beer. I gulped some down and then it was my turn. I trembled and took the joint.
"Breathe her in and hold it" said Gerry.
   I did and closed my eyes hoping everything would go away. Clarke took it from me and with the ease of much competence toked and passed it on. Round and round it went, smoke filling the air, heavy and acrid.
   I looked around. A strange euphoria seemed to fill the van, and they were no longer wild eyed. Now only bleary, bleary bleary and turning sideways I passed out.
   'Hey, kid" and someone was shaking me. A door opened and Clarke helped me stumble from the van. The cold night air hit my face and I gasped, breathing long deep breathes.
   "Lets walk"  and together we put one foot in front of the other. I shook my head and waited for things to focus right.
   He led me over to a log and we sat down. I looked at him, watching the shadows on his face. He was at ease, a little tired, and the hassles of the evening weren't haunting him anymore. I sighed. He looked very gentle. Maybe I'm the ugly one I thought and miserably leaned against him.
   "Clarke?
   "Yeah?"
   "I think I should go home".
   "Yeah." But we didn't move.
   Honk. Honk. And suddenly car lights swept down the dirt road from the highway. "Hey, you dirty freaks" a voice yelled and I felt everyone spring to alert.
   "It's the Kelowna High gang. They don't love us very much, damn greasers" and with that Clarke grabbed my hand and we headed for the nearest car. Engines started up, people ran from every direction and shouts ensured between the rival schools.
   "Hey, Immaculata lost, eh. Toooo baaad.  The voice sent shivers up my spine. I pictured well greased figures with chains.
   Hurry, I thought, and jammed into the white van
   I could hear our kids hassling the greasers and without looking back we wheeled out onto the highway and everyone started to laugh and laugh and laugh. It echoed in my ears as we floated down the highway.
   "Where do you live?" called Gerry from the front seat. As directed he pulled up in front of a tidy residential dwelling and I issued forth and waved them to the end of the block, tires squealing in the 2 a. m. morning.
   "Bye", I said  "Bye," towards the retreating van and the streets swallowed it from my sight. I sighed as I turned towards the house.
   Well, stupid, I said to myself, if these eyes of yours ever focus it won't be on another football game.

In Kaslo Africa

In memory of Fr. Herman Engberink SMA  Dec 16,1919- Oct 3, 2010

 It has been many years
Since we set foot in this little town
Its access a winding road
Narrow at times in the driving
We have traveled these past five weeks
On this our last visit
We pray for you, dear friend
In this tiny mission church
With tears and memories
The hard times of those years ago
When your kindness kept us hopeful
Now your passing from this life
Sends grace and peace swirling
In this sunlit October time.

In October the sunlight is warm
Until suddenly the shadows go chasing
Up the tall mountains across the lake
With autumnal golds fading
In the evening light outside this church
The chill in the breeze
Quick to descend as we watch
The sun retreat for another day.

I remember the times we went together
Across this valley
Wild places you loved with company
Explored with great adventure
Oh missionary to Africa
All those years
Whose love affair with the
Dark continent began
When you were six
How you labored long
To build the Faith into vibrant form
Walking miles to serve and
Call into being the hungry souls
You found.


And when at last you came to our shores
To shepherd in a wilderness
More trees than people
More doubt than faith
You gave us your last working years
A warm beacon of truth
A kind heart with firm intention
A mind that served the living Tradition
Not afraid of wolves
Brave unto old age and sorely missed
When you returned
Home to Holland
To wind down these last ten years
Still at last
You who loved the open spaces
Eagerly explored the beauty
And sat with us in this little town
Down to dinner one autumn
Such a feast we shared that day.

We have traveled here today
With a priest from Africa
A shining star of his culture
Gracing the mystery of Faith
We treasure this short time with him
A gift happily bestowed
Yet again.

We sit in the same restaurant
As all those years ago
Your presence now unseen
But keenly felt
Your death from a good life spent
Shines on this present time
Love passes onward in journey
Vibrant in the evenings time
And even in the darkness
When we step into the night
The wind blows cold off the lake
 Moonlight filling the starry sky
Africa lives within our hearts
Warm with the exchange across
Timeless miles to go.

The Wind at Will

A song for fra Matthieu

 Alas, the North wind has returned
With it's chill in the air
Freezing suddenly all kindness
As the time for the South wind
Marks in departure
Whose warmth has beckoned us
Into clear sun light sparkling
Dappled on the waters
With rays falling in beams
Through the greyness of clouds
Filled with deep silence
All growth strong and outward
Living creatures we have become
One to another
The flowering warmth in
Human compassion
Our hearts safe to wear
Upon our sleeves.

The North wind has returned
My limbs begin to stiffen
Turning into the stone cold statue
Alone on a city street
Midst the busyness of traffic
Blowing wind swept in green park lands
The sunset barely reflected
On the polished shell that now descends.

Do not be sad my heart for
Inside the sparks fly upward
From the hearth fire in my soul
Burning deep with friendly glow
Even above the mountains
Where the wind moves mysteriously.

When the North wind will finally
Depart to be no more
Has been written in
A book I cannot read
Present time for future need
Still I give thanks
My voice quiet within
The South wind's warmth that
Binds us as friends
Like the stars that shine
Each unto the other
In distant brightness
Across the evening sky.

St. Teresa Slips Through Time

Pope Gregory XIII declared
A new calendar in 1582
To bring Easter into alignment
With nature's own sense of timings
To begin October 4th of that year
Eleven days would disappear
At least in Catholic countries
The Protestants crying foul
Until another route brought
Them into planetary position
The Orthodox remaining
Behind in Julian fashion.

It was late on Oct 4th 1582
Or early the next morning
St. Teresa said to her Beloved
"it is time to move on"
And bidding farewell she
Went forth to meet Him
Whom she had always sought
Time now leaps forth with her passage
October 15th having just begun.

Ingenious she was to slip between
These calendar changes we have now
In the twinkling of the old into new
The fourth followed by the fifteenth
Henceforth to be known as her feastday
As I kick through the leaves
This October 5th, golden now
The season releasing its leafy garments
Strewn in almost reckless abandon
On the street as my footsteps
Loud in the dryness of the leaves
To the church as darkness gently falls
The red and blue sanctuary lamps
Flicker in the solemn time spent

I follow Teresa in my thoughts, she
My mentor from beginning times
Guiding my steps along the way
That has often been perilous and steep
I cheer her passage between time's reckoning
Looking up into the clear night sky
In the silent homeward walk
A shooting star across my horizon
Heading west bright and swift
I sense her spirit waving in the glimpse
From beyond this vale of time.

The Neighbourhood for Tea

The highway was not so busy then
In my little world of very young
Perhaps a mile long of neighbourhood
On the northern slope running
The water's western arm
Flowing down from the big lake
In search of the Columbia River's
Private entrance to the sea.

Our little farm of sixteen acres
Soon dotted with flowers made
My mother's preference for color
Fade the market garden that was there
It did not suit her sensibilities with
Three teen age sons
And my small self
The cow and the chickens too.
There was always time to walk
Along that highway stretch
Clinging tightly to her hand
Buffeted by the wind from the big trucks
As we went to visit the inhabitants
Some elderly with no family by
Retired and always ready
To serve a cup of tea.

In a tiny cabin lived an elderly couple
Where we sat together next
To the big grandfather clock
Dominating the tiny abode with pompous gongs
The husband I did not then understand
Nursing a wife whose mind
Had wandered far away
His tenderness toward her
And us when my father was away
Working in the bush
He would visit and chat
While my mother ironed and I
Who sometimes could be rude
Would be corrected by him
Much to my chagrin.

It was he who was central
To a little drama when I was four or so
I could not resist
The candy in the Safeway store in town
Eye level and available in such
Colors and pretty wrappings
I lied when we got home
Saying our elderly friend
Had made a gift
After all, it fit my expectations
The fib was badly told
I was in trouble on several fronts
My mother for stealing
Our friend for the lying implication
My penance being to return
The stolen loot to the big store
A checkout lady who gravely received
Candy and apology in return
For my tearful humiliation and remorse.


The house to the east
The Anglican vicarage
Warmly welcomed by the
Elderly pair with an unhappy son
Whose gentle kindness
Puzzled and widened my
View of the religious world.

To the west the little family
On one acre of green
Their teen-age daughter
Fan of the fifties hit parade
Introduced music with social attitudes
Made me want to sing
If only You are My Sunshine.

Across the highway from the acre
A beautiful sandy point
Whose cabins were summer busy
Empty in winter
Then there would be time for tea
I would watch the ducks out on the lake
Savor the sweets as adult
Conversation drifted outside my thoughts
And I pondered the mystery of how
Our hostess managed to have blue hair.

At the farthest west along
The road of my little world
A family of boys, interesting
But only from a safe distance
They too in service of summer folk
The beaches busy
The waterway filled with boats
While my mother and I
Many Sunday afternoons
Would visit for tea and cakes
A lady who with her brother
Lived in a quaint little house
Filled with beautiful furniture from
A past big prairie city life
The ticking of the mantle clock
And the easy chair near the picture window
Filled with a big tree just outside
Where she sat and watched
The bluejay and squirrel dodge and weave
For the peanuts to be fought over
And the scoldings that took place each time.

In those early years in life
Only one other girl lived close by
A year older and looked up to
We would visit her grandparents farm
Just up the hillside where
The pig smell dominated
The corner that took the turn towards home
The rabbits that nibbled constantly
Gazing out from their cages with their big eyes
Which made me incapable of enjoying
Them on a dinner plate.

It was her aunt
Small and bent over
Who babysat my time
When parental absence needed help
She lived up on the hill above
In an orchard of apple trees
Tiny house, silent husband
Soon to be gone into time
When only the tall grass would
Wave in the wind colored with sunlight
Where I would go and sit in the fragrant field
Serenaded by the grasshoppers
In sudden happiness overwhelmed
By this small world that was mine.

When Thoughts Turn Around

These are the days when I feel
My life a prison sentence
With bars across the windows
Looking up unto gray walls
Cold stones blackened by wind
Beaten by the rain's harsh lashes
Within my cell confined
The loneliness of existence for
So many souls I sense near by
Burdened by the whims of fortune
Their happiness under lock and key
Despair the weapon of the prison guards
That mock at hope or delight
Pin down with constant attack
This exile life of man. 

It is only a tiny breeze
A small fire burning
Endurance unto another time
When the gray sky has passed
The burdens slipping from all
Wounded shoulders
The torture of this frail human race
No longer within reach
As I grow thin and transparent
Enough to pass between
The stones of  prison walls.

In Colors Unfaded

Oh, best Beloved
I would a white flower be
Its purity gathering
The full spectrum of light
Reflecting all.

I would be the redness
Found in a rose
The passion of Your love
Flowing blood red in
Every vein.

I would be one with the sky
Blue with endless depth
A Lady's mantle
Over this sad world
Where mankind often blots
Creation's landscape.

And green I would turn
Hope my watchword
That the stench of death
Would spring with tender new life
Always.

'Tis the yellow of the sun's
Warmth
I would cast not shadow
To dim its healing rays.

To thus the plain brown wood
Where Love lay dying
Death banished from these hills
Oh, best Beloved.

The Heart of a Child

An old photograph
Black and white
A six year old stands
Just higher than the dahlias
Lunch box in hand
Hair washed and curled
The plaid flock style
Early sixties looks back through
That camera lens.

I don't remember my brothers
Waiting with me for the bus
I do remember my loud cry
Great alarm as we drove past my school
Not versed in bus stop ways
The laughter from the older students
The annoyance of the driver
All brushed off as I gained
The freedom of the ground
Running back along the road
To my first day of school.

Was it that day I relished
Making my first ever friend
Only she and I to negotiate
Our common interest and goals
No parental playmate decided for me
Or fate of neighbourhood arrangement
How delicious this new adventure
It's freshness such a delight.

A small two room country school
Grades one to three my classroom
An older English woman
Whose warmth and humour
Would accompany my first three years
A good British citizen I became
A culture taught not inherited
The triumph of reading
A thrill still remembered
As quietly the first year passed
Blending into the second and third
With grass and woods to play in
We smelt the changing of the seasons
It dictated our games
Held us in its wonder
Embraced us with its space.

I made good friends in
Those three happy years
Looked forward to becoming
A member of the other classroom
But that was not to be
The school was closed for a new one
Long in the building which sent
The students all to town in the autumn
I parted ways with my companions as
I alone made the trek
To the big wooden Catholic school
I did not return to the modern country school
Staying on my solitary road the next four years.

Fifteen students were now forty plus
How far away home seemed
I would gaze through the eastern windows
With an aching heart and
The distance was an exile
I had to endure
Learning to cope with
The small confines of pavement
Called a playground
The flights up the long narrow staircases
Behind a black robed figure
Whose long rosary clattered
Followed by my classmates
Who resisted me as a friend
For most of that year being
The loneliness of new.

I, a quiet student
Bent over my desk
Studied my new social world
Enjoyed the wild antics and tension
Caused by twin boys
Practicing for the future Balkan war
Taxing the poor teacher beyond
Her already difficult task
This American nun who
Told us stories of a different empire
Wept at the death of JFK
Pronounced him a saint
Still ascends the narrow staircase
Like a ghostly memory above me.

Grade five under a no nonsense
Canadian Polish nun of formidable girth
Passed quietly as I slowly made friends
By grade six I was
Accepted. sort of, adapted and
Somewhat casual to learning skills
Relying on a memory that came in handy
To keep academia at bay
Concerned with social interests instead
Until one day a new teacher
Sped into our classroom
A male invader, energetic
Discerning a taste for grade seven
Unhappily swallowed
I announced to my mother
I would not be attending his class
She announced I would
As thus I met the road whose
Direction has led me deeper
Into the heart that was mine as a child.

Talking Tonquin Valley

In a valley behind Mt. Edith Cavell
Stretches the Tonquin pass
A wide and very long valley
Home to many fishing camps and bears
Filled with trails for the pack horses
The Alpine Club of Canada in 1970
Their annual summer climbing camp
My sister Yvonne made me her guest
The club having lowered the age
To sixteen for membership.

At last a sport in common
Between the elder and myself
Swimming and skiing a big no go
The love of the mountains
United our interests at last
With a stop in Banff for
Helmet, harness and ice-axe
We headed to the trail head
Oh, happiness the pack horses would
Carry all our belongings for the week
While we walked the
Fourteen miles into camp.

I remember the concern that
Fourteen miles loomed long in my mind
But the day passed pleasantly
The trail not steep, the forest friendly
Halfway we met a little white-haired lady
Her younger companion sat resting with her
I didn't know then as we paused to greet
She was a mountaineering legend
Phil Munday now in her eighties
Wrecked her knees in the coastal range
Carrying heavy loads in pioneering
And legendary climbs.

The memories that filter
Through my present mind
Are sparse and fleeting
I found the mountain air
Cold at either end of the day
Lived in a borrowed down jacket
My biggest use of time spent
Talking to Walter, a climber
Businessman from Toronto
Older and happy to engage in lively manner
The optimistic mind of sixteen years
I don't remember the subjects but
We kept in touch by letter long afterward
He found my optimistic mind
Ready to tackle the world
I found him kind in reply and manner
And the hours sped by with
A few mountain climbs
Between conversations.

Every day the stories of exploits
From the expert climbers in high camp
Would filter down to be reviewed
Mulled or added to
While we in the main valley camp
Strolled through our adventures
With no such tales to boast
One day we climbed a local peak
Imposing in its height
My memory of it being
A four a.m. rise before the sun
The day's length the greatest challenge
We played hide and seek as we climbed
The Rockies filled with loose rocks
The greatest danger being
The climber above and the rocks dislodged.
I wore my helmet.

One day we went to a glacier
To practice ice and snow drills
The crevasse hidden dangers
To the unwary with snow covered fissures
A trap hidden from view
Being the youngest person there
I was lowered into a modest
Crevasse not too wide
Hanging on the end of a rope
After an imaginary fall
The climbers working above
Setting up a definite rescue
While I waited in my ice palace
Writing the names of those I loved
Onto the icy wall that resisted
Any of my intentions.

Mid-point a small group of us
Dawned packs and set off to
Another valley with a cabin by a lake
The trail through the Tonquin
Meandered in alpine meadows
Beside small smiling creeks and marsh
Past fishing camps with horses in corral
To a small lake with
Alpine Club cabin of unimaginable
Luxury for its location
That night a thunderstorm
Shook me awake as I slept in the loft
Loud and menacing as I lay there
Deciding if I should be afraid
But fell to sleep before I could decide.

The next day we climbed
The large glacier that led
To a high peak whose name
Unremembered but the snow
Laden valley was the beginning
Headwaters of the mighty Fraser
With many miles to travel
In seaward direction
My imagination finding delight
That such humble and mysterious
Source of greatness  beneath our feet.

On the last day
We arrived back at the car park
To find the horses had bolted
Frightened by a bear
With our belongings held hostage.
My sister and I found our cousin
Who hosted us for the night
In the morning's light the horses
And our packs were recovered
Leaving only the drive home
Our final task together
With three mountain peaks I was
A new Alpine club member
If only for a year.

August Valhalla

In the cool mornings of youth
The finding of virtues call out like
A town crier in one's soul
In urgent tones to follow the journey upwards
Unto the mountains of wisdom from past ages
First taught in youth with images
Sometimes with experience of those lofty peaks
Expressed for me in a week spent happily in
Slocan's Valhalla range named from
Norse legends of the halls of
Slain heroes and home of the gods.

It was a surprise gift from Helen Butling
Defender of our alpine world
First woman on Gladsheim for me to second
I was just past my fourteenth birthday
For that early morning that began with meeting new people
The long drive to the trail head to begin
A nine mile walk in the heat of day
The early August foliage of devil's club
Looming over my head with stifling presence
Stealing the oxygen air until the halfway point
A forest glade with creek water, and rest
To banish my fatigue, cool my veins
Renew hope of the final ascent
Into the Mulvey basin
Surrounded by rugged mountain peaks
Crowned by Gladsheim
Home of the gods brooding over
The pristine valleys.

There among the alpine flowers
We pitched our tents in the
Fragrance of alpine trees
Stunted and misshapen from long
Winter's grasp with perfume breeze
Unique and intoxicating
Heaven's own garden beneath its dome.
But then there were the endless horseflys
Terror of my younger days
As I quickly learned to hit them hard
Learned it was best to punch them
Before they could take their morsel of flesh.


The art of rock climbing with the use of ropes
And in my case, elbows and knees
I was invited to ascend Gladsheim
In the care of a mountain guide
Both kind and sure footed
We started out through the midst of boulders
To the ridge razor backed with
Another valley whose mountain we could see
Aptly called the Devil's couch always watching
Never benign to those who would
Journey upwards to speak with things of heaven.

I can still see the sheer rock wall
Falling it seemed for miles
As I slipped yet safely roped
Scrambled with only a quick downward
Glance that etched itself in my memory
The vast possibilities of harm not
To be dwelt upon or given second thought
But only to venture onwards in relief
Gain the summit where at the top of Gladsheim
A cairn with names written to be added to
And survey mountain range upon range
Unknown by name to me reaching
Into endless horizon and mystery.
We ate our lunch in the wonder of
Creation's form and rested to begin
The long descent with me relying
On the soon to be worn out
Seat of my jeans.

I gained an unearned reputation
From my fellow mountaineers that day
For being a talented climber, fearless
Thus nvited to scramble the Batwing I ran
Into fear from not being roped into
Safe passage along small edges
Wavering dangerously in my own mind
Did my discomfort manifest itself I wonder.

And then midweek it snowed
All hiking ceased as large white flakes
Descended on the alpine flowers
The reds, blues and yellows
The purple and greens mixed with
Falling white that melted
Upon the ground as I
Walked through the small meadows
Amazed by the mystery of this beauty
Filled with joy in the whispers
The silent happiness in this lonely place.

The final mountain ascent of Asgard
Through swirling mists we
Carefully climbed into the clouds
Hurrying past us on urgent business
Perhaps the souls swirling from earth
Were passing by and then were left behind
As above the clouds we stood
Their thick cotton wool texture hiding the valley
With only the mountain peaks dark and pointed
Piercing this eiry stillness like lone sentinels
Guarding the movement of all time
As the clouds slowly rose to engulf us
Flowing into the vast unknown to
Treasure as memory.

Camp Lourdes

It is the rain
Drumming on the aluminum roofs
In the warmth of a summer storm
That are memories of summer camp
Echoing in the maze of memory.

For the first time I walked
The miles along the railroad tracks
Running close behind the camp
Perched on a sandy spit
Up against the shoulder of the
Mountain slope leaning close
Towards the lake.
I still feel the trembling of the ground
As the train rumbled past
In daytime or in night's late hours
The smell of the tar coated ties
Weighing on the hot summer air
The heat radiating off the steel ties
As around the corner the train
Would suddenly appear to thunder  by
Into the passing distance.

Much of my life ran through
This little piece of paradise
The threads of my future
Entwining in the web that is my life still
Filled with the light reflecting off the sunlit waters
Or the moonlight a beckoning path
Cutting through the silent darkness
After the leaves that sang with the
Breezes blowing off the afternoon lake
Fell quiet for the night.

There were sorrows too
Youthful dreams that wandered
Dangerously towards the shadows
The bitter truth of human failings
Especially my own
But it is the quiet
Inside the small wooden
Clapboard chapel
With the hiss of the propane lamps
Illuminating with beauty
The eternal drama of salvation
That  urged and fed the youthful soul.
The old wooden launch plied
The waters between
Shores busy and quiet
Those seven years that took
My youth in stride.

One final night the campfire
Sending sparks and our voices
Up into the night sky
Grew cold as dawn's fingers
Crept over the morning horizon
As we sat huddled in the cool morning air
Aware we were saying goodbye
To a privileged time.
I have more memories to mine one day
Now that the camp is gone
I see it on the shore from a distance
Now a stranger's summer property
But I still hear childrens voices
Echo where time has taken its rest.

A Safe Refuge

At sixteen the world
Is still a new place
While young to leave home
Many have begun their vocation
Indeed, it was a year
To learn the gifts given
For eager I had set off
A new school, in a new town
An extension of summer camp
With new friend's met
A chance given to be at a
School run by my faith.

Without regrets, oh, callow youth
I dusted off my hometown roots
Sailing into adventure wide-eyed
Safe in my journey, not looking back.
But in three weeks time
The reality of my change
Hit my youthful optimism
My feet slipping and unable to feel
The rug of familiar ties.

So to the church I fled
One night, plotted carefully
Aided by my room mate
I brought my sleeping bag
Tucked it under the side tabernacle altar
And hid beneath until the church
Was to be locked for the night.
I could see the priest
Genuflect in front of me
His eyes not directed downward
Preoccupied in thought
As I held my breath
And then he was gone and I
With the Lord above me
Was all alone.

Ah, the silence broken at last
By an outpouring of youthful tears
The aisles paced in the safety of solitude
As I wondered out loud
At my hastily chosen fate
My newly made friends
Had busy lives
It was I who had the task at hand
To find my way
Sustained with prayers from home.

At last I was calm
Tired from the struggle
To sort my confusing thoughts
I sang as I sat on the altar stairs
Not unlike the times of old
When music raised questions
Before the Lord.
Then weary I crept to
My bed upon the floor
My heart emptied and still
And there I slept until
Awoken at six when a vigil
Candle glass exploded.

It's true that dawn
Brings hope
Stiff and sore but content
I listened for the elderly
Caretaker to finish his morning prayers
I carefully appeared in a pew
Aware that his eyes were suspicious
At the hair unkempt and the noiseless entrance
But I kept my head down
Ready for my coming year.

It was in this church
Almost forty years later
Face down on the floor
Our new shepherd
Received his ordination
The Church sending forth
Future's hope into the world and
Safe refuge for Her own.

The Heat of Summer

When the sun
Bears down on the earth
To bring the bustle and noise of the world
To slow motion and to rest
It is the lazy
Tsch, tsch, of the tall sprinklers
At work in the hay fields
That speak to me of summer and the
Oppressive heat where the lone
Loud chorus of grasshoppers sing intently
In the tall grass and sweet smelling
Alfalfa soon to be mowed and
Left lying in hillside sun 
To dry in rows, then haystacks
Stored in the barn's loft
For the winter's feed.

In irony, I, who was born
On one of the hottest of summer days
Was usually reduced
To a blubbering  puddle of tears
Unable to bear the heat that usually
Marked my passing years in time.
In the aftermath of my meltdowns
The acacia spread its
Branches in kindness
To shade me from the sweltering rays
Where I could sit and listen
To the sounds of summer's song.

Or sometimes on the covered front porch
I would gently swing in the little hammock
Watching the late afternoon sun
Dance in the Virginia creeper leaves
And  then we would be friends again
The sun and I.

The Liturgical Ghetto

Here in the heart
The home of God's house
Lies in ruins,
A ghetto filled with
The filth of indifference,
God now forgotten
As man glorifies himself.

It is a fearsome place.
No longer the refuge found
When I was young,
And my rosary was a train
To wile the time that weighed
Heavy to a young child.
Peace was always to be found in
God given silence that spoke
To my little soul.

The music in this church
No longer whispers
Heavenly anticipation.
Hades shouts its melodies
To beat and harass us.
I would avoid this place of torment
Except that He is here.
I hang on in hope
That the clamoring world will be sent
Outside once more.

Here in this liturgical ghetto
There is a stench and darkness in the air
Loathsome creatures that scurry
The rats are in charge of the ship,
Who like jailers
Would beat us without mercy
With their egos and vile interpretations.
I pray for hope,
That this sad time will
Pass before I do.

From the Edge of Mystery

Life has a lonliness in
Choices to be made
And it is we who chose
Within the uncertain
Reality in mystery veiled
As I stand on the
Edge of time passing
And pray for courage
To endure the changes
Inevitable in future guise.

It has taken time to learn
That hope does not have expectations
But a trust
In the goodness of the
Divine will stirring
The currents of life that
Find hidden places
To dwell in fullness.

Here on the edge I hover as if on
A sheer rock face
Shaped by the ages
Belonging to this world's past
Where grows the nodding plants
Gathering moisture
Falling from the mists now
Shrouding the river from sight
The clouds moving with urgency
Towards a valley filled with
The grace, as yet, to me unknown.

In the June Air

The breezes off the river
June filled scents intense
On the moist air filled with
Wild roses in gentle pink bloom
Their feet wet in the rising waters
Now swelling against the river's bank
With waves that sounding lap
Moving all shapes of the
Driftwood riding on changing
Times in the spring run off.

I hear the whispers in the trees
From leaves dancing in the
Arms of the wind
And suddenly I am
Young again in the fragrance of
Wild roses
Floating on the breezes
Filling my silence with
Scented sweetness
Uniting me with
The maternal soul I once stood quietly with
In the nourishing of all life
Shimmering like the sun
Across the surface of
Memory.

Paradise

The iron bars on the gates
To the Paradise filled with beauty
Locked against these poor
Mortal ways
The flaming swords
Angels fiercely wield
Against the pitiful plans
This grass we are.

Five wounds
Blood flowing from
Became the key
The gates swing wide
The price being paid
And tiptoe I through
To hide inside
The lifeless form
Nailed to the tree of
Mystery.

I saw death
Slink away to hide
Its weary form
Thrown down beneath
Your Love overflowing
Drowning my sins
In a red sea
I cross unto a desert
One day to bloom
In flowered times
To sing in praise
Always.

The Echoes of Failure

My failures hang from
My frame in rags
Blowing like tatters
On the wind
As I fall to the ground
My house of cards
Imploding in slow motion
Taking endless seconds
For complete collapse.

A knife stab to the
Central vein a cut
Across the throat
I saw the picture as
You lay in a pool of blood
Fallen victim of
Demon hate so alive
In our poor world.

In this complete annihilation
Hope buried yet again
The desert drying all
Bones watered by tears
I light a candle taper
Watch it burn down
Into the sand
This taper traveled from
Our mother's last dwelling
In Ephesus.
The loneliness of my
Failures to disappear into the
Thinness of air
Your spirit now free
To taste all
The fruit of your labors.

In memory of Bishop Luigi Padovese ofm cap  R.I.P.

The Tiny Wings of Remembrance

May is the month of Mary
When the hummingbirds return
Arriving in our garden after
Their long journey
Come north
Some to stay to build their nests
These amazing little travelers
Energetic acrobats of the air.

I've learned to ready their feeders
Now that the cherry tree they loved
Is only memory
They scold me if I forget
Stricken my own heart
To find the feeder empty
When the nights
Can still turn bitter cold.

I love the sound of
Their buzzing
Metallic and noisey
Fierce competitors
Territories fought for
Sometimes I think
The country hummingbirds
Seem more friendly
Memories of lazy summer
Sharings on the east shore
Gatherings of the little birds
Without battle drums
But I wasn't there in spring.

Spring is intensely green
Life bursting forth these
Feathered bombers
Dive at me as I garden
Glad they don't have teeth
Or giant stingers.
Yesterday a rusty colored
Curious member of
Their family
Sat on a post close by
Eyed me
Friend or foe, flower or
Competition?
At least they can at times
Be still
I sense their friendship.

The last visit with my father
In his tiny care room
He rested quietly content with
Visioning his waiting elders
From beyond the veil
While I sat close by and
Watched a show about
The hummingbird
Its habitat under pressure
In the solemn measure
When life is in a balance.

It was my final good-bye
Quietly taken before
My father slipped away
In the unusual heat of
June's feast of the Sacred Heart.
I still remember
A large yellow butterfly
Flew by the funeral church steps
As I sat in the hearse waiting
And it was there at the graveyard
Fluttering by the tombs
And in the cool of the lakeside
Where later the mourners gathered.


Each time I see one of
These small winged creatures
Flying through my eye lines
There is always a
Tugging at my heart
Making me stop to
Nurse my remembrance.

Shipwreck

There are dangerous shoals
Lurking in the waters
The shipwreck of souls
Who make bad choices
That leave them
Broken on the rocks of
Their own willfulness.

It is a sad sight
This wreckage of families
The bitterness of
Abandonment
The mental illness of
Trapped minds.

How we all bear such souls
Often with chains of misery
Or sadness drowning
Hope floating only
With the mercy of God's goodness
Source of grace and saving
In this broken world.

Homage to Mary Magdalene

When you met
Our Blessed Mother
Her beauty must have
Brought you to your knees
Stripped bare like a tree
Blown by ruthless winter winds
To rise again
Your worldly appearances
No longer left intact
Those devils that fill
Our human frames
Sent packing by
Tears of repentance
Washing the feet of holiness.

You were surely the black
Sheep of your family
A deadly trap for
Foolish ways
Facing into your public
Humiliation overcome with love
Pouring ointment where
Indifference and neglect
Looked the other way
The tension between you
And the traitor who
Held the purse strings
Palpable down through time
As you felt the
Angry tides coming
For Him you loved.

At the foot of the
Most frightful event
In history
Forged in a fire I
Can only be a pauper's share
You took your place
In the new beginning
With Mary and the
Beloved young man
There at the foot of
Salvation.

It was your privilege
Sent into the garden that early morn
Carrying spices in your sorrow
Salve for the wounds of
Death now gone from the tomb
Stolen from your eyes
Unable to recognize the form
Gracing the garden
Only your ears caught the truth
His voice
Resounding glorified
As you in homage kissed
The pierced feet
Afraid to lose Him
Once again
But He would stay awhile
He said, no need to
Be afraid.

Your reputation down
Through the ages
Lies buried in mystery
Your last years spent in prayer
Nursing the tiny shoot
Planted with such loving cost
In time
With the beloved young man
You bid farewell
Unto heaven's gate she whose
Beauty first stayed your
Searching soul
Sustaining you always within her
Tenderness
Gone forward into glory
Her son's Spirit the fiery life now
Burning in your beating heart.

The Ferryman

Along a passage way of
Flowing river pressed by the valleys
I grew up with images and sounds
Passing below my window
My bird's eye view
Watched the slow descent
Boom laden tugs through
Narrows in the distance
Drawing close and always
Heading west heavy with burden.

On a daily schedule
The rumble of the trains
Reverberating from across
The opposite shore
Hurrying in both directions slowly
The boxcars rocking
The squeal of brakes on winding
Tracks with horns blasting
Late into the night
Vibrating across the waters
Rocked gently to sleep.

I was thus taught
My vocation like the ancient
Greeks, the mariners of old
With their ferryman that
Rowed the dead across
The river Styx
To enter through the narrow
Gates of judgment Death.

Humble was the learning
Such task given in the silence
A school of images burned
Deep in memory as tracks
Of servitude, steel lines
Across my soul
The boxcars ever full of
Needy dead some still alive
The boom growing larger
As I toil with souls within
My soul towards the eternal shore.

Family

It is interesting
This reality called family
Filled with individuals
From different planets
Sitting down to
The same breakfast table
Day after day.

Time presses us
Together
As we go our separate ways
Trained by our circumstance
The youngest
Many years behind
It was my fate
To stay at home
My sentence for being
Too young
As busy with their lives
My siblings grew.

How could I complain
To be left behind with such
A beautiful mother
But cry I did
Indignant again and again
Did it make my bones grow strong
These tears
That taught me
With my place
To be content.

Pause

The fallen leaves of
My words on water
Floating merrily
Bubbling on top
Spring fed streams
Chortling 
Caught in the currents
Into a back eddy
Bobbing content
Against the river bank
The words I write will
Pause.

Thankfulness for
All the kind words
The encouragement
To the poet with promise
When next the Muse
Bothers me
I will with
Arm twisted out of my corner
Send a few poems
For you to read
When the time is right.

This back eddy
Could last awhile
Always to be
Unpredictable
In release
These traveling leaves
From a poet's heart
In search of the river's
Depth.

Hallowed Eve Vigil

Written in 1977

The world came down
Like a load
All day
The world's voices
Echoed through
My hallways
Ghosts and goblins
Taking their last assaults
On saints
They've failed to cast down
(I anticipate the day)

Tonight
A voice behind a curtain
In the dark confessional
Peace
A candle glowing
Behind the church windows.

I am standing outside
On this cold October eve
A door closed
Your image resigned
Its specter.

Tomorrow
The light will dawn
East and west
From north and south
God's friends
Assemble triumphant.

Words

I have such
Gratitude of debt
Owed to the
Workers of words
Honing their craft
To pour upon the page
Perhaps to
Send through time
A silent symphony
My inner ear
Catches with delight
Held spellbound by
The resonance of the
Tone
Comfort of wisdom's
Arrows
Dwelling in the home of the heart
St. Bonaventure
Called us all
Little words
Words
We speak to each other
Even without knowing
We can be
Tone deaf or
We can be
In tune.

Lea

Ten years you shared
Life with us
Standing in the doorway
That fateful summer day
Tall and willowlike
Quiet mind, musical fingers
Intelligent laughter.

You were our company
When times were hard
In exile our souls had gone
Across the ocean miles
In search of a place
Beyond tyranny
You shared our tears
And laughter.

Three small children
Called you mother
When illness began
Its final designs on you
How we struggled
Against the relentless and
Slow descent
Into the smothering of
Life's breath
Your last year was
Spent with another's
Heart and lungs
Medical marvel
Doctor's casebook of
Experiment
You felt your person
Disappear into
The anonymous halls of
Science with only
A future for others
As you lie in your sweet grave
We tend in the spring
Visiting a place of repose and
Care for your children
Now grown tall
Past childhood.

I wish we could have
Spoken more but
Underneath the silent words
All sensed your departure
Sorrow and mystery held our
Tongues
But not our tears
As you left the
Small children
Still their mother
From across the grave
Speaking to them
In silent music
Directing their hearts
To blossom.

Inside of Me

Written in 1977

So what to the
Tear stains on the page
So what to the
Life I live
So what.

It's so easy
To be black
And white
The pull is there
To freak out inside.

It must be gravity
Earth versus heaven.

Meanwhile
Here on earth
Watching clouds
Moonlight
Twinkling stars
Gazing heavenward
It's hard
Trying to be up there
Down here.

Oh, I've said it all before
This suspension
Repetitious to the comma
Endless lines in poems
But you see
It's like this
Inside
Right now.

In the instant
Betwixt inhaling-exhaling
All is swept away
Snatched
The light bulb shattered.

Please excuse
My absence from the scene
Deep inside
I'm seeing myself
Without the light on.

A Little Confession

Written August 12, 1977 from the dark night of the soul

I'm afraid of pain
Today
Kneeling in the pew
The crucifix
On my left
Frightened me a bit
It was the depth
Breadth and height
Of Jesus to suffer
Such a Passion
It overwhelms me
Hiding behind a pillar
Didn't help
He was up there
And I wasn't.

I'm afraid of pain
Today.
I'm not always
So trembling of soul
It's when I behold
How little
I can bear
I become afraid of
The next onslaught
Always worse than before
The specter
Towers threatening
Hovering dark above me.

From behind my cowering position
I send
A silent plea
I don't understand
But please
Don't let me run away.

Poverello

I would not venture
Beyond the confines
This valley sets
Declining an invitation
To visit your home
Many miles a far
My sister brought me back
A small crucifix of
The One who spoke to you
My father a small purse
Graced with the picture of
Your hillside town
A wallet usually empty
As befits you
Poverello.

We did not meet except
Passing in time of
Sadness you called out
A melody heard
Gone again
Until one eve before the tabernacle
Did appear in my mind's eye
In company
The soul stamped with your
Image bearing his cross
You who loved
Brothers tenderly
Keep company with your sons
Raising their hearts with your comfort
To love beyond this world.

Now that you in heaven
Shine through clouds that cover
I am pierced with thoughts of you
I stumble to follow the tune
Poverty not always
Easy to bear each day
But then
There is always tomorrow
Let me show forth my hands like yours
Marked with love of Him
Searching into our hearts
Let me be with you
In harmony enfolded
Poverello.

The Annual Parish Retreat

Written in 1977, an attempt at satire or was it just frustration?

Well, my dear the out of town experts
Are conducting retreat
Our annual religious expression
They've driven for miles, isn't that a big clue
To bring a new message to me and to you
And stir our parish to fervor.

It's our once a year spiritual diversion
A week-end to ignore the kids
Our usual demur is not quite secure
Only Monday at nine will cure us.

It's so nice that the experts are ladies
Out of town ones are always so nice
They're experts on religious positions
A retreat lead by them is the life.

They shine and they smile kindly on us
Make us feel the whirl of good times
We goo and we gag we don't know we've been had
By a case of the week-end whirlies.

Well, the ladies are gone our parish is quiet
Things are back to their mundane routine
I'm used to the fact next year they'll be back
For another short term impression.

Fr. Monaghan

My heart is very sore
Bitter illness in my soul
Bears a heavy burden
Memory
Shifting as I shovel
Garden chores
Muttering to myself
At life's complexities.

Untouched by your
Evil habits
It was strange how
I undertook
To write a story
Prepare a public presentation for
Your anniversary
Trying to find good
To say of all your
Years a pastor
Unknown to us at the time your
Preying
Hiding behind a devotion
To our Lady
Oh, falseness
Oh, double scandal
Finding only reluctant
Help for my task
Your flock fading
Unavailable for comment
To my
Inquiring
I did my job and
Quickly disappeared
Back to my safe distance.

When you were finally
Caught out
So much destruction in your wake
The young girls
Just minions for
Your secrets, their innocence
Sacrificed on the altar
Of your lust
The touch of soft things
Accumulating
Delights decaying
Cutting them off from
The Light with
Pretensions to a good
Reputation which locked
The door on your victims and
The truth.

I do not know
If you in heaven
A place have
Found or do you
Lie in Hell
Whose master you
Chose so long ago
And served so faithfully.

Breviary

Can one sing praise to
A hymn of praise?
Starting small the
Psalter of 150 beads to toll
Into words of the psalms and
The writing of souls who
Faithful mined
The depths.

I speak of the breviary
Whose solace
Through
Sorrow and desolation
One day at a time
I crawl forward
Leaning on these holy words.

Small steps into a
Big universe
Praise for the praise of
Him who began
Taking death out
Putting life in
Exposing the glory
Midst the nails
Joining the voices
Carried always on
The wind.

Perhaps one day my voice
Will lift its tomorrow
Wings to be heard
Beyond these hills.

One February Day

Written February 28, 1978

All there remains now
Is to turn my bones over
To the undertakers
From there all proceeds as normal.
In the olden days my corpse would
Rock and jostle in the wooden cart
Drawn by horses well used to
The cemetery path
The limousines drive this way now
We bounce over ruts
Swerve to avoid potholes
The mourners in the front of this hearse
Chatter loudly
Only the popcorn is missing.

Ah, I hear the sods falling
All motion has ceased
The priest intones the prayers
Handing these bones
To dust.

Over the cemetery
An evening winter sky
Spreads pale in pastel blues and pink
A fresh coat of snow has fallen
As if denying
Spring's coming.
The house lights are twinkling
On the far hillside
Slowly night will be falling
A deep silence settles among these
Tombstones of darkening granite.

Gone the mourners
The noisy limousines
I wait.
Down the tree-lined boulevard
Dripping with melting snow
Tinged with sunset
I see my Maker walking.

Waiting for You to Reply

Written June 1985

Today we have met, you and I
Within the sacredness of His wounded Heart
The miles divide only mortal ways
You in Rome
And I....
The mists hang heavy in this
Mountain vale
The rain a symphony
Sounding against the gray and greens
Canada.

Time weights heavy
Youth is not patient
So I grow old
But...
The cold damp days
Are but watchfires
Burning long into the night.

Ordination

Written in 1990

Standing on Fraser street
In the late afternoon
The drizzle of rain
This Friday, the feast day
Of a Child
Presented according to the law
Both sorrow and greatness
Lie in his future
And we
In the waning light
Of a coastal winter's day
Wait for the bus
To the heart of the city
Pierced by the spires of
The Archbishop's cathedral
Standing guard
Midst the towering buildings
Above the drone of the traffic
And the sea of people
Swirling through the streets.

Yesterday we arrived
A day's journey by car
Down from the mountains
The road
Snow covered and treacherous
With predictions of
Unusual storms ahead.
All this we endure
To take a privileged place
At the ordination of
Our bishop.

Standing on Fraser street
Nervous with anticipation
The moment arrives
To descend upon the city
Unfamiliar to me
Unlike my companions
Who called this city home
So many years ago.

We ride with the school children
Past a large cemetery
So quiet in the bustle
And February rain.
The ethnic faces new
I watch them come and go
Each stop the bus
Rocks its passengers
Pressed together
The window wipers
Loud rhythm of
City traffic
Heading home.

How happy I am not to drive
I can still hear
The sickening sound
Metal catching on cement
Unhurt but stuck we were
A cement divider
Hidden under snow, caught us
In the darkness of
Our entry into
Vancouver.
Only kindness moved us again
A good Samaritan
With chain and four wheel drive
Under the supervision
Of flashing red and blue lights
The policeman directs
Traffic
The big white car
So sadly marooned
Slides free.
What portent this?
Speak, I will listen.

In darkness,
Unfamiliar
The traffic too pressing
I make a wrong turn
Exhausted by the travel
And the weather.
We have waited so long
For this occasion
We take our bruises.

As time counts down
We walk the streets
Downtown the places
Whose names are
Familiar
The rain now deluges
Whipped by an ocean wind
Wrapping around the
People that hurry by
I see the city sights
But it is the cathedral
That draws my mind.

The moment arrives
The mood festive
Overflowing
The church fills with people
Anticipation
Flows from the dark street
We step into the
Lighted warmth
That draws us in
The chill falling away
The dampness left behind
We are home
And have always been welcome
Here
With the sculptured saints
Watching down from the heights
Such old friends
Gathered to celebrate
This evening's triumph
Heaven's hand
Has surely been at work.

With the music
The congregation rises
The procession begins
The priests file by
The brotherhood strengthened
By the call of
One of their own.
The bishops in their tall white
Hats, long white robes
Some faces healthy
Others pinched by the warmth
Of orthodoxy.
The archbishop weighed by illness
Leans on the arms of
A young priest
Sweet in his youthfulness
It catches the heart
His painful walk
As joyfully he gives
A son of his church
To shepherd a flock
That wanders on
A mountain pasture
Cut from rocky slopes.

The first glimpse
Our bishop-elect
Eyes cast downwards
Oh, God has delivered
You a burden
How He proves His love
This God of ours.

There is one among
This crowd
He is not pleased to see us
His face a deathly hue
I know too well
A hardened heart
Making us set out
Leaving Egypt in the dust
With straw bricks
And no first born sons.

We listen to the voices
The Archbishop warming
To his task
His voice made strong
By words faithfully spoken
The sheep trust the
Voice
That does not hide the truth.

Lying face down
The ordination begins
The saints are invited
One by one
To witness the Apostolic succession
Carefully nurtured.

The fullness of the priesthood
Henceforth
Ours to cherish
Like his frail mother
Who sits bright-eyed in her
Wheelchair
Her gift to the church
To be repaid soon
As God will call her name
In six weeks hence.

But that is
In future time
Tonight grace floods
The soul that will toil
Where we have toiled
To keep the Faith
That overflows around
These cathedral walls
Washing darkness
Back to the nether world.

Afterward
Standing at a distance
Joy shines in our bishop's eyes
Such waves of love
Surround him
Buoying for the trying
Times ahead
Urged on by Christ
Who will one day
If only in death make
Us friends.

The city streets
Are empty now
I would be afraid to
Be alone
We catch the bus
With the girls off
Evening shift
Their voices becoming
Only a murmur
As we leave the city behind.

Pain

Written May 5, 1977

Oh, pain, you rule my bones, you
Walking down the streets
In search
Of the alleys in my soul
Kicking the tin cans
That trap my loves
Throwing rocks at my face
And lurking behind,
Behind bushes.

Broken glass, rusty nails
Underfoot, overhead, face to face.
Evening comes cold
Brilliant clear night
Rain washed, white fenced
We walk
Straight ahead
Hand in hand
Pain and I.

It's not that we are always
Friends
Our paths have crossed today
More than usual.
Meanwhile
Walking dirt roads
Watching back stairs
Peering hopefully
Into back yards
New garden shoots
Tiny in such evening
Chill.

Bernadette

Privation did not spare
Your early years
Destitute
In poverty's grip
Too slow to learn
Sent to watch the sheep instead
Nature your companion
Prayer your thoughts.

One day when gathering sticks
Your life changed
Mystery's Lady
Bearing the gift of healing to this
Torn world
Gave you Her message
Scorned by the busy
Your steady faith endured
As word quickly spreads
The crowds arrive
Searching for a cure
Or the Mother's touch
Their flow like the holy water's
Not stopping since.

Bernadette
Little servant of
Hope
In a convent your later years
Despised by your superior
Her middle class pretensions
Harsh to your peasant ways
Humbly borne
In your final illness
No healing had been promised
The throes of death
Reveal your Lady and
Tender now is your repose
In silent sweetness
A fallen flower sleeping
Before the altar on high.

Life's Tiny Creeks

One day in spring
A tiny creek
That murmured through
Tree roots
Underneath an old trestle tall
With no trains
Across
Down to a farmer's field
All green and flat
To slip into a larger creek
Disappear beyond the hills
Was set upon by debris
That blocked its cheerful flow
Until pressure unbearable
Released it from the dam
Took out some trestle posts
Spread mud on every
Side
Coming to rest in the farmer's field.

I see the human soul
Not unlike
This small creek
Pressure becoming
Unbearable
Makes us change
The results often messy
Even unto hurt.

Then again
The life of the imagination
Laboring, bent under
Growing tension
Pummeled by intensity
Surrounded on all sides
Suddenly
A new song is born
A painting finished
A novel with its own world
And landscape
Changes forever
Time shifts
Broken to be born again.

The Journey of Friends

Written in 1977

Issuing forth
Colors and trumpets
Marching
From my imagination
Come
Angry thoughts
You want to be the best
Well, you are you know
Always have
So don't take it out on me.

How much is
Bear one another's burdens
A part of the picture
A missing link
A thing unknown
Until afterward
When the price is right?

I am the rocks
You the stream
I give you a foothold
You tumble the stones
My stones soon
Sharp edged no more
Your water
Grown clear as
We flow beyond the sea.

The Case of the Missing Images

Written February 6, 1978

I have chased images all day
Butterflies couldn't be
More elusive.
The Muse I've never met
Didn't bother to show
I thought I heard her sneeze
Somewhere in the kitchen sink.

Oh, images are fine
It's these half-baked
Unformed pieces of my imagination
That get me.
They've been flitting
In my brain for weeks
A side view, new beginnings,
Fragments, jostling together
Then gone, gone
Disappeared no less.

Perhaps they live
In the pit called my mind
And come like bats
From their caves
Swooping under street lights
Only to disappear into the night.

Before Epiphany

Written January 5,1978  with a nod to T.S.Eliot

Restless
Restless
Pacing the rooms, one to the other
No books will be my friend for long
Good heavens. What is it?

I can't eat, too fat already
Can't play my violin, couldn't anyway
The snow's too deep for walking 
My friend's are talked out
And I'm faking this poem.

The main cause of unrest
A theory maybe
The Christmas tree lights are on
But here in my soul
The inn still has no room
The sky is empty of angels
The stable's guests are sleeping and
The shepherds have returned to
Their flocks.

In this quiet night
It's just me and the three kings
Reliving the long, weary road
Following that far off twinkling star
Restless
Restless
Until the journey's end.

Heart

I often wonder at
My heart
Such a crack in the wall
Of my defenses
Always getting caught
Behind enemy lines.

It's like a
Garden
Has its seasons
Endlessly repeated
Gratefully
Where I'm always weeding
Getting sunburned
Toiling endlessly.

If I didn't have a
Heart
I suppose I would
Be dead
And that would
Never do
I would miss the
Flowering times
And the fragrant lilt
On the scented breeze.

Litany of Complaints

Dear Lord
I know you've heard
All this before
Droned into Your ear
Repeated through the ages
Man's infidelity
To Love's gesture
The enemies capturing
Yet again
Your very Spouse and
Bride
Of which You warned so long ago
It's not the enemy at the gate
I fear but
Those within these gates
Disfigured in form
Their willful ways that
Leave us to suffer
In the pews
Lashed with ugly music
The Orc chorus in full swing
Spiced dish of restlessness with
The latest fashion
In heresy.

One with those in prison we
Languish
Beaten and starved
Left to die along
Cruel paths of tortured
Language
Refusing to invoke their
False gods
Please give us patience to
Endure
Until the dawn of grace
Or we take wings
And leave no footprints
To be found.

The Case Against Myself

Written in 1977

I am a prisoner
Chained in fear
I live in a vacuum
Each moment is
A threat
A poisoned dart
Ready to be fatal.

Sometimes the sun
Shines through.
It makes the blackness
Blacker.

And so I went upstairs
Slammed the door
In my own face
This being an
Old friend
Is a damn piece of business.

Look who rebels
Look at the oppression
Flying thick through
The air
Such rebellion
When I'm faced with
What I preach.

Three Small Poems

Written in 1977

MEMORIES
Too dark they come
Too dark to consider
Or love.
Timeless they remain until
On some daylight's wane
Or cloudy sky above
They come trembling,
Slipping into words
I couldn't speak then.


TO ST.CATHERINE OF SIENA
Before my eyes
I watch you work,
Taking the bones
Of human rot
And carefully
Bit by bit
Build a temple
Of pulsing life
Not minding
That its final form
Has yet to be
Completed.

DEVILS
I feel you biding your time
I resent you hovering
Always around
Always around.

Damn my impatience I say
Go ahead, go
But you won't
Until you're ready.

A Child's Belief

When I was young
I firmly believed
Stepping on a spider
Made it rain.
I was convinced
Careful to keep
Such an event at bay
I suppose
Living in a rainy place
Didn't figure in my thoughts
Not relevant at all.

I also knew I must never
Wear green and blue
Together, so said the rhyme
I thought Santa Claus
A grand excitement
And the tooth fairy
Was just great
After all, losing a tooth
Was traumatic and
A reward was to the point.

Alas, I grow old
To lose a tooth
Merely tells of my
Mortal ways and
Spiders in the house are
Gently put outside
But then
It seems at times
We sure could use
The rain.

Padre Pio

There is a friar
Who walks
The roadways
Of my mind
Did step into
Our living room
One dark November eve
From the memoirs
Of one who sought his
Help
Found encouragement
For her brave journey
That settled on an eastern
Shore not far from here.

The barriers of language
Crumbled at their meeting
The rosary he blest
Gave grace to that
Far off shore
Where one spring
I lay upon the warming
Ground and felt comfort
Rise through the earth
To heal my sad, crushed form.

The November he came
In promise to abide with
The presence of his brother
Who bore the burden of the
Banner raising this friar
To the ranks of the saints
Within the week, to be named
Our shepherd sent to
Guide and love
In gift with this friar
God's company to blossom
On the roadways of life
We must travel on.

The Mind

At times
When I would rather be
Asleep in night's rest
My mind awakens
To race about in
Morn's wee hours,
Pursuing poetic images
Starting another day
Before I've shed the last.

And I helpless thus
Left to be
A watch fire in the
Night from
Driftwood bleached by sun
Gathered from the rocks
Lying littered from past storms
And endless waves.

I am the crackle
Of fire
Sending sparks
Into the night sky,
A beacon
From a distant
Shore
The ashes white
In the awakening
Of dawn
Scattered
By the rising
Winds.

I am a watch fire
In the night
Along the solitary
Shore.
They also serve
Who only lie awake.

The Shadow

I shadow you, I am
Hidden in the folds of
Reality,
Framed in a window,
Lurking in shrubbery
I dash into your
Heart
Pitch my tent
And dream of better times
When God
Is not trampled
By this crowd.

I stalk the inner
Workings of your mind
Send bread
And weapons
To house small birds
That flit among
My tangled thoughts.

I am your shadow
Beneath your feet
I send prayers
To bother Heaven
Disturb their peace
Until they hear
The shadow on
Your wall.

Fourteen Years Ago

Written August 13, 1985

Sam Jimmy.

The icy waters
Stole you from your new found home,
They sent you back
To rest, in early spring
Still frozen ground
Yielding to
Mud.

You left a little book
Scribbled thoughts,
A long way from home
Too old for eighteen
But then,
I didn't know you
Or why
Death served its notice.

I was only a face in the corridor
Just another white kid.

An invitation
To make the journey
Distant miles
We, your peers
Stepping into the unknown.

The reserve.
Culture shock.

We are late.
Inside the community hall
Lined with benches
Of silent people,
Their eulogy completed
I find a corner
To hide in.
Your coffin is carefully
Placed in the back of a
Datsun pick-up
That moves slowly, mud swishing
To the tiny church
Unlocked for the occasion.

Inside
The ill-at-ease
The prayers in response
Are barely audible
My voice seems
Too loud
I panic at
Communion for no-one
Moves
And it is I who step
Forward
But only a few
Follow.

Round behind the abandoned
Structure, the school empty
But looming
Its windows no longer beckoning
Or peered through
The snow still lay near the trees
Dried grasses trapped and
The graveyard
Frozen.

Your friends have gathered.

On the outskirts
I stand beside the horses' pasture
The barbed wire
The empty bottles
Lying as they have fallen
As if in homage, at the feet
Of the fence posts.
And the images, like snapshots
Imprinted on my mind
The shutter clinking
Again,
And again.

Back at the church, footsteps
No longer echoing
We clean
To lock it up
It gathers dust and is
A remnant of happier days.

On the back porch
I am startled by
A large statue,
St. Joseph
Old and weathered
Standing alone
On the wooden stair
Watching.
I turn to follow his gaze
Past the trees
Clustered near the church
I can see
Over the meadows
With fences running toward
A tall towering mountain range
Its peaks obscured
By the shroud
Of the day's gray clouds.

In the silence
The rain begins to gently fall
I look at him.
He has been here
On this porch
Waiting
For a long, long time
Sam Jimmy.