Chatham-Kent 5. The Blue Planet

The Blue Planet

I was born of blue,

of the waters of Erie fair

in the southern-most

bottom of this warm

opening of a new nation.

Born of the waters of

Matrilineage:

Mother born of the fast-

flowing St. Clair,

taking in ships and families

with her  - once old

then fresh;

slow and gentle pools

bay at its end signaling

the place to birth

and bequeath.

Grandmother born of the

Atlantic, a deep wide

sequestered expanse with

room to keep memories

afloat, or

let them sink to

the dark sands of Poseidan’s

private waters.

Where a commitment

must be steadfast

for there is

no return fare, in

this country of blue.

I was born of blue,

the colour that calms

my heart,  waves

that lull my thoughts, lovers

that wash me

on this ‘Blue Planet’.

ETs of red or green

or brown know us not-

just as Blue.

Chatham-Kent 4. The night the music ended

The night the music ended

Leonard says he’s

always loved

to dance

Disco night at the

Gallery or

when he was 26 and met

Sharon.

She thought he was

boring, arrogant

even full of  it

but he showed her -

him

dancing, at first

the swing,

then twisting, moving

to the sound as his brush

with a life all its own.

Not like today.

Then there were

regular dances

couples taking a drag

and making out:

lips locked in dark

corners. Feeling

movement, sensations

soft, liquid.

Today art cost the

corner artist 50%

60% in Toronto.

And there are no dances

cigarettes dark anywhere;

ostracized to the light.

Now he

stands still

quiet.

Reproach ending

the dance.

Chatham-Kent 3. Built Lines

On the occasion of artist Lorie Thibault’s exhibit, “I Walk the Lines” (September 24, 2015):

Built lines anchor

structures of brick, granite,

wood slats

to their ground.

dependent axes of studio windows and

blinds,

lost lighthouse shingles and

Parisien balcons bleeding

smoky residue onto the

masts of tall Seine ships

running down, down -

one with gravity

to the floor of our world.

Natural lines curve up,

 just enough

for mathematicians to puzzle

the Poinsot of ragwood leaves, the

Klein quartics of peonies,

Euler spiral snails and

rhododendron catenaries -

all growing contrary to

the epicycloid center of

  construction.

“If a tree falls in a bog”;

if “Number 7” windows

fall into disarray of their

tidy y-axes; what

“distraught iron” wouldn’t

leave its prim ‘inside’

lines for the

softening,

curving, widening

release of Gaia?

In the end, all

lines flowing to

the independent

x-chromo our

“Neighbour”

right beside us.

Chatham-Kent 2. 11,000+ Heroes

11,000 +

George, Mildred, Jack, Hugh, Pauline, Bob,

Harry the names of the Past

preserved for the future

here.

Our names.

“If I don’t make it home…” he wrote.

What will I do now? she wondered.

Voices speaking like cell phones on King.

here.

IODE. In those days, just women.

Museums, Culture: In those days, just men.

Today preserved for higher learning

preserved by us to know higher

here.

11,000 +

http://www.gatheringourheroes.ca

Chatham-Kent 1. Meal Cycle

1.     Meal Cycle

I.

I wake them with a gentle

shake

and a, “Madainn mhath!”

then warm the stove top for

tender, jelly-like

eggs

that grow dark

and hard as the

large hot pan attacks the soft

new edges.

I pop and butter toast, bake

scones as my gran did;

fry bacon from the new

country that

bubbles till it shrinks and

curls into itself.

We say grace, talk

about what the teacher wanted

who has practice later

what he said at school

 when they’ll

be home. I

kiss them

Goodbye.

II.

Work rushes,

children,

touch,

warmth

absent from the swim

of frenetic

fiddling email

schedules

calls

travel

no food,

no rest,

no sitting down

 then

 gone.

III.

The children wander home at their

own time,

one

after another

the order of age.

Now the soup of the day

simmers on the stove

all the past dinners

absorbing the cold

liquid fats between the

tarragon rosemary

turmeric

softening the crusty

edges of hard meat

bread, rice.

They talk of meals

in other homes

now. Children

I will not wake

any longer,

no dishes,

no pudding

stories of lunches

in classes with

sandwiches and

celery sticks,

the supper

of a life well fed.