Canada, Late September

A haiku and a meditation

In all places now

we hear the wind sing of war:

dust will fall for dust.

I stepped briefly outside myself

– or so I thought when stepping –

reckoning much that’s to be said

needs hearing, as plain as the facts

may seem, as straight down the line.

Pressed for time, a poet’s convinced

to cut the chase — even though she knows

pursuit is poem.  Eurydice must not surface.

The wolf must, ever-louder groaning, grow.

There are those, even in Canberra,

who would willingly block out the sun:

a slip-slop-slap for Armageddon;

a world that went out in lifestyle.

To them, the self-styled tragics,

I say, ‘Your Christ died

on just such a day — so lift your gaze,

at least enough that you can see

your enemy stand, weapon in hand,

a lewd verse for a reprimand,

the one you’d defy — but know

you’re in thrall to its every demand:

This is my biro; this is my gun.

This one’s for killing; the other’s a pun!

And now, the deed is done.

Canberrans know it: stock-still

the suited stand on Capital Hill,

their races run, overcome,

stunned by all the fun.

It’s beyond funding, though.

’S bigger than all the glaciers

it shrinks, shatters, heaves, and harrows

– boulders tossed so casually

into chasms, turning, careening,

a squadron of sparrows, dancing

down an air-built thoroughfare,

screaming through countless snows

(below!) below’s the answer.

So, too, your taxes, friend:

the chaos’ll have those.

So too, our nutra-sweet national anthem:

words more meaning will destroy

what aspirational electors chose.

So, too, our suburbs bright and new:

the coming days’ll make

each pneumatic drill-quake,

each dream to bulldoze, but a trifle

beside the force that now

and steadily, daily, gathers shape,

grows, grows – a living culture,

school for all fellows –

and anyroad, who (ever)

really knows how very little

doom a battler can find

in the earth, the air, the sea,

the seed a man sows?

Back inside myself, all’s well

or not, as the ayes or nays

may have it.  Love, a grammar

of family and friend, knows

no reason for this.  My sweetheart

senses an ire that is tired

and forgives with a kiss.

                                    Sunshine

blasts our Alberta farmhouse bed-

room, thundering, rise, rise!

Wipe the tears of all your

bitter dreams from bleary eyes!

Get up all chirpy North American

and greet your hosts so kind!

Bacon’s cooking; coffee’s brewing;

last night’s newlyweds are

on their way.  Praise (not to mention

my rays) be: this is a brilliant day!