Last Night I Heard Africa Drumming

In an ordinary community hall
In the south-central section of the city
On one of the longest days of the year
They gathered.


Many of them from here:
Aboriginal, Métis, French and English Canadians,
And many of them from the Dark Continent:
Ghanaian, Angolan, Somali, Zimbabuen

We were raising money for a drought and poverty-stricken
Hospital in Western Ghana, and doing it in style


To say the hall was filled to overflowing
Would not be an exaggeration—but the real
Fulfillment came from the sound ...

As a little-travelled Canadian white woman
My understanding of African drumming
Was pretty much limited to what I saw on TV


And in movies from Hollywood; even specials
On National Geographic did not do justice
To the splendour of real drumming
The likes of which we heard last night


First, one drummer would start and he alone
Would be powerful and loud and rhythmic
In ways that are hard to define,


but


Then another would do a counter-beat
And another would join in and layer his
Distinctive drum either on top or in step


Until sometimes as many as ten drummers
Were making this remarkable sound
All of them different and all the same
Transporting many of us to Africa or to dance


Or both


It was not hard to imagine being in the jungle
In the dark around a fire, hearing the beat
Of these drums playing long into the night,
Or maybe for several days or nights


So mesmerizing is the intensity of music
That is just drumming—and I do not mean
To diminish it in the least by saying ‘just’


In fact, just the opposite –that drums alone
Make such compelling music enthrals me
Thrills me, makes me want to move
As I noticed it did almost everyone
In attendance at this function


Yes, last night I heard Africa drumming
And began to understand her mystery
Just a little bit better and why
We need to keep trying with her;


Mama Africa, we hear you, we do


I found myself promising to try
Harder to help her and I will.

Amolite, Amolite

 

It is the official provincial gemstone

And also only one of only three stones

In the last fifty years to have been

Declared a new “gem” in the entire world.

It was formed over seventy million years ago

And is only found here, in the southern part

Of the province and there is a limited supplied

Or so the story goes – there is some dispute

About the veracity of both the exclusivity

And the location of the stone

However, owning some of this iridescent magic is addictive;

One piece is never enough—at least that has been my experience

And I am not big on jewellery; but this, this is something different

It comes in hundreds of shades and permutations, and they all

Mean different things according to the tribes that live in the area

Surrounding the small region where they are found

Perhaps that is part of the attraction, at least for me—

The legends that accompany this incredibly interesting

And beautiful stone;

I find myself wearing my greener

Necklace on days I need healing

The purple striated earrings when

I think a bit of energy is called for

And the fiery orange-red pendant

Makes me feel oh-so-sexy when I put it on

Yes amolite, the jewel made from ammonite

The rough stone mined from shale —a treasure

And Alberta’s provincial stone

My favourite jewellery by far

Doily Brains have Clouded Memories


She joked often about the holes in her head
Saying treatments to keep her sane kept
Her from remembering much about her past
As well – she said she didn’t mind not being
Able to recall her kids’ childhoods, their birthdays,
The way they looked on the first day of school
Or as they crossed the stage to get their grad
Diplomas – but sometimes she’d get a flash
And a memory would float to the surface;
She would grab at it trying to clutch it but
Memories are ephemeral, slippery as
Tears shed, and sheer as clouds – and holding
Onto them is no easy thing as well she’s learned
And learned again, and again – for who remembers?

To Tell the Truth
If truth be told, I must say
There have been times
I’ve let things slide and yes
Let you think that all be well


If truth be told, there are days
I wish you would just
Zip your lip and keep silent
Or at least keep your opinions

To yourself and let me pretend
That you agree with most
Everything that I expound
And don’t feel the need

To play devil’s advocate
During every discussion we
Ever have—because you do
You know—and when I say why

You always say you don’t at all
Or that, if you do, it’s for the fun
To keep things lively for us
Both—but I say—no, don’t


If truth be told, it wearies me
More often than enlivens so
Be a dear, quiet now, listen, hear
Let’s not fight, and just say we did

Remembering a life lived for the arts

Visit this link to find out about For Gilbert, a tribute display on at The Works right now! A poem I wrote,
"Where Are You Now?" was selected to be part of the display - I am, needless to say, thrilled.

no more the bird with the piercing voice

The Meaning of a Sappho Fragment

“no more than the bird with the piercing voice”

 

night is rendered mute

blanketed in storms

of soot, smoke, blood stains

the youngest are always

led away first in no

particular order, maybe

by height; eyes eloquent

shrieks strafe the air

in the beginning but

shortly it is silence

that makes the eardrums

throb and bleed

LOSER

And as easy as saying,

“Pass the salt,”

She says to my son-in-law

About my brother, long

Estranged, “I guess you

Could say he’s a real loser.”

Years fall away

And I picture that little boy

He is curled up on the steps

Head on knees, sobbing

Somebody else beat him up

At recess, called him stupid

Stole his good shoes—again

He is not yet ten years old

But he wants to die, he says

Nobody loves him, he sobs

I do, I tell him, I do

When did I stop telling him,

I wonder—

When did he decide for good

And all, he was a loser

When did I let him go ...

I shudder as I speculate

About how likely it is

those events

are all connected ...