Mile High Reflections

Expecting snow, and ski-crazed folks

And finding sophistication and politeness

That made us feel more Canadian than

We were used to; Saks Fifth Avenue

Solar panel crops, Hermes, sky scraping

Buildings that seemed sculpted to suit

The landscape and everywhere flowers

 

A city as lush as Victoria, on Vancouver

Island, with out-sized blossoms all over

Even though it was a dry spring and the

Creek was low, the cottonwoods just now

Beginning to blow fuzz; Pike’s Peak still

Heavy with its bounty of run-off not yet

Forth-coming; hard to imagine it would

Get greener still, this Eden-like Denver

On Wings of Silver

It is dawn, or very nearly so

And from outside my tiny window

I can see the far horizon’s rosy glow

A coral shade that’s only barely there

Beneath the faded blue of everywhere

And still old Luna, she’s stays up, and fair

At forty thousand feet, we’re flying up above

A planet far below, the third rock that I love

And as always, I am travelling with a peace dove

Nestled deep, well-hidden within my heart

A symbolic bird of hope, as real to me as any part

Helps me to stay a course I’ll try never to depart

Hours later, sleep-fed, and many miles gone too

I know that soon I’ll land and then I’ll be with you

Luna is pale but winks at me, even she bids me, adieu

Z is for Zee, or Zed, or Zenith

Just when you suspect you might be getting

A little bit past your prime, not old exactly

But no longer a youngster either – the coolest

Thing can occur; if you happen to be one

Of the lucky ones, you’ll get a grandchild to love

And this gift will slough years off you as if

You’ve had surgery, remarkable, magical surgery

Where once you might have been winding down

You will begin again winding back up

Re-energized, filled with a joie de vive

That you vaguely remember from when your

Own kids were young and everything seemed

Possible, do-able, and potential was unlimited

It won’t be the end or the middle even but the

Best of all possible times, the zenith you’ll

Think, has finally arrived, and you are ready

White Shirt by Laurie MacFayden: a review by S.E.Ingraham

White Shirt, Laurie MacFayden’s debut collection of poems, is filled with contradictions and affirmations, all of which contribute to leading the reader down paths that echo with the voice of this enigmatic, seemingly straight-forward, and anything but, word-weaver. A one-time sports-writer, MacFayden’s predilection for hockey and all things boyish is reflected in poems such as “five hole” but, just as you’re sure you’ve got her number, figured her out, she flays you raw with something as lovely and somewhat feminine feeling as “song for bedtime”. MacFayden’s voice is as gravelly on the page as it is on the microphone, as much a pleasure to read as it is to hear. With seemingly boundless courage, she takes a hard look at life and reports back her thoughts in words unique to her experience. Let’s hope she’s just getting started.

Yes

It all comes down to this she said

Writing, getting along, life, winning—

Losing even— when you think about

The big picture or the smallest

Things—the really important word

Or maybe it’s not the word so

Much as an attitude—the really

Essential ingredient you need

Is an open-ness to everything and

A willingness that allows you

To experience anything and every-

thing that comes your way, even

If just for a moment, or a little bit

Of time – just drink it in, say yes

To it all, and you will be the richer

For it, she said, say yes.

War

“War – what is it good for? Absolutely nothing...” – Edwin Starr

Last fall, I took part in the World March for Peace and Non-violence
And I really thought it was one of the finer things I could do in this life

But leading up to, during, and after the march, I experienced despair
The like of which I don’t recall dealing with at any time before in my life

Perhaps it comes of getting old and coming to terms with the frailty
Of human nature, and human beings, and being nearer to the end of my life

And the knowledge that peace is as out of reach today as it was forty years ago
When I marched then, protested and got arrested and sat in, before in my life

Oh – I pulled out of those doldrums – it was that or spiral down to the darkness
But there is a jaded part of me that has given up on peace like never before in my life


Me, who was sure we would prevail, we would be turning swords to ploughshares
And spears into pruning hooks; I despair as I see those yellow ribbons, now in my life

They hang on every tree and light-standard on the route to the base to welcome home
The boys from the base, but they are wilting and so is my hope at this time in my life


Another one, just deployed, in Afghanistan only one day, came back in a flag-draped box
Where is the sense in that, I wonder, back to square one, marching no more in this life.

S.E.Ingraham©

Voices

For some, it’s a fragrance, or the scent of burning leaves

I’ve heard it said the olfactory gland is the most powerful

When it comes to evoking memories of times past

And that the whiff of vanilla or sandalwood or gardenias—

Any trace aroma that bears significance for one

Can summons reminiscences unbidden to the fore

But for me, one who has for some reason, lost that edge

That keenly honed sense of smell – I find it’s voices

That send me reeling; sometimes it will be an overheard

Basso profundo somewhere on a bus, and I will swing

Around trying to spot the speaker, certain I know them

Just in time to see a gentleman departing the vehicle—

Plainly someone I don’t recognize but by then, I am

Awash in memories of whose voice I thought I heard

Film will be unspooling in my head of an old friend

Or foe – they’re not always happy memories, of course

And I’ll be right back in the moment—all from hearing

A voice; other times, I’ll think I hear a whisper in a darkened

Theatre, and strain to hear it again—sometimes, I do!

Then, I try to locate that speaker, but naturally, I never

Can and must settle for dealing with the memories

That accompany the whispered voice—who it reminded

Me of—it’s not quite the same as having voices in my head

At least I don’t think it is, but sometimes I wonder.

S.E.Ingraham©