the space filled by birds

there are many sensorial

empty spaces in winter.

one that affects me

particularly

is the absence of birdsong.

the birds make wise choices

and follow the warmth south.

with them

go many little joys.

i love to watch swallows fly.

the great v's of geese.

trees filled with sparrows.

now they're back

those empty spaces

have been filled once more

with their hurried fluttering

and most especially

and wonderfully

with their song

bird

it was passed from one bird to another,

the whole gift of the day.

the day went from flute to flute,

went dressed in vegetation,

in flights which opened a tunnel

through which the wind would pass

to where birds were breaking open

the dense blue air -

and there, night came in.

woman encircled by the flight of birds

when i returned from so many journeys,

i stayed suspended and green

between sun and geography -

i saw how wings worked,

how perfumes are transmitted

by feathery telegraph,

miro - the beautiful bird

and from above I saw the path,

the springs and the roof tiles,

the fishermen at their trades,

the trousers of the foam;

i saw it all from my green sky.

i had no more alphabet

than the swallows in their courses,

the tiny, shining water

of the small bird on fire

which dances out of the pollen.

pablo neruda

and you know, it was e.e. cummings who said,

"i'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach ten thousand stars how not to dance".

nailed that one sweetly boyo!

miro woman and birds

street night rain

making my way home

friends half a block ahead

darkened doorways

muted colours

hissing tires

the glistening

black skin of rain

~

light drunkenly reels into shadow;

blurs, slurs uneasily;

slides off the eyeballs:

the segments shatter.

tree-branches cut arc-light in ragged

fluttering wet strips.

the cup of the sky-sign is filled too full;

it slushes wine over.

the street-lamps dance a tarentella

and zigzag down the street:

they lift and fly away

in a wind of lights.

arthur seymour john tessimond

chance fortune

at the end

of an alleyway

my lucky number

hot lit

in the late afternoon sun

the buzz

of recognition

like a chance

glance

across a crowded room

hey it's my day

my lucky day

to my right

my lower right

a form shuffles

in the shadows

a man's muffled cough

from

inside

what was once

a sleeping bag

padded with newspapers

and weather-stained

cardboard

our fortunes

separated

by a chance

beam of light

stairs

have you ever met

someone

who seems to be waiting?

waiting

for their purpose

to be revealed

you see

i think that

there are people

who rest against the outside of this world

like stairs

on an old building

they wait

hoping

that perhaps their purpose

will be

to offer a safe exit

to the ground

or a revealing

journey

to the vista above

each year

passing

defined

by a fresh coat of paint

my mother's willow

the willow

on a rainy day

through my mother's

kitchen window

it is a willow when summer is over,

a willow by the river

from which no leaf has fallen nor

bitten by the sun

turned orange or crimson.

the leaves cling and grow paler,

swing and grow paler

over the swirling waters of the river

as if loath to let go,

they are so cool, so drunk with

the swirl of the wind and of the river--

oblivious to winter,

the last to let go and fall

into the water and on the ground.

william carlos williams

spring rain

i welcome the very idea of spring as it spreads the notion far and wide

and most especially inside my head and heart

that its big brother “summer” is not far away!!

spring is full of little “wow” moments -

the first crocuses,

birdsong, buds, the return of life -

a welcome change from the narrow field of experience

the canadian winter provides.

so one of many “wows” of spring left my mouth

when i came across the poetry of new zealand writer hone tuwhare.

i really love how this man sees and then how he writes.

tuwhare is of maori heritage, inheriting his dad's gifts as a storyteller.

we’re supposed to get the first bit of rain we've had in a little while today,

so to acknowledge

and celebrate that fact,

here’s my favourite tuwhare poem entitled “rain” . . .

i can hear you

making small holes

in the silence

rain

if i were deaf

the pores of my skin

would open to you

and shut

and i

should know you

by the lick of you

if i were blind

the something

special smell of you

when the sun cakes

the ground

the steady

drum-roll sound

you make

when the wind drops

but if i

should not hear

smell or feel or see

you

you would still

define me

disperse me

wash over me

rain

to read more of tuwhare’s writing you should visit here.

the landing stage

sometimes we can be so alone.

so on our own.

even strangers seem like friends.

pierre bonnard landing stage

"everybody else seemed to have people to see them off. so i went back on shore and found a dirty little boy who was unoccupied, and said his name was william. "will you wave to me if i give you sixpence, william?" i said. "why yes," said william. so i gave him sixpence and went back on board.

and when the time came he leaned over his railing on the landing stage, and waved. and now and then he shouted indistinct messages in a shrill voice. and as we slid away , the last object i looked at was a small dot waving a white handkerchief, or nearly white, faithfully."

rupert brooke memoir

small glories

the first

small glories of spring

i know the art of evoking happy moments,

and live my past again as i nestle at your knees;

for what would it avail to seek your drowsy beauties

save in your beloved body and so tender heart?

i know the art of evoking happy moments.

excerpted from "the balcony" baudelaire (translation by francis scarfe (1961)

what a difference

four of my students got their heads shaved on tuesday

in honour of family members fighting cancer.

one of my girls had her ponytail cut off

to help make a wig for a girl who has lost her hair due to her treatments.

kids are so brave.

so really truly deeply brave.

do you remember how important it was to you

in grade six to not,

absolutely not

look weird or different.

i guess these kids didn't read that part of the book!!!

i skipped that part also!!!

a self-portrait of the fifty three year old steven in the morning sun.

a self-portrait of the fifty three year old steven in the evening sun.

pedal for hope ride

today i got to ride with the pedal for hope team.

these guys (and one woman rider) are all police officers. oh, and there's john druce the former nhl player who managed to work his way onto the team and really belongs there to be honest!

they ride on their holidays - so three weeks - 1000 km and 53 schools!

the reason they ride is to raise money to help in the fight against cancer - especially pediatric cancer.

i lead my school in fundraising for the pedal for hope campaign and we worked for seven days

selling cupcakes, cookies, holding a raffle, hat day, stuffie day, jammie day, movie day, all sorts of stuff!

this is my second time working with the team but it was my first time riding with them.

i was really really excited!

it might seem strange but i barely slept the night before and couldn't eat breakfast.

the day started for the team at st. catherines school and they were swamped with heads to be shaved (which is the really big fundraiser) so we got off to a fairly late start to my school (otonabee valley).

fortunately, we had a police escort and rode in a loose echolon single-file. the pace was really nice - 30 to 45 km/h with one stretch downhill where i cracked 60+ km/h for the first time on a bike.

then we got to ride along the highway as the escort shut down a lane for us. that was extremely sweet as the road surface was smooth.

really smooth.

the whole school was out front cheering and yelling as we arrived.

the team and everyone else made their way back into our gym where an amazing, powerful, high energy celebration took place during which time several heads were shaved, girls donated ponytails to be made into wigs for girls who have lost their hair as a result of their treatments, and lots of ice cream was huffed back in whatever way was necessary by some eager ice cream eaters!!

here are the bikes lined up outside my school.

and here's me and my buddy habsy (sgt. marc habgood) enjoying a little quality time.

i'm the good looking boy on the left!!

i'm so proud of my school.

we raised $2300 towards cancer research.

outside time

outside time

from a distance

all i could see

was the soft

silvered fingers

of a stand of birch

the cabin was tucked away.

small

nondescript

its weathered pine siding

blending

discretely into the forest.

walking closer

it was obvious

that it had been abandoned.

is there anything

lonelier

and yet more promising

than a forgotten shelter?

a place to escape time.

a muffled knocking sound

that could have been a lazy woodpecker

turned out to be a shutter that had come loose

solemnly tapping its wind-driven morse

into the side of the cabin.

it was hard to know

what prompted me to kick the door in.

the flimsy door

the cobweb-covered windows

the yellowing lace curtains.

the sound

of the splintering doorframe

was swallowed up

in the rustling of bushes

the creaking of trees

and the sudden anxious cawing of crows.

and then just as suddenly

there was

silence as i stepped

over the worn wooden threshold

the air

hovered thickly

like a silted stream

glittering

and shimmering

with dust motes

swirling in the sudden inrush of air

a pale yellow

filtered sunlight -

overlaid the grey scale

of the simple wooden furniture.

i pushed the door closed

and stood

in the centre of the room

watching

the dust settle

back into soft grey drifts

in the corner

a small table

set with

two small

china plates

fogged with time

by one plate

a pewter

pocketwatch

i walked over and picked it up

felt its weight

felt the slight

movement of its

tiny hands

stop.

bim

sometimes

music drifts in

from the floating world

this is bim

"Stay In My Memory" by Bim from Gobblynne Animation on Vimeo.

alleybound sky

looking

down the empty alley

i see and feel

the hollow-eyed bricks

held together

by a forgotten ambition

tagged

to ground them

in the present moment

the ladder offers

hope

for a skybound view

uncaged

john cage - not a household name - which to me is a strange thing . . . . . but then too, jackson pollock isn’t either and perhaps it’s because they shared similar roles in the ongoing deconstruction of the culture they lived inside.

stepping well outside the bounds of what was nominally “music”, cage was alternately famous / infamous for his creative use of musical instruments and especially for his development of “chance music” in which some element of the work is left to chance or to the whim of the performers.

cage’s writing is less challenging but still carries the presence of a singularly brilliant man who carried the burden of moving culture along its path for many years.

go here to read john’s tiny rich stories of life both inner and outer.

once there you can choose from an “index of names” which allows you to access a list of names of people who appear in the little vignettes, or you can access a list of “first lines” which allows you to select a vignette based on its first line. you may also select from an index of “last lines”.

i have many favourites here but my absolute favourite would have to be the one whose first line is:

“you probably know the one about the two monks,

but i’ll tell it anyway”.

it is numbered “2”.

oh and by the way,

don’t be fooled by this sample into thinking that

you are going to be reading a selection of zen parables . . . . .

far from it!

~

here 'tis.

~

“you probably know the one about the two

monks, but i’ll tell it

anyway.

they were

walking along one day when they came to

a stream where a young lady was

waiting, hoping that someone

would help her across.

without hesitating, one

of the monks picked her up and carried

her across, putting her

down safely on the other side.

the two monks continued walking along,

and after some time,

the second one,

unable to restrain himself,

said to the first,

“you know we’re not

allowed to touch women.

why did you carry that woman

across the stream?”

the first monk replied,

“put her down.

i did two hours ago.”

john cage

deliquescence (iii)

in everything that begins

and

in everything that falls apart

deteriorates

comes to pieces

we're granted

a vision

of endlessness

in the event horizon

that is

flaking layers of paint

are revealed

pale carmine ripples

of age and decay

in the slow return

from form to formlessness

is revealed something

beyond the crumbling surface

much as

my tired eyes

creased by smile wrinkles

reveal something

of

who i was

and who i am

all finite things reveal infinitude:

the mountain with its singular bright shade

like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow,

the after-light upon ice-burdened pines;

odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,

a scent beloved of bees;

silence of water above a sunken tree :

the pure serene of memory in one man, --

a ripple widening from a single stone

winding around the waters of the world.

excerpted from "the far field" theodore rothke

deliquescence

unseated

parapets

chimneys

brick and limestone

layered

side-by-side

a jigsaw

a formed puzzle

inter

linked

inter

connected

looking out

looking in

the floating world

the effect of arriving

in the downtown

of a city

in the year 2010

is spectacular

and moving

you hit the ground

dancing

it's a whole different space

energies of all sorts

swirl in abundance

and

people fly by

in worlds of their own creation

i like to

find the air

they breathe

and join the dancing

floating souls

her muted form

grant wood stone city

some of grant wood's work

makes me think that

i am seeing a woman

sleeping

under an eiderdown quilt.

grant wood young corn

the dips and hummocks,

the muted outlines of her body.

grant wood spring

and that

is

something

of what i think

when i see

the earth.

grant wood sheaves of corn

ice gardens

sit in the spring sun

with me

and remember

ice gardens

of not so long ago

in those moments

on friday i bicycled home

up and over the hills

through a snowstorm.

no complaints from me

see, when you know

winter's gone away

for a while,

you can laugh

when snow falls

and really

appreciate it

in an entirely different way

~

on those days

when clouds

hang low to the ground

and a late spring snow

holds tight

to winter memories

the wind

whispers

thin grey tales

that can be heard

in the rustling

and scraping

of empty seedpods

it's best

to be entirely alone

in those moments

winter solitude--

in a world of one colour

the sound of wind

basho

rose, carnation, fern

with the return of warmer weather

the pool has frogs and all sorts of bugs

spending time in it.

i was getting it ready

to be opened

so i pulled the collector bucket out of its little space and

inside the bucket was a semi circular chunk of absolutely clear ice.

i spent one glorious hour of my life

taking pictures of that piece of ice

in various locations in and out of my home.

over the course of time

it changed shape and even its internal architecture

veined with air bubbles and radiating striations.

today's set is of flowers around my home as seen through the block of ice.

roses, carnations and ferns.

(click on each image to enlarge it)

night meeting

to read this poem is to watch a film.

a rich, luxurious, romantic film.

the heart that beats fast

short hurried breaths

wide eyes

the deep grass of the fields

brushing against arms

and legs

the stone walled farmhouse

dark brown and muted grey

rises from the moorland

silence

broken only by the wind

and then

a gentle tapping at the window

the match scrape

the muted flicker

of a candle

through old rippled glass windows

i see and feel it all

here 'tis

~

meeting at night

i.

the grey sea and the long black land;

and the yellow half-moon large and low;

and the startled little waves that leap

in fiery ringlets from their sleep,

as i gain the cove with pushing prow,

and quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

ii.

then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;

three fields to cross till a farm appears;

a tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch

and blue spurt of a lighted match,

and a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,

than the two hearts beating each to each!

here’s the author robert browning

- a dapper dude -

someone who knew love.

faces called flowers

as spring unfolds and the warmer days meld

with cooler rainy nights,

my thoughts become filled with the prospect of gardening.

i never achieve as much as i plan

and it's probably in the planning

that i gain the greatest satisfaction

(in almost anything)

advice that i treasure

that my grandmother

and my father both said at times in my past.

"always leave a place for the fairies at the bottom of the garden"

helen allingham cow parsley and bluebells

when faces called flowers float out of the ground

and breathing is wishing and wishing is having -

but keeping is downward and doubting and never

- it's april (yes, april; my darling) it's spring!

yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly

yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be

(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound

and wishing is having and having is giving -

but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense

- alive; we're alive, dear: it's (kiss me now) spring!

now the pretty birds hover so she and so he

now the little fish quiver so you and so i

(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found

and having is giving and giving is living -

but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing

- it's spring (all our night becomes day) o, it's spring!

all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky

all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea

(all the mountains are dancing; are dancing)

---e.e. cummings

the winter pool

when winter ends

the ice

floats
on the pool

in clouds
of cerulean petals

heart line

seen from a distance

you might not know

that this tree

looking out over the sea

holds

the sky

like a heart line

in the palm

of its hand