Liminal Blossoming
P OEMS A ND PRO SE BY T H E O T TAWA C R E AT I V E WR IT ER S G ROUP
Copyright © 2021 by the Ottawa Creative Writers Group ISBN 978-1-7777594-1-4 (paperback ) ISBN 978-1-7777594-0-7 (ebook) Book and cover design: Del Carry Editors: Paul Touesnard, Sylvie Nantais and Anne Gordon Perry Published by the Ottawa Creative Writers Group
C O N T EN T S
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3 FOREWORD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 IN MEMORIAM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 JUANITA BONGARTZ-PERRY . . . . . . . . . . 9 PETER BRADY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 HEATHER CARDIN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 JIM DESSON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 DAVID ERICKSON . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 B.K. FILSON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 ANNE GORDON PERRY . . . . . . . . . . . 41 CAROL GRAVELLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 BILL KELLY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 JACK MCLEAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 SYLVIE NANTAIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 LINDA O’NEIL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 SANDRA POWELL . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 STEPHEN THIRLWALL . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 PAUL TOUESNARD . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 MARYL WEATHERBURN . . . . . . . . . . . 84 AUTHOR BIO NOTES . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 CONTENTS .
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J UA N I TA BO N G A RT Z -P E R RY __________________________________________________ Teaching in Nepal After the Quake children faces plump and smiling a folk song in high pitch flying at me class is over too soon to leave this throb of laughter walking, my soul escapes my body behind I glide to where it takes me sipping now masala tea where I come to find a recent news magazine finding poetry tumbling like morning mist across a mountain range it is a memory of a long-lost home from where once rose a long time ago in another town emerged a primal sound of Edgar Allen Poe a Phoenix rising from my ashes as a sound long forgotten of words never sounded caught in a throat with the raven in the graveyard
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Pandemic in Tenerife
This day comes as no other before silence on my calle in Tenerife voidness as quelled as the morning air I am watching with eyes of sadness little cars in tight rows against the breasts of houses where the shutters are now fastened. I cling to my familiar yearning for a man, woman, or child to espy or from the old church bell to harken. The abiding sun rises from the ocean’s horizon I stand on my wonted balcony as steadfast — with steaming coffee in hand and watch its vapours move, then vanish like past thoughts that cling to the shadows of my soul.
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P E T E R B R A DY
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Haiku 2020 quarantine the passing clouds above it all sleepless night thoughts about who I am and where I belong demons created in these darkest moments, regrets from my past homeward bound yet another bridge to be crossed moving out so much baggage left behind winter thoughts remembering people who returned my love
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family album no photos of Mum and Dad together quarantine even the squirrels keep their distance through the tangle of bare branches blue sky
Shy and Smitten at Age 24 The waitress is cute: tiny waist, well-rounded, lightly tanned, honey-blonde hair she is way more than cute well worth my morning dreams of love or lust leading to love and a simple straightforward life: a job, a family, a home nothing special absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. A new beginning doing it right this time here in a foreign country, my new homeland,
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H E AT H E R C A R D I N
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How to Say Adieu (For Jim Desson)
The word means “to God.” We all come from God, and unto Him shall all return. I am listening to music, Rose-Marie Peterson, perhaps you know her? She’s singing the words of the Master, “Come unto me, o ye children of men.” The image is of taking a glass of sweet water, and Jim’s headed for a crystal fountain, as are we all, sooner or later. This is the fountainhead, the source of all sources. Drink deep as the glistening diamonds fall into the well, watch as the water, like spirit, rises to the waiting brimful skies, where ancestors wait in joy, circling round these waters, scented of camphor, frankincense, musk, wintergreen, lavender, rose. Everything essential is there, as love. Love fills all our senses upon arrival in its ocean. Welcome! You have known love. The bard knew: it does not fade. The Buddhist poet says: “Death is a new shape.”
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Corinthians tells its story, and the Master: “Love is heaven’s kindly light.” Love’s a universe, and every sensory perception. Love’s the Hidden Mystery, vibrating energy, our bodies tuning forks, taking on an imperceptible note, atomic movement dissolved like vapour, into thousands of splendid suns. There’s a value in immolation, the courage it takes to prostrate oneself before Him. The genuflection before love is its purpose: prayer, the ultimate act of love: "Pray for them, as they pray for you.” There is no separation, it is said, and yet, there is. This is a faith of paradox, its resolutions, submission to its tempests. We tremble. Joyously, or in sorrow? They’re the same. We name them for our own convenience, not knowing how to yield. The battle’s lost and won: “Even or odd, you’ll win the wager.” Memory is a hand holding a hand, closer than our life’s vein. Gone but not forgotten, it is said. Faint praise, and wrong. Not gone. Right here. Right here. Right here. Sometimes the veil lifts, and for a misty moment, we see the soul. This is love’s gift, in any world. Benediction is thine. Everything comes back to water: baptism in blessing, the healing of rain. The Master offers a proffered cup.
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J I M D E S S O N _________________________________
A Lark Ascending Death came to my door suddenly Cavalierly, I declared that it was A momentary distraction Thought it weighed my heart down Without a word indeed with unknown Fatigue and general wariness Then a respite of innocence one Evening, a lark ascending within My soul, a fresh sweet-scented spring Breeze that lifted my heart away Then I knew my heart was truly free From dark mask and apparel A blessing for my soul wrapped up In an evening with a friend I thanked that friend for a happy time And I blessed my Beloved for His Constant grace
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