Shun-Piker

Shun-Piker On bountiful backroads Copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo ON, 2019 Secondary Roads

A good day recently Driving where we wished Viewing what we wished

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Together.

The fields all green Or a blast of canola gold.

Leisurely clouds moving On ahead.

Atmosphere pierced by The scolding of a redwing Or the grinding song Of a hay wagon Impeding our progress But never-no-mind.

Holiday journeys Meant to be slow and thankful.

For each other

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And our common interests Over years.

Including two precious children And stories of long suffering parents Who were always in our corner.

And in the corner immediately right A bunch of Holsteins Enjoying their summer’s visit.

Chewing contentedly, swishing And making us the main exhibit For a brief moment.

Grey Highlands PerspectiveÂ

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Split-rail weaving The golden-rod and purple*.

Split-rail riding The moraine up-and-down.

Split-rail barring The grazing beast from garden.

Split-rail luring The wanderer from town.

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Split-rail telling The truce of farm and wood-lot.

Split-rail boasting The skill of antique art.

Split-rail hosting The bluebird's sweet domestic.

Split-rail keeping The corn and beans apart. Split-rail etching The shadows at the margin.

Split-rail launching The hawk's flight overhead.

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Split-rail framing The lattice of the harrow.

Split-rail guarding The markers of the dead.

Split-rail edging The gravel path to cabin.

Split-rail foiling The season's amber, rust.

Split-rail drawing The heart to hardy forbears.

Split-rail adding A living touch to dust.

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Split-rail backing The pumpkins at the lane-way.

Split-rail squaring The hillock and the pond.

Split-rail soothing The feathered horse at sunset.

Split-rail mapping

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Our trek, and much beyond.

Note​: Take a drive up to Flesherton, Beaver Valley, Thornbury and Markdale for any and all of this to be enjoyed.

Formation

Ahead of us And glorying in

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The Autumnal glow Stark clouds mixed above Patchwork auburn and gold Below They would shift And the vee transformed Leaders in relay And a new wedge born Their honks gently Delivered in the breeze As we drove the backroad For thrills like these.

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Sparkling corn For the blade awaits Pumpkins in place At the lanes and gates Blanketed steeds Feel the morning warm Bulky hooved beef Grazing free from harm.

And the geese circle By some magic command Necks stretching Wings whistling

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O'er a matchless land.

And we give thanks.

Pure FocusÂ

Summum Bonum ALL the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee:

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All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: Breath and bloom, shade and shine, --wonder, wealth, and--how far above them-Truth that's brighter than gem, Trust, that's purer than pearl,-Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe--all were for me In the kiss of one girl.

Robert Browning This is what poetry can do. Draw the attention quickly to a message with microscopic effect.

I remember once having a discussion with Waterloo Region's poet laureate Rienzi Crusz. He knew of my budding interest in writing, and he gave an admonition something like this:

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'This is the beauty of poetry. You have the delicious freedom to write whatever you want, in whatever form, at whatever length, loping along at whatever rhythm and intended to cause whatever effect. It may not all be marketable these days, but no matter, you are enjoying a tremendous release and journey. People with a sense of metaphor and imagination will be happy to accompany you.

Do not be in a panic to publish in hard copy. This is difficult, and particularly in the Canadian scene. The promotional effort is three times as taxing as the creative push. Today's poetry raises many more questions than it does answers, with a disappointing sense of futility. That is not usually my kind of poem.'

Thank you for that, Rienzi. (I have appreciated your images and stories which span the distance and difficulty of relocation from idyllic Sri Lanka to snow-bound Waterloo.) I too have had such observations. It is often similar to the imagined visit to the psychologist where the practitioner says, "Yep, this is what you have. It has all the signs. I don't know what to tell you to do about it, but perhaps it helps just to have a name for the thing and to get it out in the open."

Fat lot of help! Where are the epic stories, the great loves and struggles, the noble characters, the piercing critiques, the breath-taking retreats into

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nature, the well-paced frolic through clever silliness or punch lines, the partially successful outreaches to touch the hem of the garment of God? There was a time and a place wherein the poet was regarded as the community sage, and yes, physician. He had the ear of Kings and Governors. He represented community conscience and hope, and could determine either the success or shipwreck of a life or ideal.

Now poets seem to wander through dark caverns, gladly offering a sweaty hand of comfort to whomsoever will‌

Open-Air HouseholdÂ

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Nature the gentlest mother is NATURE the gentlest mother is, Impatient of no child, The feeblest of the waywardest.

Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill By traveller be heard, Restraining rampant squirrel Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation A summer afternoon,

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Her household her assembly; And when the sun go down,

Her voice among the aisles Incite the timid prayer Of the minutest cricket, The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep, She turns as long away As will suffice to light her lamps, Then bending from the sky Â

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With infinite affection And infiniter care, Her golden finger on her lip, Wills silence everywhere.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Alert, Plowmen!

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Is your hand put to the plow?

Are you tilling Gospel ground?

Are you telling folk the marvels Of the matchless Grace you found?

Are you bold with benediction?

Are you salt to sting and heal?

Are you speaking plain of life’s trials That they know your hope is real?

Will you stop along the roadside To attend a neighbour’s need?

Will you march apace a new drum And from fashion’s farce be freed?

These are things the plowman sees

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As new family grow up strong And they may not be the blood ones Who refuse to come along.

But no matter, all is settled As the lights of Zion rise And the family of the faithful Gather right before your eyes.

Are you tilling, gladly tilling Making straight a fruitful track?

Making light of dull derision?

Stay alert, and don’t look back!

(Image: 3 mighty horses pulling the work – Faith, Hope, Love)

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