COOL WATER THROUGH A BANGED-UP STRAW disclosures of a poet copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo, ON, 2017
Beaver Valley near Kimberley, ON
I am that straw and little else. I studied History in undergrad and Law in post-grad. Consequently people would assume that I have fine-tuned skills in reading, research, debate and technical writing. Perhaps those things give me a head-start in reading of scripture and inspiration and reiteration of the same? No? None of this has been any big factor in the poems granted to me to make public. The Spirit has turned the key; has provided the water. (Romans 8: 5-8) Yes, there has been a surprising element of inspiration in much of the stuff. I am usually humbled by the process, but at the same time blessed with an atmosphere of worship and thanks, as the lines and cadences come. As Paul the Apostle said, how does one take personal credit for something gifted? My Mother was a seasoned rhymer. My summer days in the north-land were filled with images of Robert Service, Robert Frost, Robert Louis Stevenson and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I have always loved song, and particularly the ballad form. (Gordon Lightfoot, Roger Miller, Glen Campbell, Harry Chapin and Leonard Cohen).
I see the yield of the keyboard as something intended to edify and to give motivation, beauty, adventure and comfort. Much of this age's poetry is nihilistic, filled with doubt, irreverence, laissez-faire, lust and violence. Nope, not going there. Out of the heart the mouth speaks.
Poets' Evangel It's a mirror It's a ladder It's a weapon for Man-soul It's a bombast From the Christ past Crying now to be made whole. It's a comfort For the wounded And a hospice for the hurt It's a warning To the haughty That their Father came from dirt. It's another Look at Calvary And another, yet again It's a resume On Jesus Working still today for men. It's a fairground For the senses But it must not leave the trail Of the journey Ever upward By the folk who pass Death's Vale. It's an invite To the wayward And a shelter for their night It's adoption To a family Resting washed and safe and right. It's an offering From the heart's purse With but two small mites in hand. It's a blessing To the writers
That they hardly understand.
Creative
Lord might every stanza Of page and dark-room fruitage Speak of things of merit And friendships rare and bright Heroes run through gauntlets So valiant and shining Come to glad redemption And gone the plagues of night. There are thrills and fancies In stories true and tested Faith that grows through pounding And love that warms the morn God ignites the story And fills it with His nature Might you be a giver Of such a tale rich born!
Enter a Black One...Sheep That Is
The pick-up was parked a block away so as not to attract attention. Detailing of grimacing skull surrounded by flames. Bumper sticker attesting that “the bitch bailed. She didn’t like mud-trekking.” Late Saturday afternoon. Early December. Sunlight almost used up. Sign confirming “Hour of Reconciliation 4 to 5 PM”. Rod didn’t know whether to take off his bandana once inside. Did it anyway. Votive candles gave a peaceful glow. Reverent footsteps echoed on the hardwood. Only four minutes in, and a woman exited one of the small rooms, clutching her purse to her breast. “Father forgive me for I have sinned. It has been eleven years since my last confession.” “Yes my son, how may I help?”
” My Uncle Rick died two weeks ago. He bought me my first bike. Took me to ball games while my dad was in Nam. Dad never did come back to the States. Helped Mom out with the rent and groceries. Moved back into town just to be available. When I had a falling out with Mom after the second set of charges, all family sort of went by the boards. But my Sister phoned; told me of his passing; told me that there was still time to make it in. I didn’t …too proud or angry or something. I want to confess this bitterness and stupidity. Pray for him somehow, and give thanks. Then I believe I’ll have the gumption to go see Mom. Her only sibling ya’ know.” The discussion continued for another 10 minutes and the priest saw fit to read a little from Isaiah 43. Rod sighed a long sigh. “Father I’m tired of this wandering and playing the part. Perhaps something is changing. Right here. Right now. Thanks for the help. Gotta go. There must be others outside. You have a nice day. See ya.”
Brebeuf, Ending
I wonder what price For this journey From textbook To strange tongue Tall pine From abbey And penance To portage And comrades All hardy in line. The trek to The New World So dazzling The ocean skies Beckoning on And red faces Stare at our larder And implements Toted so long. They sense There is help In this process The prayers
Ministrations so new The children All laugh in the stories While parents see Snows to get through While parents tend Fields of the maize corn And cut needful pelts From wild friends And murmer Of enemies looming Will our Jesus Ably defend? Then quickly The arrows And shrieking The night sky So vast Turned bright red And we to The last rites Committals To honour Huronia's dead. Tomorrow The hostiles so numerous Will this be The price of it all? The totem And torture and taunting The worst evidence Of Man's Fall? Dear Father I rest in your presence A strange Interlude in this war Afford me The calm and the courage To bless you As never before. (1649)
Crack of Light
Little time it takes
So little effort And blessings come To mind with glad recall. Daily cares obscure A few tried moments But happy thoughts Obliterate them all. Thoughts of home And precious hearts In concert Days of spring And woods alive with song Faith's cleansed eyes That see One Love Victorious Challenged now to bring Dear friends along. Father knows And this each pain Assuages Timing His And time will prove it good Just give thanks Though dark The skies appearing Sunshine comes Exactly when it should.
Harry's Lunch
The old man placed his order His wait in line was long And shaded specs Betrayed the fact His vision almost gone. But smile he did As one young kid Just chattered on and on. Each Thursday noon He took a cab And left his lonely room To join the crowd Alive and loud
And tastes of life consume. His cooking was the meagrest Five years the wife was gone. But here the swirl And one young girl Gave strength to carry on. She called him by his first name Her voice held honest care She knew on cue “his usual” She helped him to his chair. She sounded much like “Anna” In courting days long gone And years and tears just vanished And “Harry” shuffled on.
Song of the Wire
An overcast day In the summer. A pleasant relief From the heat. And rising quite Early this morning, I’ve taken a Cool backyard seat. The birds are Surprisingly quiet. Are they as slowMoving as I? The leaves on the Maple turn over, Requesting a drink From the sky. And upwards behind Me, I hear him, In notes softly Soothing and sad. His double-tone tune Of lamenting, Today makes me Mellow, but glad.
I wonder what hurt He is hiding? What loneliness Looms in his soul? What sickness at home He is bearing? What trial he finds Hard to control? His heart is the Heart of a mourner. And pain is a Constant we share. He asks, “May I Help you by singing? I know, and God knows, And we care.�
One to Greet
Charlie, Lad It's you I see With eyes no verra skillful Not long ago You left the Glen In debt and doubt and willful Your Gramma Mourned the parting While your sister paid the toll In London And in service Til it killed her, precious soul. But Jamie Of our number At her death-bed all-assuring And kindly Was one Doctor Full intent upon her curing She passed in peace With plans to bless The loves of Scottish youth And said your name In hopeful trust That you would come to truth. And here you be
A sight to see I'm done here in the garden So step within A bite and talk Your work abroad and pardon. How folk will laugh Embrace you Lad The sheep has clean amended Back in the fold As days of old By love and hope defended. And I, old Drumsheugh Privileged here To give Drumtochty's hand The lost is found Now safe and sound A bloom from barren land. (With thanks to the rich writing of Ian MacLaren in “Days of Auld Lang Syne�)
Boys at the Beach
The boy and I Get down in the sand Every now and then Listen to that big ole Pacific Groan and hiss. Barefoot. Fishin jest an excuse. He goin ta upper school now An doing so well The old Jewish couple Put him up close to studies. Showin their love Teachin him household. I wouldna done any of it Ya know...without Darryl. Took him from the streets Carousin' and killin' Gang-bangin type Jes like I been
So many years before. Brought him to my plywood shack Lackin' til then one candle of purpose Or one reason for an honest job. An he took the help so well Started to talk and smile Took to lovin' my two-legged dog An some responsibility. Then come the Thinkers' Nights An a whole lotta people Trustin' in me Wantin' desperate-like to gather Talk ovah they problems An' dreams an such. An' I's jest an ole fool With a lot of dirt and death To get over. The System and the Law Never forgettin' who I was Lookin' an spyin' for chances To put me down agin. But I got this fightin' chance Found me a true woman An' a baby girl long the way They keep me straight An' the good war continues.
(Thanks for the images in this poem must go to mystery novelist Walter Mosley and his uncommon ex-con hero Socrates Fortlow.)
My Slim Bark
My slim bark, my slim bark Glides smoothly cross the lake. A common loon, a father Thinks this a strange mistake And flounders, a seeming wound To lure me from his brood As if my ever paddling here Were something wrong and rude.
But I know so much different The waters seem like home And play with me from dawn to dusk As happily I roam. Sometimes they roll a coaster-ride And I have scarce to pull Sometimes they chop in drizzle's haze And work is plentiful. The sky affords a canopy Of God's most vivid art In clear blue heat, in threatening clouds To thrill this wanderer's heart. The air is fresh, my lungs are clean The smell of pine delights A moose looks on from evening's shore And oh, those northern lights! And such has been the legacy Of voyageurs of yore Who crossed these lakes, and camped these rocks Through many moons before. A small fire sheds its warming hue The limbs all happily ache And small frogs close the day in song As sweet dreams overtake.
Kaleidoscope
It's a Living Word we're given And it lives in each one's sphere And it shows its rule in happenings And in friendships held most dear. Though it speaks of ancient Abraham And of Joseph behind bars It will grab the timeless human hope And offer it the stars. It will sing in David's loneliness And soothe in Job's dread pain And will walk our Christ up Calvary Till the grave gives up the slain. It is one more blessed circle Like the sun or seasons round First a Garden's shameful folly Last a Garden's Grace re-found. As a child holds up the eye-glass
And its colours mix and move So the scriptures' applications Always love and mercy prove. And the fragments' vivid colours Share a multitude of views Though each piece of glass is constant Ever true to our Good News. There's an orange for flesh and folly There's a blue for Heaven's call There's a red for sin's blood ransom And a black for Eden's Fall. There's a green for new life budding And a violet regal throne And a golden treasured harvest Made by Jesus' pain His own.
Art exhibit at Alton Mill Gallery near Forks of the Credit