Time for a thought that would be there Spring '99]

Inspiration: some friends died, others remembered, new ones born. i spent much time thinking about my daugther


missing sentiment (MEG BARKER)

Up the road, down the road
one kid there, one kid near,
if time for a thought
it would be here....

From Mean To need (04/04/99)

mean what you need to say –
a parable if you please

need what you mean to say –
a prophet if you lose

say what you mean to need –
a pleasure if you tease

say what you need to mean –
a portrait if you choose

Up and Blood (04/04/99)

If I take the pulse and
Find its up and blood is too.
I’m likely getting angry
Is there something I can do

Some words are comin’ out to
Defend, revenge, refute, deny.
Can I check it, second guess it
Can I look you in the eye

And see the voice I’m angry at
That rings this phone and wires me up
That sounds me out and pumps this heart
From miles apart extends a cup

Of tea – some spice a little milk.
Too sweet – yet subtle as an alibi.
You’re somewhere else beside yourself
Together looking in my eye

You take the pulse and mind it up
Then quiet, silent, deadly SPACE
Just let it sit, reflect itself
In singing lines across your face.

Minding the Store

He forgets his milk container refund money
And she runs out after him to return it
And he turns over the juice jar he has shoplifted.

Just among the pots and pans

You were small enough
for a milk crate.
That home you dragged
From room to room.
Among the pots and pans
Just liberated from their shelves.

Pictures of you frowning
by the front gate
between two pumpkins –
an anxious fairy.
Among the pirates and princesses
Just settled in their scene.

You were a child
With a big wait
Before the choices came
The hard of choosing
Among the places and parts
Just landed in your lap

Pictures of a woman
Like your mother
That smile you wear
From ear to ear
Among the plots and plans
Jest calling.

Taturlly

often mistaken for a stumble
but not fallen
the taturl remains humble
thru the callin'
sniffin like a bumble
in the pollen

Bright Grey (for Margaret - dedicated to John O'Callaghan)

The day appears -
Thick or thin
High or low.
There's clouds up there
But I don't know
Where they will blow

The day reveals -
Soft or skin
Fast or slow.
There's tunes out there
I need to know
What time's the show

The day assures -
Soft or sharp
Friend or foe.
There's pain in there
When will I know
Who's gonna show.

The day resides.
The pain describes.
The tunes decide...
The clouds up there
Don't need to know
Before I go.

More than a day’s sword (remembering dave mckelvey) (04/04/99)

Some promises last more than one day -
Bright green morning the beds
Were dry.
I can’t remember ever checking
But it seems like time
To water.

More steel than a sword -
The north shore lions reflect
In her window.
Slave the giant cranes
And load the ships
To sea.

More home than a tent -
Six months of winter pansies
Bloom.
Danced an opportunity
To waltz the wind
To earth.

Thankful Illusion (mge3 barker)

in orbit the mind
lurchs to various poles
as the sun and moon
veer around the earth
and the wind whistles
an intemperate word
through the cottage
so thankfully pinned
by a consistent gravity
unwinding the illusion of effect

Reflections on Cool Perfections (bali ’95)

Brown beach boys
And black sand
All sparkle in the sun
Reflections run
Across the pool
We sit in cool perfection
Sipping skipping thoughts
Over shinny surfaces
Catching vibes
From distant lives
And then
As the sun goes down
As it must
We trust
The day to end
As once begun
Cool, calm, quiet
Despite the dogs and cocks and
Round and round to midnight talks
Then we are out!
How much each day
Has liked the last
This week in paradise.

Figure On Lingering (12/04/99)

Carried for two weeks now
this pain.
In my upper back -
piggied on
sore swollen throat flew –
Energyless.

Space to stare out over
city escapes.
Blossom cherries can’t attack
or figure on
bird bee winged cry
Echoless.

Spinach talk with pansy air
a nest provides.
A sunset chai to crack
and linger on
pen prosed word why’s
Expressionless

True or Clues (12/04/99)

I didn’t read the news today
It’s newer here
More timely

?Say

More finely
It’s truer here
I didn’t need the clues today

Precious Portents (meg barker)

a gentle caress
a furrowed brow
a sombre reflection
a path of salt

a flush of heat
a lusty scent
eager fingers
delighted tongue

a spirit's kiss
a blue-edged soar
wise peace of the spruce
ancient granite knowledge
translucent, pearlized, floating gossamer wings
for as long as this day,
and only this glorious day,
lasts.

Word promises. Life delivers.

Wait for the Dalmatian spots (22/04/99)

Across the Drive
Down the hill
Not steep
But falling
Into towers
On the horizon.

I came from downtown
Almost everyday
Peddling hard
Why hurry
Thru the hours
Of a sunset.

A quiet coffee
A friend might interrupt
My reflection
Why worry.
Catch the flowers
In the parade.

So much budding.
A mind could slip up
Counting Dalmatian spots -
Cherry blossoms fallen.
Too early.
Wait for now, or.

not (too) afraid to look at the fear (22/04/99)

?WHAT am I afraid of

Afraid of getting too much in love,
making the wrong choice,
getting hurt.

Afraid of growing bored,
getting restless.

Afraid of the power
of one day's emotion.

Afraid of not having a home.

?WHERE does it hurt

An attack of anxiety
a sudden desperation.

"It's not fair
I don't treat you like that."

Occasional envy
- a friend reports from Asia.

LOOKING more closely at the where it hurts

The anxiety attacks are quite profound
sweaty panic and brain confusion.

Usually accompanied by an unscientific review
- of "the facts."

The judgemental outbursts seem so unlike me... but.

Usually there is a long buildup
an internal dialogue about the other person "problem"
and my needing to be tolerant
and understanding
and then BOOM
"you've crossed the line."

My limit is SO sacrosanct.
I raise my voice sanctimoniously.

In Feb. I was in Victoria
included in the Dave rocking was a late nite viewing of spring '98 video highlites of "Streets of Delhi."
Very hot.
And then "Tibetan New Year Snow Storms in Dharamsala."
Talk of the next expedition.
Wondering how.
Fear that the opportunity might be lost.

Happy as the slide is frequent (thanks Wendy)

She's happy among
frequent playground slides
and dug-up earthworms
in the renamed world
of her little mudpie angel.
Spitting out sentences
is such a wonderful place to be..

Some room to improve your karma (13/05/99)
How did this happen? I left the doctors office with a diagnosis of severe hypertension of the middle finger and wrote the last verse of this poem and then started searching for images from the scene of the injury - the recent hiking trip on the Juan de Fuca trail - and they came out as verses 3 then 2 then 1

At the trailhead for an hour
Midday monsoon running late
Mixes mud and slides our footprints
Begs us to reduce our weight -
gives us room to move.

Up and down a 100 metres
Every kilometre for ten
Push the thighs to wondering
When the pain will end -
anticipates the groove.

Pondering isolation picking
Patrons in Port Renfrew's pub
Imagine west coast eco-tourists
Flocking thru this hub -
their karma to improve.

Librate the big joint
Try on half a splint
Keep those digits loosened
Give myself the hint -
repeat a subtle move.

Decisions

Its wet
and if I step outside I’ll be there
Not here
Only two of the choices

I must make one
Or more
But not waiver

There is a time for ambigue
A place by itself.

Its warm
in here and if I stay
or go
?is it different

I can give decide.
There is still time.

The Queens of E-Conferencing

Meg enters the chatroom
A trumpet declares
Sounding footsteps and epaulettes
And some discourse in pairs.

Or even greater the number
Of con frencers could be
If they entered the chatroom
With minds set on “free

For chat”, or “available”
No “extended away”s
Nor “awaiting authorization”s
Just a literal gaze

Meg’s inside the chatroom
It’s only a phase.

Horizon on the Wall (23/05/99)

Britannia School playing field
big sky crowded with
whiney "I'm bleeding" child and
Dizzy the dog ignoring the call to heel and
idle badminton team drumming on the steel fence so ...

I relocate to the 50 yard line

Don't read on
just yet ...

Just listen ...............

Trains shuttle - and bang.
Clark Drive rumbles.
Distant hoops fall.
Farther Lions call.

And then a plane of birdsong sweeps
Bicycle clicking circles creeps

Young lovers talking small.
Horizon on the wall.
Quiet green grass humbles.
Expectations rise -
and hang.

Once again faulty Saturday evening logic (23/05/99)

"I wanted to see you.
It was for me" -
My teary retraction of
"No sleepover tonight
because you've got school"

?Did she see thru my faulty Saturday night logic
Before calling up
and asking a second time

?Did she sense
the sadness of
onceagainmoving

"I check my email
every morning" she informs
so perhaps I'll keep her
close electronically
the Margaret courting way.

?Did she see the spinning her lines poet
Combing the landscape
for an arbitrary rhyme

?Did she sense
the madness of
aloneagainmorning

Tough call (meg barker)(25/05/99)

Competing with the bumblebee,
not much larger
but with a longer life horizon and a song.

No stinger,
but a thin, long, fluted beak the better to siphon sweetness
and whistle with.

A bright red collar on a teal green coat,
smooth and enticing to the crow's eye,
the bauble snatcher.

But decked out and ducking,
humming and whirling,
this jewel too tough, too small, too loud
for dinner.

Insolent, innocent? Brilliant.
Brillantly, stubbornly alive.

Sunflowers in the Goal Crease (07/06/99)

A small patch of buttercups
you couldn't churn.
Puddles in the goal crease
feed the crows.
Bonsais echo bench's whisper
to a big sky.
The children swinging sandy shoes -
their parents learn.

A fast ball is served
and not returned.
Sunflowers in the garden plots
heed the hose.
Poodles challenge robin's whistle
for a fly by.
Grandparents scolding silent sins -
their freedom earned.

afloat in pleated garbardines (17/11/98)

black, red or blonde
as the brown body curls
the hilton will be protected
amid old and busy new, flip outside,
scaffolding up a thousand cement cities
of middle-aged white women dapper black men
in pleated garbardines from wooden sidewalk suitcases
once beautiful roads of mosaic brick, rock and tile -
now scarcely noticed.

garbage floats.

Copyright Notice © 1999 Margaret Barker and Peter Gillies