JUST ABOUT ANY PLACE poems by happenstance copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo, ON, 2017
Pacing
Waiting at the bus kiosk Cross the street Illuminated by our headlights At McDonald’s. And she paced And she paced In that little glass cage Cigarette in hand While the rain visited Out of season. And hazily.
Was she irritated, frightened Attention deficit Bills pressing upon the heart Holiday wishes beyond attainment Grumpy supervisor waiting at work An argument with a loved one Turned sour? Kids already rushed to day-care With gritty eyes and runny noses. ...Saw an animal like that Once at the zoo Just a kid I was But already sorry For its limitations And lonely If not abandoned pacing.
Dockside
Nobody's up And my steps Rumble down the dock.
Hardly a wind Morning mists Soaking back into bush And birches shiver Their welcome. Bubbles frolic Up from the cribs As sunfish battle Over egg territories. One raucous crow High up in the pines Declares his mastery As two gulls careening Near still waters Pay him Never-no-mind. Their yodels and chuckles Inviting fast finned breakfast. I have a novel Binoculars A Muskoka chair And delicious spare time. But first The long breathless listen As Bay awakens. One neighbour's dog Echoes a mile Around the shore. Billowing cumulus Happily oversee Their slow-moving Liquid equals.
Expendable
They were hardy corpsmen And didn't see it coming Didn't see the shrapnel That took them clean from France Three weeks and no movement All dug-in, damp in duty Trench-life made of waiting But wanting to advance. Somewhere out in No-Man's That morning of the order Lark was singing gaily
Where gray had stamped out life Frost had flecked the grasses And rations fed the masses As young men from the farmlands And factories faced new strife. Now a different stirring A dawn chill vision blurring As Kraut and Brit Expected something strange Ordnance preparing Not one a smile was wearing The big guns back Now moved to closer range. And in an instant blazing A Father lost a Son A village lost a plumber And a doctor scarce begun A Lover lost her one dream Far away neath prairie sun And Johnny would not Come marching home again.
Note: Strange how the sun glare nestled upon the memorial cross this November's day in Paris ON.
Lapping Water's Edge
Got out of the cottage Cooler night I guess Sweat shirt over shoulders Just in case. Probably thirty minutes left Crowds and noise gone From the beach. Sandals kicked off Sand cool to the toes. Lone seagull bids me welcome Two-tone exclamation Soaring white Against the coming reds Of the horizon. Waves give a mesmeric Hissing at the edge. Over there, cross the waters Another nation, and A-wollers clopping down To the beach And looking back at me. And God you have done This wonderful thing In our midst. Timeless rolling waves Evening breeze forecasting Sound holiday sleep And tomorrow’s banter And bouncing with the kids. Through the reds And through the lapping And through the memories I hear your smile‌Father. Thanks.
Jessica Sunday afternoon Bench in the park Friendly breeze Moderating September heat. She been to church But it was nothin
Except people and practice. God was almost silent. Not the same With Lloyd gone He used to sing Big and bold With the tenors And she sittin Across an alto And smilin at her man Midst the songs of Zion. Hardly seemed like Sunday The rush all round. But here in the park Half way to the apartment There was Church. Laughter of children Bright colour waking in the trees Robin and goldfinch Singing and stretching For the coming trek. Jessica with eyes closed Felt His warm Hand On her face And began to speak out “I was glad When they said unto me. Let us go into The house of the Lord. Our feet shall stand Within thy gates O Jerusalem.�
Psalm 48
Zion is all glorious A testimony sure A dwelling-place for righteousness Befitting God so pure The earthly roads Go elsewhere Reserved for pomp and trade And tinsel tyrants Tremble
As brilliant towers are laid. They seek to stop The progress of pilgrims Lifting praise They fear another King Prevails To bless for endless days. His judgments all Are worthy Despondent ones Now cheer. As yet I breathe Lord grant me leave To help the hurting hear.
The Carters
Where are you headed Friend? Pushing that thing Holding your precious strange cache Night proved a damp one The kind you must hate Hiding yourself and your stash. You see it all each day Good haps and bad Wisdom obtained on the race Sunshine and blasting They wear you right down Shows in the marks on your face. Women are at this too
Sad 'tis to say Muttering their simplest of song Eyes cast to sidewalk In dreams of the past Constables urge "Move along" Reason is fleeting But "Carters" deny Anything wrong in the head This their profession To just make it through Many a Friend ends up dead. Should be a job Or a service to give Sidewalk no place for a soul Daily their task Just to live and let live Folk stare and judge, hale and whole.
Monastic and Waiting
As far as I walk There is much mileage yet The sights I have seen Will be bettered I bet It keeps my eyes forward Though dark may abound I know God is good There are clues all around. He calls me to listen He calls me to fast He calls to the grinding chore Sameness so vast. Though restlessness beckons ‘I must see some change I must tend a grand cause This place re-arrange.’ And Psalms at the mid-day And Psalms in the night I sing with my Brothers Well versed in this fight Not all of them winsome Not all friends by choice But comrades still searching With one common Voice With exquisite Love
For the Gospels and Cross The smallest light coming Worth all other loss. I’ve learned to love silence To read in the shade To marvel at lakeside To stroll through the glade. My skills come in handy For our enterprise For hosting retreaters Or hurt otherwise. And still I press to it The hope unfulfilled A vessel more fitting For what Christ has willed. To see as He saw us When humbled and slain And glimpse the bright Kingdom The humble will gain.
The Professor
He stands there Just like a professor. In blue-gray So tall and so thin. His stride is quite Slow and deliberate. I’ve known many Men just like him. His wings both Behind him for balance. His neck craning Forth in some search. And so keenly fixed, His attention. This could be his Classroom or church. His stilt-like, gold Limbs raise no ripple. His beaky head Slightly askew. The pond’s mirrored Surface reflection
Takes of this great Bird, and makes two. Then stops his stiff Perambulation. Long neck and beak Flash in the sun. To raise in a Silvery splatter, His fish breakfast, Expertly won.
Noon Hour Lesson
She pecked at the sidewalk so gently White cane all over the place And cars passed her by in a frenzy. Determined, the look on her face And smiling, though pacing through darkness And probably so all her days And I fretting some little problem And feeding my small, selfish ways. Oh how I was urged to pull over Embrace those two shoulders so brave And tell her Light comes in the Morning With One oh so willing to save. And might He step out of the ether? And put His two hands on her eyes? Dear Christ come to this little Sister With glimpses of your Paradise.
Never Met Such a Judge
The seat's for her
Don't say different. And those little ones Right beside. Let your faces Show a welcome. Dump your postures Dump your pride. No she missed The teaching series. Coming new here Without shine. And she needs some care That's obvious. But she's precious And she's mine. The collection Will scarce miss her But she gives much more You see. She is needy And she knows it And she's not ashamed of me. Much unlike The current fashion Where the name of Christ Is hid. Talk of marriages And finance And the way to tame that kid. And the suppers Pot-luck pretty And the baseball when it's hot. She is seeking out My City. And you trendy bunch Are NOT. So the lesson Sits among you And the litmus test is here. Come up forward Gracious daughter At my feet Where all is clear.
Old Friends*
Don't ask why I do this Alone on this bench The City alive with new pace. This once was my corner I served up the meals But now I can't click to one face. I'm just old and past it I once worked long hours My wife seeing diners well fed. But now it's the paper And grand-kids to watch And most of the old friends all dead. But you Sir, yes you there I seem to recall Your face from a happier time. The sport shop your baby The laughs that we shared Your business familiar with mine. Yes...Jack, now I have it You'd come through the back And chat up the cook and the girls And order “the special� And tell a clean joke. Remember that kindlier world? (*George Kerhoulis and Jack Blair of the old London ON breed.)
Out...Shopping
She came in for some groceries With cane and darkened glasses Slow the pace and smiling A Saturday event Most others rushed oblivious To her need for human comfort A simple talk and flesh-press Would keep her smiling yet. Apartment was a still place With photos of the loves gone Figurines of Doulton Those treasures obsolete Maidens bright on hilltop And windswept their long dresses
Eyes that flashed a future And oh so tiny feet. But the feet now pained her And memories came up sketchy Products in this market Confusing as of late Then she saw me shelving For dairy and for frozen Felt that here was someone To listen and relate.
Small Talk Yields Big Dividends
I have simply come out walking And our paths have crossed by chance And you offer up a smile As if to pass. And I volley with a comeback "Nice to see those robins 'round" Just as one trots cross the turf And stabs the grass. And discussion then flows freely You so wanted to engage But you simply had no fare To make it start. Seems your wife is resting bedside From a stroke that rocked your world I am listening Friend Yes...please unload your heart.
Sparrow A sparrow the image And she lonely seeks out food. From the bushes and recesses For a hopeful waiting brood.
And the cosmos spins around her And she seems a trivial thing But the Maker of the cosmos Knows her lot, formed her wing. A sparrow the image And the day seems cold as death But the Keeper gives her wrapping And a cheerful singing breath. And she greets the paltry sunshine Of a birthing winter's day With assurance that her Keeper Sees her through to flowering May. A sparrow the image The dark days still abound And tooth and claw and slander Wait for her on shadowed ground. But she finds her way to Zion And a nest within its walls And quite certain Loving Deity Knows of each her flights and falls.
The Battle
For some it's just Another day When nothing seems to mend The sun-up brings No remedy The hardships will not end The little child Still wheezing The food stamps missed the mail The factory Still on lay-off The eldest son in jail The drunken one Blaspheming And he once good as gold The widow shrinks Considering A lonely house when old. How did we
Come up empty When once it seemed so full? The care-free Play of childhood Today's lot terrible. Some shake their Hands toward Heaven Some know the fault is ours And dare not blame A Saviour Who sends the love and flowers. Lord help them To expect You To turn this war around And stand up tall And hopeful. Transformed on Holy Ground.
Holiday Coach Flakes still floating magic And windshield rubber flapping Three hours left to my shift And holiday begins. Traffic tends to errands And plods through slush and slippery Teens stretch out behind me With liberated grins. Fewer lights are showing Than simpler years once sported Scarcely seen the Christ child With tale of Love come down. But I whistle carols And think of family coming Smiles and celebration In my small part of town. There she stands with stroller And wee lad wrapped in cast-offs Waiting for this transport And warmth and light a while. First the ramp to lower And lift the precious package Nothing else will matter But just her wee one's smile. Had to leave apartment
And sad no cash to cover Boyfriend in a tailspin And spouting drunken rage. Sad and jobless months now With bills and threats a-piling Tough to hear so hurting At such an early age. “Sweetheart you are welcome Just sit up front a while Women's shelter waiting And helpful hearts and hands.” Just a half an hour And you won't feel abandoned Little Town of Bethlehem You likely understand.
This Much I Do
The soil smells of promise Low spots all dried up Last year’s scruff calling for turnover Team watches me adjust the discs Shaking heads as trappings jangle Anson will take the right this year Old Caleb the left Two young uns midst And still learnin’ the trade Much too eager yet Competitive, even I call the straight and narrow Rooks above call the tune For mid-afternoon outing As clouds race merrily above Knowing this wind is spring And the blue not a disappointment
Right hand hurts With the arthritis Thankfully left still has the tug and touch Anson gets the message As if those reins were telegraph And we’re off for first acreage All the old metal squeaking with joy Father used to talk to it As I clung to his right Feeling every rock through steel seat. At the headland Caleb plants His power as fulcrum Ansen choreographs the sweep Good sports all And back we go Fine pace setting in As April gets ready to leave. Late season with those snows Hangin' on like that. But now each breath alive And God is good.
Waiting and Hearing One Train in the Night
So much noise Suggesting answers To the problem. Ways of old Goods and guns Of “Egypt's� store. Run to them And the paths Of past provision But alas, those old ways Don't work anymore. I would have you Clear the board Of restless fretting I would have you Sit so still And stripped of self. I would have you Seek the night Of fixed solemnity Watching, waiting For an inkling Of my wealth. Yes so much Mine to be offered To the needy And the power To eradicate each foe. Utter out your love And bankruptcy, Beloved. I am waiting All my good intent to show.
Life at the River
If I had the chance to show you If you'd sit still long enough
I would take you to the River Lovely diamond in the rough I would have you hear the cardinals See the mallards skimming down And the Monarch, gossamer pilot At the outskirts of our town There the Angus cattle lowing And the hissing wind-swept corn There the sparkle on the millpond Hiding heron in the morn' And you'd sense Creator's passion And His new art brushed each day As the clouds sailed slowly over And you'd bend the knee and pray "Thank you Father for your power And your purpose in this art Long it captured all my senses But today you have my heart."
Stratford Ships of State
On the courtly banks of Avon, With the theatre in view, And the audience-in-waiting, And the picnics, not a few. We come yearly to remember Where our marriage troth was set, To rehearse that night of magic When these hearts were firmly knit. Now the play had been the reason
For our trip from out-of-town; But the ring was in my suit-coat, And my Queen in gorgeous gown. And the dinner was delightful, And the promenade stream-side. ‘Cross the bridge out to the island. Would she come back o’er my bride? She had surely seen it coming. And the question popped with ease. And the snap-shot still reflects Her glowing face, so quick to please. And the swans sailed past the island With their canvas spread in state, And their lowered necks, acknowledged, “Yet another finds his mate.” Then the fanfare called the audience To the dimming lights, the play. But the Main Event was ours, not theirs, By Avon, that fair day.
Down to the Beach
You smell it Long before sight The crest in the street Leads assuredly To lazy turquoise And tanning lotion Memories of happy kids And dunes for a frolic Castles and canals Slurping and sculpted The applause sound Of uncountable waves Ending on gravel With a hiss of Mission accomplished Then receding graciously And back out again Toward the States This has none Of the City's clamour Imperious signage Or vague faces This has the vitality Of enjoyed life And nature's awe Our happy membership “Having a good day? Sure glad those clouds Passed.� Footlongs and fries Sizzle for the selling Two elders in lawn chairs Together and silent Feet in the sand Accepting Fresh air and quick sounds Facing the mystery Blue above and in Liquid transit Taking them back.
Princess of Grace
She is all smiles And it’s five thirty AM Overnight shift at coffee shop Juggling counter and drive-thru Unscrambling garbled orders From sleepy patrons And offering her best. Middle-aged Frightfully thin Hair pinned under Company cap Probably a grandmother somewhere And smiling unshakably Catching every detail Offering every option (And the franchise keeps adding New and trendy treats.) She looks you straight on Offering the same graces To homeless guy To out of town salesman To yawning shift worker To cop on the beat. To college student pressed with exams. She brings community And care and contentment Rare commodities in the rat race. And for minimum wage. With some shaky promise Of extra hours
From an owner Whose only hands-on job Is buying napkins and toilet supplies.
River Barges
Two barges discarded Ancient Dover champions For the river's free flow Worked to ridiculousness. Now yachts and launches Rock and ping Somewhat embarrassed At what they owe. The “Rust” half land-moored And leaning Dragged there thanklessly After the big blow of '88 When Danny was lost. The “Red” jerry-rigged Beyond all hope Still sporting some Of the last paint job. In stark contrast To clapboard dock Long condemned. Gulls still pay respect In the boom rigging Chatting developments A couple of displaced cormorants On deck. Waves lap a remembered rhythm As luxury craft pass For bank-side homes and lots Of outlandish price. Fishing tugs steel and echoing Continue a legitimate and Brave wage's regimen The Lake much leaner.
Have I Seen?
Have I seen Around the corner Young mother in wheelchair Pushed by sensitive son Legs limp and thin After the accident? Or at the store, Frail, neatly coiffed elder Holding purchases Mere inches from the eyes Hiding her blindness? Or young man In the one good suit, Files underarm, Seeking again today That job of promise In the wake Of broken promises? Or single mother In the parking lot, Trying to contain Three youngsters Who cry, compete And complain? For so long they were invisible. But then came A Great Pain, A faltering, A disruption In schedule And in connection. An embarrassment A helplessness A slip from the ranks All in the mercies of Providence. And I see them now, And I feel the pulse And reach out. With Grace Way beyond myself.
Alfalfa in the Blue
I took to roads The country roads A job was pending Up a ways. A bridge to help The farmers' days And men baked in the sun. The windows down The truck ran smooth The breeze was thick With fresh mown hay. And cattle lounged Along my way. And mustard gold begun. Then came Fifth Line And turn I did To see a patchwork Table-set. Including rich Blue-violet. Alfalfa blooms fine-spun. The sight so strange To urban eyes A yield so fragile In the the winds. The Artist strokes And then rescinds His showing for just one.
Just, Plain Tali
I saw him at the market Touting things he'd cooked But really not just touting Upon a second look The bowls of beef and salad An introduction sweet
(Colossians 3:17)
For voicing quaint "God love ya's" To people he would meet And out from counter stepping To place a hand of care On hurting ones who stopped by Yes Jesus Christ was there The bowls they did not empty New fish and loaves of sort (Matthew 14:16-21) A Godly Puerto Rican Dispensing good report. (Tali or Nephtali. A real encounter in South Carolina.)
Street Peculiar He was on the busy sidewalk, sandwich board sign over shoulders and covering front and back. The message read “Meet Jesus: ten, nine, eight, seven…” Sun was trying to break through a misty late Sunday morning and many university students had taken to the sidewalks. There were smirks and giggles, half hidden from the messenger. It was as if Saturday night foolishness could not let go. Others offered a congenial smile and perhaps a greeting. A few, glued to their cellphone screens, nearly collided. The majority just looked in some other direction when passing him by. What were their thoughts? Meeting Jesus? He is alive. Wishes to be involved with them. Loves the streets of the common folk. Offers an exceptional encounter. It could be imminent, hence the count-down. Would they find themselves ready? What did that look like? Who might advise them, as they certainly were not reponding to the steeple bell down the block. All this the messenger knew. He had left the gatherings of churchgoers for the thirsty and starving in spirit, out in the everyday. Standing upright, clear-headed and open-hearted, he was ready for engagement. Who might stop? Who might ask? This was the adventure of the Evangel. Peculiar or not, he knew his purpose. Close by the Gentle Carpenter was observing, smiling and readying Himself for a meeting of Providence. A good day for the Kingdom.