maverick

These are dry messy spring days.
Wind throws last year's leaves
into all the corners of the yard;
tugs at the fingertips of haskap and ash
coaxing them out of winter's sleep.
Poplar gets ready to throw seeds
and stickies all around the yard.

Iris and tulip spears piercing through old growth
to begin again.
I look at all the dry, lifeless looking brown
and wonder
how things can spring to life and color.
And they always do.

Mystery of harsh prairie where
the earth bursts open when
the winter loosens its hold.
Spring clouds wander the skies like
maverick squadrons
throwing rain and wind and
occasional hail onto the
waking land
not ready to settle into warm or
soaking rain.

resurrection hangover

So would you feel lighter or heavier?
Body slowed to a stop, blood ceased pumping;
pierced so that blood runs down, muscles flaccid.
When heart surges to life again, like a Gforce spin
the weight of the world falling behind,
lungs re-inflate with a sharp intake of breath,
spirit once more is knit to this body.

Our bodies -
not just shells that are thrown away
fading back into dust.
Resurrection implies at least some sense of
reconstruction
   bringing forward something of what we have been
      utterly renewed
         unrecognized
but known.

A robin is singing her joy to the neighborhood.
Plastic bag remnant of Easter egg hunts floats through the yard on the air currents, catches
high on willow branches and
then continues into the neighbor's.

A pair of jays land in the poplar and the robin's joy turns territorial.

Sun shines warm on my face,
wind tugs at the pages of my journal.
Yesterday's laughter catches in corners
and branches of my yard.

Week 7. John 12 ... also Holy Week up till Saturday

on the ground
bottle of nard poured on the ground
spilling over his dusty feet
silken hair brushes beloved feet
giving up your life will save it

palm branches thrown on the ground
the healer was coming their way
a young donkey carried him there
the whole world has gone after him

kernel of wheat falls to the ground
dying it produces many
a man who grips his life will lose
giving up your life will save it

scent of nard poured on the ground
spilling over his dusty feet
silken hair brushing beloved feet
scandalous, mute adoration

silent
was he funny, or smart, was he strong?
belov'd friend of Jesus who died
silent at the grave and meal
two vibrant sisters served
and spoke and poured nard
Lazarus watched
betrayer
sister
Lord

silent ones
when silent ones are healed
mutely grasping for his hem
sisters calling, debating, weeping
friends load him onto a stretcher
rip the roof off to lower him in

Jesus, you hear the silent ones
all our griefs and pains you bear
you walk among us
bidding us come
you are making all things new

bunch'a haynakus
Lazarus
rose up
from the dead

Lazarus
was reclining
at the table

this
is not
what Lazarus saw

Lazarus
did not
say a word

Jesus
looked her
in the eye

crowds
were drawn
to the man

tasting
death before
eating this meal

weeping
will cease
in the morning

falling
asleep never
feels like this

new
day never
dawns like this

what
kind of
coffee is needed

new
grounds for
believing in him

IAM
right now
resurrection and life

Landays
reversing expectations, Jesus
breathed our air with our lungs and called a dead man to life

reversing expectations, Jesus
ate in the company of the resurrected man

undoing expectations, Mary
poured nard over his feet, drowning all rational thought
...poured nard over his feet, captivating every guest
...poured nard over his feet, drowning all other senses

What song?
What song shall I sing, all has fallen still?
Yesterday's vibrant music fades away
overwhelmed by whips and cries far too shrill,
and friendships - pieces of silver betray.

What song shall I sing, now darkness has slipped
into daylight and the earth is shaken
holy of holies, the curtain is ripped,
echoes o'er every hill - I AM forsaken.

What song shall I sing as they take him down -
he whose voice shook the grave loose, now silenced.
Nicodemus, come sing in this darkness.
Lazarus, what do you know of his grave?

As Mary walks weeping I catch the scent
of nard poured out in worship prescient.


Lifted
Son of Man lifted
light of the world is snuffed out
black hole drowns all light

Son of Man lifted
light of the world is snuffed out
all of us drawn in

wrestling with this hour
he prayed, Father glorify
Father responded

this voice was for us
we heard thunder and angels
Father responding

Week 6. John 11

Monday's Quatern
Oh I'm going to wake him up!
This Lazarus is sleeping sound.
His sisters called out - come to us,
but I'm just stay'n till morning comes.

They picked up stones to silence me
but oh I'm going to wake him up.
Walk by night, you're sure to fall,
so walk when y'see the light of day.

"If you had come all would be well.
You are the one we've waited for."
So I'm going to wake him up.
Watch for glory when you move the stone.

Oh watch for glory, won't you move that stone!
The dead man came a'walkin' out.
So watch when you see the light of day.
Oh I'm going to wake him up. 

Wednesday Nonets
If you had been here he would be well
strong friendships forged over the years
everyone gathered to watch
the women meet their friend
rational Martha
Mary falling
at his feet
weeping
still

everyone was thinking the same thing
if he had come when he was called
Lazarus would still be here
laughter instead of this
sorrow and wailing
now he is here
the tomb waits
death staggers
before
Christ

Haynaku
sickness
will not
end in death

martha
met him
as he came

mary 
fell down
at his feet

lazarus
stumbled out
of the grave

Thursday's Landays
trying to keep the lid on heresy
when it looks like calling Lazarus from four days gone

panic in all the upper chambers
as the structures slowly but surely begin crumbling

even the rocks and stones will cry out
testifying to life rather than holding death hostage

Friday's Sonnet
Shall I compare you to one of the chiefs?
Like Mistawasis who searched for bison
as numbers plummetted without relief
travelling far to search the horizon.

Metaphors fail if we push them too far.
We forget when they are so familiar
like shepherd, like bread, or like morning star.
Searching this prairie land... like a river.

You pulled one of us out from death's reaches
summoning Lazarus back from his sleep
like a river breaking in spring breaches
its banks, boundaries and channels. You weep

with us in chaos, and steadily breathe
our names in the silence, our lives redeem.

Saturday Haiku  
shadow and broken
glass as well as the crocus
collage on the banks

glimpse of a black hole
lit by event horizon
light disappearing

expanding reveals
ever more hospitable
creator of stars

voice of one calling
make way in the wilderness
pathway from the grave

resurrection life
we would live if you were here
called back into light

becoming a crocus hunter

I have learned that when the snow is almost gone on the banks of the South Saskatchewan River, and the air is still chilled by night frosts, this is the time to go crocus hunting.  Along the arches of grass beside the Meewasin trail, where prairie grass merges with juniper and low scrub along the edge of the escarpment, just before the land drops to the river valley.  We go walking off the trails, bending low, careful where we step, searching.

My favorite moment is the first sighting of the light purple peeking through the dry grass.  Once I've caught sight of one, they pop into view all along the brow of the hill.  Light purple stars, clumped with fuzzy nubs that are not yet open.  They hide in the brown junipers that are creeping toward the escarpment.  They stand exposed on some creature's footpaths among the dry grass.  They sprout beside a nighttime celebration's broken glass, and underfoot in the scrubby brush of the dog park.



I have never see them unless I am hunting for them. And had no idea how to look for them - or even that there was a point to looking for them -  before my friend took me on a walk last year, looking for crocuses.





If I want a really good picture, I have to kneel,
bend, or lay down on the grass, to get the camera close enough for a good shot, and if possible with some kind of backlight with sun rising or setting.  Because just a shot of the grass from where I stand shows just grassland.

The pelicans should arrive any time now.  We saw the first robins, watched the sea gulls on the patches of sand in the low river bed, caught a hawk playing on the breeze just under the light afternoon moon, watched crows gallivanting on the air currents.

We sat on the grass for a while, then turned back into the breeze along the trail to our home.
A successful crocus hunt.       

Week 5. John 10

written the week of April 1-6
Monday's Quatern
they thought he was keeping them in suspense
some game of blind man's bluff or hide and seek
tired of parables and Sabbath tricks
they asked him if he would speak a plainer truth

he spoke of thieves of robbers and shepherds
they thought he was keeping them in suspense
he kept piling image upon image
miracles were the plain language he spoke

he spoke of his gift of eternal life
gift to his sheep - gift through bread and water
they thought he was keeping them in suspense
but there were no words sufficient for this

so he knows his sheep and his sheep know him
he's a good shepherd and gate for his sheep
he lay down his life to take it again
they thought he was keeping them in suspense

Wednesday's Nonet
stumbeling through doorways and gateways
distantly hearing my name called
thirsty - so thirsty and dry
that voice sounds like water
like feasting, like rain
sun on my face
beckons me
forward
home

Haynaku
believe
going back
to the beginning

going
back to
where it started

Thursday's Landay
the religious leaders wrestling with Jesus' teachings and healings
is he enemy or messiah
spits on the dirt beneath our feet and blind eyes open

is he enemy or messiah
says he comes from the Father, does everything he's told

then is the father good or evil
challenging all we have built for the sake of the blind

a thief, hired hand or good shepherd
who is he? who is following him and who runs away?

Friday's Sonnet
You tell stories of thieves, robbers and sheep,
gatekeepers, hired men, good shepherds and life;
walk among us with compassion, and weep
with us in sorrow, yet stir up this strife.

Draw lines in the sand, irrevocably
shifting the paces we stand.  Now we see
frustration replacing complacency.
Who are you, where do you come from? And he

walks on the sand , singing creation's song
singing of treasure, of shepherds and seed
melodies echo until I am drawn
to watch him, to ask if he is indeed

the one we have waited for since time began
and earth began spinning at the touch of his hand.

Saturday's Haikus
We've been looking for crocus this week...just beginning to emerge.

hidden dusty mauve
dry grasses camouflaging 
emerging crocus

crocus make no splash
among the sage and grasses
burst with silent glee

bison in the hills
look for fresh sage and grasses
unearthing crocus

shepherd on the hills
safely may the sheep forage
he is trustworthy

Sheep photos by Randy while in NZ

Week 4. John 9

written during the week of March 25-30

Monday's Quatern
This man does not keep the Sabbath.
He finds a man who was born blind,
spits on the ground and creates mud.
...works with dirt just like his Father.

A prophet or a sinnerman,
this man who does not keep the Sabbath?
Spit and polish, mud and water.
Do you want to hear it again?

I washed and now my eyes can see.
Does the work of his Father, but
this man does not keep the Sabbath.
Do you want to follow him too?

Echoes of his creative power;
his fingers shape mud to find life.
This is good, so very good but
this man does not keep the Sabbath.

Tuesday's Nonet
he's never seen the light of morning
noonday sun falls hot on his back
ev'ning fades without notice
sounds and smells and flavors
color all his days
till this day mud
banishes 
darkness
SING!*

Wednesday's Haynaku

spit mud mask wash in Siloam

spit accuse him send him away

Thursday’s Landays

sharp longing wraps around my will pow’r

imprisons my better judgement and leaves agony

despair idles beneath the surface

coursing through a vacuum of boredom to wreck havock

sight unleashes the joy and the fear

we struggle to understand how it is possible

where is the man who gave you your sight?

while you were blind, we knew how to see; now are we blind?

suddenly things have become unclear

sight comes to one born blind, and so we must throw him out

Friday’s Sonnet

Shall I compare thee to new morning light

spilling o’er the horizon, shimmering;

awakening the birds, ready for flight,

casting long shadows, darkness bewild’ring.

We call it the breaking of a new day.

But it is night that is broken at dawn.

The slow spinning of earth’s orb will betray

night’s long hold – even in Saskatchewan.

Work, for the night most surely is coming.

While you are here, night is taken aback.

Wash mud in Siloam, heart beats drumming;

eyes have been opened, light shines through the crack.

Thin light of morning awakens my soul

awakens hope that all will be made whole.

Saturday Haiku

slowly receding

snow abandons ground and green

plants emerge ready

cloudy grey stillness

dead branches litter my yard

thrown down in winter

blue jay calls from high

screeching his warning or joy

morning calls forth songs