Coldstream Creekside

somewhere near,
a road-building
project destroyed

a historic wonder,
i made a photograph:
a very old log house.

sunburned from
probably a century
of summer sun.

logs turned rich
brown and black,

cracks filled with 
old white plaster.
whitewash, maybe.

i don't know the 
stories i can't see.

i can always
believe nonsense;
it's a very human 
thing to do.


the creek flowed
silently past the
old log house.

maybe it was
drinking water,
though today it
looks murky,
a bit dangerous.


old stories are
impossible to
prove, a bit murky,

digging for
truth a little quirky

we turn over stones,
looking to see clues
to untold stories,
stories we can't see.

Black Widow Spider

   she's such a 
      gruesome
creature, 

  waiting quietly
  for something
foolish enough

      to wander
close enough.

      she will
pounce and
sink fangs in
deep enough

to inject her
   poisonous
      venom.


two workmen
   watched me
      capture 
her image,

to make this 
   photograph,

from what they
   considered a
safe distance.


her bite might 
   not be fatal
for someone
      my size.

it might make
   me very sorry.

   and sorrier,
      her mate,
who i am not,
may be killed
      and eaten.

   i am not him,
   and keep my
safe distance.


      she is so
beautiful in
   her hunger,

      almost a
      majestic
creature,

      with such
   gruesome
expectations.

 
   she is amazing, 
a thing of wonder.


Looking Up

Looking Up

insignificant 
beside the hill,
i begin to
understand
my importance
in the scheme 
of things.

if i were to think
about my time
and the scale
of time these hills
represent,

i'd have to be 
impressed by my
time as much as
by my stature.

how important 
i am not!

i think and 
words come out, 
not always exactly
appropriate;

it can be a struggle.

layers of sand, 
turned to stone, 
containing all 
the stories 
of so many ages.

i seee it all, 
amazing, 
i am amazed.

humbling, but
i am not humiliated.
loving the chaotic beauty
of this wild place!













Vivid Sky

Vivid Sky

why do i think it's
the edge of night?

      just before 
   the darkness
smothers colour

then darkness 
comes,
      and 
sticky eyelids
   stick shut
until morning.

why do i think it's
the edge of night?

      why not:
the edge of day?

or something
   else
   unusual?

      maybe we
should consider 
      mid-day 
and midnight.

      but nothing 
seems unusual 
   about either.

   maybe we can 
forget middles 
      and edges 
   and make it 
all about the sky.

      seahorses
in the clouds!

Black and White Valley

 some things 
 look so good 
 in colour, 

and sometimes 
greytones make 
 music forever 
in our thirsty souls.

 this land rose up,
millions of years ago.

 a glacial lake
 transformed
from solid to 
 cold water,

 and burst 
 its banks 

making a sudden
 river,

 rushing roaring
torrent nightmare

 all day long,
maybe a thousand
 years eroding

this sculpted
 river valley.

now we are 
 witness to 
the aftermath,

this sculpted
 landscape.




A Tree To Make Me Happy

here is a tree to
make me happy:

branches that 
do not meet my
expectations;

they all go their
own puzzling ways.

a pleasing chaos
reigns as branches
grow unpredictably,

following no known
patterns, growing
always beautiful.

shape and shade
encourage my
easy admiration.

(hot summer days
teach many meanings 
of oppression)

we should never
learn them all.


Sky at Night

and when we see 
the sky as night 
comes down,

we see such light,
amazing in 
 our skies.

how can we sleep,
with colours
such as these?

then comes 
the dark,
and weary eyes
will rest.

we sleep and wake,
because we hear
small birds sing,

and then it's
daylight, ready
to enjoy
another day.

and we will wait
until the day
is gone, and we can 
see the sky again, 
amazing 
in our minds.

Red Deer River Valley

Red Deer River Valley

here was an ocean
an ancient 
shallow sea;

great creatures 
navigated there
before you and me.

archaic things
swam in sandy
bottomed shallows

sailors in ancient
places, where we'll
never go again.

buried bones
have turned
to stone

millions of years
went sliding past
it seems so long;
it goes so fast.

here are bones,
when fleshed 
and live,
swam by 
so long ago.

we see them
in museums,
learning little.