Archives for posts with tag: Four Seasons

this evening, my neighbour’s red brick chimney,
lit by the dying sun, glows brilliant carmine
against a pure blue sky that penetrates my blood
and fills me with insensate ecstasy

lilac always dies,
Spring always fades
when the lush begins
and the ache of Winter ends

when the lilac fades
like a love who no longer
captures your heart,
others will counsel, move on

but I regret before I
celebrate what is to come

To the girl with the long straw blonde hair
flying down the street, hair streaming behind her;
I cannot see her face, she stands
on the back of a motorcycle that flies down the street,
her long blonde hair streams behind her.
She is eight years old and the driver is, I believe,
someone she knows, someone who loves her, someone she trusts—
she stands—her long straw blonde hair streaming behind her
and they drift—she and the driver she knows and trusts and loves—
up to the horizon, rise as they recede, they rise as the warm Spring air
makes the night new, mild but masked, filled with promise and mystery,
as it runs through her hair, as she rises to the horizon, on the back
of the motorcycle driven by someone she trusts and loves;
she stands, and her long straw blonde hair streams behind her.

A word about Dennis Tourbin. Twister was an inspiration to the (original) Peterborough Poets — all of us. He was an established player — a poet/ painter who was published, whose paintings were exhibited — and he believed in us, performed with us, and mentored us.
It is impossible to convey the infectious good will, optimism and endless energy Dennis possessed. Dennis and I performed on the same bills together, and eventually we co-created some poems and performed together. It was always a profound experience for me to perform with Dennis.
Dennis was a star. He could capture a room, stop people in their tracks in an instant. All of us P’bo Poets studied, befriended Dennis, as we all knew — Dennis was the goods.
I have written the poem in a style that is not Dennis’ but is a tribute to his style. Dennis created patterns of words, rhythms of words, repetitions, alterations that through repetition made new sentences, new meanings. I have tried to emulate the method in the poem.
Dennis meant more to me than all of the above. When my son was undergoing treatment for leukemia, Dennis was being treated for a brain tumour — a tumour that would eventually end his life.
He would call me, ask how Arlen (my son) was doing and raise my spirits. I could never get over his courage, his consideration. Dennis was calling me to help me out, when he was the one being treated for cancer. Grace, larger than life — a true star — Dennis was all of the above and it could have made him a monster without heart — but he never lost his heart. He always loved like a lion.
Twister (his nickname) always raised my spirits. He was a friend, a living example of how an artist/ poet should act/ behave/ create — and he was endless kindness and humanity. I miss him terribly and hope you will check out his work, and if you knew Dennis, I hope this tribute meets with your approval.


In Spring rain I drink deep
through roots that are nurtured
in sediment of family, love and passion —
this is Spring. Sweet rain washes all
new again, and I drink to rejoice —
this is, and it is now. Through a
spray of tears we laugh, we love,
this is Spring, this rain blesses us,
blesses our garden to flower again,
this our insurrection against time and the infinite;
instead, we cherish the brilliant instant,
the moment when we drink deep in Spring rain
and hear each mote of Nature ping,
“Worship this moment, this incredible
moment, let our hearts sing!”

our door open to its perfume, air lurid
with evening light, blue, pink, purple, indigo
stained evening, together we strain to extend
the light; the trees, the grass, the flowers
in full blossom, the ground brilliant green,
littered with lilac petals, their white
stain a toss in the face of Winter; the breeze
lifts us, flies us to foolish dreams, makes us
weak, so sure to surrender, first to each other,
then to waken the world; mouth all that is alive
and sweet in the evening, call everything to rise

The time of flowers has begun
and all the worries of this world
disappear in their presence.

Each blossom invites surrender;
do not flowers surrender,
give all of themselves, freely?

In the wind, their colours mimic
birds in flight, rise flutter swoop bow,
serene tousled heads at play, they

sway the soul, serenade the senses.
The day is at hand; cut them, keep them
in a vase, now, you have captured the light.

You can’t undo what has been done,
you cannot change what is to come;
the time of flowers has begun.

how can the touch of your flesh
cause such joy — the smell of you!
as you lie beside me, redolent with love
and the scent — how new the earth sings.

In summer or winter it would be fog—
now, it is suspended rain;
new green trees wave fronds in the ocean
we breathe, slowly, delicately,
to delineate what we cannot see,
that we swim on this ocean floor,
blindly, though we see.

Their leaves do not jostle, do not frenzy,
but follow each other placidly, idyllically,
plain for anyone to see
at the bottom of the sea, that mirrors the sea below it.

Time flies but cannot escape.
The air is liquid, strangely silent of bird song,
bursting with the moment about it,
encompassed like a breeze without sound, a word.

Languid, the evening steams in. I plant seeds.
Fragrant lilac attracts no bees, they sleep still.
No insect buzz, no summer heat, the house
made unbearable and the garden an escape.
Now, you are a refuge whose walls are made of silk
and the evening, transparent, seduces all.

when it is the first time
it seems such a long time
winter is gone
and the sun is young

sit outside after dinner
breathe deep and take a minute
because, right now, I have
all the time in the world

and it is brilliant again
it is alive again
it is warm sparkle
in your eyes, and that makes

you young again
no matter how many times
you have gone around
the sun

tonight, after dinner,
I sit outside because
winter is undone
and once again

the sun is young

the moment before the rain
after the garden has been planted
while children play, the air riven
with silver laughter, let them be
… they’re on their own

the moment before the rain
the garden alive, all quiet
timid nascent shoots wait
to unfold; the smell of lilac
anticipation graces the air

the moment before the rain
all still; conversations carry
past fences; twilight lasts and
lasts; shouting children have
joined the wild and escaped

the moment before the rain
running to capture green shoot
children running away, shouting
“come back” only makes everyone
laugh; no one sleeps tonight

before the rain
anticipation. birds
still — a pause, smell
exact, like no other

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