a classroom

first it was the former Yugoslavians

like Marko running with his family

to Canada

bullets ripping through his house

right over the dinner table

then Somalian teens

who'd never been to school

seeped in violence

bristling with anger

followed by Syrian girls

falling in boot sticking mud

and more zinging bullets

landing months later

in a gang riddled neighbourhood

new city - more guns

now a Ukrainian girl

she can speak three languages

but not English

she sits quietly in the back

sinking deeply into her desk

a sprinkling of Libyans, Lebanese, 

West Africans, and Haitians...

for 75 minutes

we sit, laugh...even learn

binding us together bit by bit

in unconditional hospitality

lakeside path

walking stick swings in steady rhythm

the tired monk walks the path

up and over gnarled pine roots

and broken bedrock

heeding the mossy patches

just a bit further up the high bluff

stops

pours tea

breathes in woodland air

takes in lakes, a creek, a beaver pond

one lone island

a red fox wanders

out of the junipers

looks for a moment

smells the air

turns back 

the way she came

two kits follow

the monk sips 

one more taste of green tea

pick up his walking stick

jogs down the hill

laughing

 

the abbess appears

the old monk sheds his sandals

wades into the mucky ditch

swinging his sickle

mowing thick swamp grass

just ahead of torrential rains

pulling heaps of vetch

stuck in choking muck

rakes, shovels, loads

three heavy barrows full

the water runs free at last

down through the culvert

into the low valley stream

the abbess appears

smiles

offers a dark rich

French press coffee

Ranching

my first job: was on a ranch

creates cowboy visions

of mountains, cold creeks, 

patting the neck of a beautiful horse

oh the romance

more so

shoveling horse shit...the literal kind

flecks of creosote paint

burning my hands

rich girls in clean new jeans

laughing as I wheelbarrow by

Sierra Nevada "1957"

Townes is playing

he's fingerpicking a Martin

under a sequoia tree 

he yells out:  "this one's called red wine blues"

Jack laughs 

hoists up two jugs 

and takes a healthy slug

and passes it to his young wife

more people arrive

walking up the winding path

Gord, Stephen, John, Benjamin...

and many more

some are holding cases of Labbatt 

over their heads

then dumping them into

troughs of ice

Gary wanders down

from his mountain shack

he'd been up there cooking

all afternoon

huge pots of chili

we start to spoon it out

two California girls 

top the bowls

with shredded cheese

everything shimmers...fades

a robin starts to sing out

into the dawn

a crow joins in

a final ethereal glimpse

of Gary smiling

 

On the Road

On the Road 

beautiful Penguin edition

photo of Jack, and Neal

looking out over the library...

(learning commons)

up high yes

just like a fire watch tower

on Desolation Peak

below

students sit

staring into chromebooks

and the occasional Manga

the Kerouac paperback

sits unstamped since 2007

yellowing under 

fluorescent lights

a new song

slow steady climb

up the rocky ridge

scouts used to clear this path

now it is rock strewn

overgrown

blocked by a fallen tree

up over the shattered pine

then down into the small 

creek cut valley

drop my pack

by the door

little camp hatchet 

snaps through dry wood

flint sparks fly

warmth spreads

across the cabin floor

in the corner

an old Fender acoustic sits

six rusty strings hang loose

soon it is fitted up 

with a new heavy gauge set

low lonesome chords ring

up over the mountain top

a new song echoes