March 6, 2009

Love Songs of the Canadian Prairie

Introduction: MJ and I were married in 1976 and for a honeymoon, took a monumental trek across the Canadian Prairie, headed for Lake Louise. I was very taken by the vast expanses. You could feel the earth’s curvature and get the feel of being on a planet that you don't get in cooped-up city life. (It is a pity life.) As we approached the mountains from the east, we could see dark clouds forming; we made our way into the mountains as the clouds descended and we were immersed in thick fog and rain. The weather persisted for most of our stay at Lake Louise and dampened things considerably. Last year, I began planning a novel and was drawing on memories of the trip and the region as I constructed a set of characters, and planned their relationship. So the poems below occur in the lives of characters in an as yet unpublished (and mostly unwritten) novel. So please enjoy these, along with this great version of the Tennessee Waltz for your listening while reading pleasure.




Love Songs
of the Canadian Prairie


1.

Alberta Clipper

Born in the mountains
the storm seeks its home on the prairie;
the grasslands alive with passing power.

Curtains blowing at an open window;
fingers of the wind caress the body
of the woman lying naked in Alberta;
blowing through her hair, across her breasts.

The woman stirs in a lazy stretch,
excited by the wind.
Her musty smell, lifted by the storm
is carried aloft in clouds of snow.

Towering pillars of roiling clouds
driven by the wind,
follow the path of the ancient glacier;
drinking deeply from inland oceans;
churning new snow
in the gut of the swift winter storm.

At the edge of the lake,
at the high place where the glacier stopped,
the clouds open and the snow falls.

The scent of the woman falls
with the fresh Alberta snow,
to the place where the man is standing
on the heights at the edge of the lake;
at the place where the glacier stopped
on its way to the sea.

I was there at the edge of the lake,
I took the wind in my hand;
the wind that blew
the fresh snow of Alberta
across the lake,
and carried the musty smell of you
when you stirred naked in your bed.


2.

Muse of the Northern Lights

The muse of the Northern Lights
watches the old galoot
with eyes of cool blue wisdom
as they dance around the room
to The Tennessee Waltz.

She was laying low at a corner table
trying to escape her pain.
he sent her a drink,
and they got to talking;
the place was almost empty.
Wary of intercourse, social or otherwise,
her hope is winded, on the ropes;
her tough hide cracked by betrayal.

She takes her refuge in the land;
the howling wind,
The wide square miles around the town.
The fire in the sky as the lights dance by,
the moon when it’s full above the mountains,
and the stars guide the way through time.

the great prairie about her
is beautiful, or would be,
if you didn’t have to drive to Calgary to get laid
without the whole town knowing about it;
looking out their damn windows
at her busted car in the driveway
and his in the garage.

He talks like a crazy man -
Old Coyote she calls him;
grey, grizzled, and potbellied
with pretty blue eyes
and charm enough to be believed
when he whispers to her of winter storms,
and the times in the war
that taught him lessons.
Soon she is lying next to him
warm and naked by the fire.

Outside, the cold wind blows
and coyote calls
under the Northern Lights.


3.

Masque

Searching in places dark and unfamiliar,
the old warrior seeks
a path away from death;
a last chance
to illuminate the dark road ahead
with the light of desire
and the re-birth of power;
a weapon to raise
against the gathering night.

Pathways ahead open up,
making glib promise, but leading to dead ends.
The last card in play
lands face down on the bargaining table.
the old warrior wagers his last coin,
his face a masque of resignation.

But the card lying face down on the table
is a woman, unafraid in the darkness
and eager to obviate the old man’s resignation.
She comes without guile,
naked and unashamed,
her wise lust glowing hot,
she calls out to the old warrior
radiating her power
from the dark warm place
the woman keeps hidden within.

Waiting in the dark
she sees the light in the eyes of the man
behind the masque of the warrior.
She feels him awaken.
Taking him into her hands,
she guides him to the center of life.

Her lust is the alloy, her hunger the fire
to re-forge brittle spent iron;
honing the blade of now-strong steel
with the hope she brings to the dying man.



4.

Old Coyote

In the glow of the Northern Lights
I trace your contours;
your body warm against me
in the cold Alberta night.

Outside your window
Old Coyote is howling to his mate;
calling her close -
calling her home;
the entrance to their secret den
hidden by deep winter snow.

Like Old Coyote
I sniff around you
seeking the dark warm place inside;
the musty smell of you
that calls to me
when we lie close.
'You make a place for me in the cold night 'says Old Coyote to the woman.
The heat of you is like the warmth of a fire;
your body stirring against me
like the crackling of the flames.

I settle inside you like a log
laid over a bed of glowing embers.
I feel you unfolding,
like the mystery
of a beautiful flower.

Awakened in the dark by stirring desire,
Old Coyote nuzzles your dark places.



5.

Dunes of Snow

Dunes of snow,
wind-swept fields;
The western mountains
copper-red in morning sun.
Heavy clouds promise new snow.
Sunlight dances on the Chevy’s blue paint.
Coyote squints against the glare
on the hood of the car
heading south on route 2.

The radio plays
country music out of Edmonton.
The jock is playing The Tennesse Waltz;
Bonnie Raitt - her Fender guitar,
Nora Jones on keyboard.
Wrapped in warm memory,
it makes Coyote smile,
humming to the tune.

Naked and ripe under her plaid robe,
the woman cooks at the stove.
Her blue-green eyes intent
on sausage and eggs;
she stirs homefries,
ketchup, salt and fresh-ground pepper.
She passes the toast and butter;
Coyote pours the coffee.

Her long blond hair with flecks of grey,
sing Coyote’s song.
He wants to drag her back to bed
just one more time before he hits the road.
But he smiles at her
and drinks his orange juice,
eats his eggs,
and spreads his toast with marmalade.

Belly content and warm inside,
Like Coyote in his den;
asleep under the snow beside his mate,
their howling stilled
till moonrise.

At the edge of the lake
on the way out of town,
The woman calls Coyote
on the wind.

Time drifts in decades
an inconsistent marvel;
the old man
is struck by incongruence.
Hot young blood warms his worn old body;
his man parts alive with last night’s fire.