Humans/Places/Streets/Writing

Your Muse is an Alcove in a Starbucks on Jasper

Posted on by stephen t berg / 12 Comments
Jasper Avenue by Shawna Lemay (@transactionswithbeauty)

Among the rhythms you miss most is rising at half-past four,
hot shower,
kissing your wife who awakes from her dream, “Oh sweetheart,
have a beautiful day,” and falls back to sleep.
Elevator to courtyard,
you step out into the still dark city on a cold spring morning,
walk four blocks
under the silvery hearts of street lights
to arrive at the coffee shop just as it opens —
mop-damp floor, yellow A-frame sign,
baristas wiping counters,
still yawning,
coffee on but not yet ready — a spoonful
of anticipation.
And the regulars arrive, nod greetings,
claim their tables,
check their planets’ positions in the paper
and wait without drumming their fingers,
while ceiling speakers play Feist — I Feel It All.
“Your wish is my command,” smiles the barista,
although you hadn’t said a thing,
and you take your cup, sip, and settle in with your notebook,
knowing you have an entire two hours before
answering the bell.
And the shepherding wonders of dawn move over Jasper Ave.
      and the raspberry sun softens the tip of a high-rise,
            and the silver-ash hoarfrost feathers young leafless elms
                  and the panhandlers are brimming with coins,
and this small herd of angels, defenders of Costa Rican farmers,
      sit in circles of light —
lift you into the face of resplendence that lasts
      but a moment,
but in that moment, you set down your cup,
for it’s apparent,
you may write the best line of your life,
which, if timed perfectly,
will be your last.

Lent

My Neighbour’s Hydrangeas – Lenten Considerations Leaning Toward Easter

Posted on by stephen t berg / 8 Comments

Taking into consideration,
a Merlot-mellow chord progression, 
or the sight of a great grey owl
surveying a ravine from an aspen limb,
or, in spite of sorrow, that silent power
that wants me to live,
why wouldn’t I spend my days being happy?

And if I take all four seasons just the way they come,
patient as an old horse nodding in summer’s sun,
in winter, pawing clear a spot in the pasture,
quiet there, recalling those spring-blossom words:
though your heart condemns you, I do not —
why wouldn’t I fall in love with every human face?

Or if I was reduced to an atom of dust,
clinging to dew as dew clung to me,
and we’d join a cloud weighing more than a bus
then burst over hills burdened by thirst —
wouldn’t that be enough to reclaim me, free
me from the grip of all my grim dreams?

Or if I was a heap of egg shells, crushed
and worked into the soil along my rickety fence,
and so adding, in a year or two,
majestic blotches of blue
to my neighbour’s hydrangeas — wouldn’t that be enough
of a life? Wouldn’t people exclaim far into the night?
Lord, Lord, ain’t that some kinda resurrection!

Valentine's Day

Poet Laureate – A Valentine

Posted on by stephen t berg / 12 Comments

I’ve not craved the main stage.
I like a side stage.

I know what the Good Book says
about hankering after the head table,

and what the Good Lord thinks
of highfalutin manners.

And while I have trouble saying “I”
with a straight face,

I’m not above jealousy, so for penance
I’ll execute a downward dog in public.

I don’t need four wheels (unless
you count trainers), two will do.

I have two pairs of boots, one pair of shoes,
my wardrobe is laughable.

I’ve minored in The Idiocies
with surprisingly high marks.

I prefer lime to limelight.
I like editing better than inspiration.

I prefer Billy Collins to Lord Tennyson,
Sappho to Mr. Poe. I faked reading Milton.

I like the words festoon and spittle,
more than it’s reasonable.

I’m nearly unilingual
and I’m wild about contractions.

Modifiers however, put me in a subjunctive mood
when left dangling.

People say nice things about my books, like:
they can be read in one sitting,

or, they’re notable for reviving the idiom
of old chestnuts.

Some, not many, well one, said I’m a late bloomer —
which reminds me of knickers in old Westerns.

I’m a Nine on the Enneagram,
which is as high as you can go — or as low —

so this makes me nervous to tell you,
as I don’t want to upset or repel you,

but all I’ve ever really wanted
was to be your personal
poet laureate.

Friend,
may your Valentine’s Day be festooned with garlands of love!

Grief/Spirituality

Collage gleaned from volunteering at a local hospice

Posted on by stephen t berg / 12 Comments

 

I keep her pictures close,
they’re like comforters.

We sit together in this backdrop of grief,
his eyes, above his mask,
like windows in rain.

They did all they could… still, we had a few extra years, 
I should be thankful,
I’m hardly alone,
there’s no shortage of sorrow in the world.

I listen, careful to bring no urgency
into these silences —
the pauses are lay-bys on gradual paths,
my mind is an empty diary he writes in.

You know, I dream of her in the middle of the day.
I see her on one knee, tightening, once again,
the hinge on our garden gate, smiling,
like she has this bright green thought —
the wonder of being here at all.

He turns his head to the curtained window
and enters some secret place, where,
I imagine, they’re sitting together
without worrying the future.

But that was her faith — the daily eloquence of
of small tasks, like bodily prayer, like St. Benedict caring
for his spade and rake “as if they were vessels of the altar.”

In some way, I never want to stop grieving.
Is that crazy?
I’m afraid if I do I’ll lose her,
I’d sooner join her.

The wells spring again and I wait.
Pure mourning is like a meadow
where sorrow finds its sun and flowers, hints of fruit.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to go on living as long
as I can, but in a way, her dying
has simplified things — has taken away the dread.

She told me once she learned of an ancient dance —
a chain where each new leader lets go, spins
wildly away
then joins another chain,
an open circle,
a rehearsal, she said,
for dying and rising.