Archive of all previous showcases
Edited by Susan Jane Sims
Painting : Canadian Rockies by Susan Jane Sims
June 6th
Today’s sky is blue and clouds, wisp
thin, meander across above his head.
The sea calm, waves breaking not
bitterly are gently returning sand to
the beach it borrowed from the night
before.
His chair leaves thin tracks as they push
him, well wrapped, from the path toward
the water his hand rises, a thin bony finger
pointing at a long lost illusion.
His lips are mouthing words and she bends
her head the better for to hear, he is talking
about the noise, something about a tank and
about a Sergeant Major..
and in his head a plane flies low overhead and
they crouch lower still moving forward, explosions
follow and his breathing quickens, the man in front
is signalling and shouting words that no one can
hear, they follow as best they can except for one
who falls choking back blood that won’t stop,
they can’t wait but keep running towards that which
they fear…
She holds his hand and prays to God that they can
return together next year, one more year, it is all
she can ask for now. One more time to lay flowers
on white tombstones and say prayers on sand that
erases everything in the end.
Andrew Scotson
Falls Of Dochart
Knelt by the slow wide river which receives its tribute
each day from the steep fields of the surrounding hills.
Watching as a Kingfisher, a flash of blue and sunburst
orange, stabs a small silver, wriggling fish before returning
to the dark bank.
Flat stones carry the gentle current to the old tourist
bridge and you make your barefoot way out into the
middle of the Tay. You can see Ben Lawers still christened
with snow and her angry sisters staring down on the black,
rippled water of the Loch.
From here the river will quickly pick up pace and become
deeper and more hostile fighting the salmon as they jump
against cruel rocks. It rushes the two mile gap between the
sleepy village of Killin to Loch Tay. Your naked feet can feel
the chill born of melted snow which crosses the flattened
rocks and journeys ever on.
Andrew Scotson
Farm Garden
simplicity’s white snow-shift
heartbeat time before language
snowdrops
spilling
bells
a girl’s singing spring
for Daddy
and out over near the quarry in Whitemoor
massacre of the new-born lambs
their eyes gorged out by scavenger crows,
and the Big Scattering
the discombobulated teddy
pulled apart
they say, by foxes.
Julie Sampson
Singing with the Owls
We’re talking with the owls
talking with the conversing tawny owls
high up
in the golden fir
Keewick
Woo wooh.
Our elbows perch the ledge
in Michael’s room,
icicles dropping from the sill,
Keewick.
Woo woo.
Luna above,
her blues tonight
releasing bats
in phantasmagorical
swirls
& high-pitched squeaks
from flowery clouds.
Keewick
they call,
Woo huhuhuhoo
Tu whit tu whit.
Our breath a wisp
of winter mist
escaping from the hollow of our close-cupped palms –
calls
doppler,
diminuendo.
Julie Sampson
A life renewed
The ocean
gulps the sea,
Man enters
the open space,
Finds a place,
builds a castle,
digs a moat,
carves his story
in the sand.
Man sits back,
pain slides down
his cheeks,
merges with the grain,
Eyes close,
he lies back. He is done.
A pause,a stillness,
The winds rise,
currents reverse,
The ocean regurgitates the sea,
Gently,
then with force.
Man’s construction
disappears, his story clears.
The waves hoist
him high,carries him
to shore and safely.
Tides rise, recede,
Man turns, walks away,
freed.
His burden divested,
his life renewed.
Leela Gautam
Acknowledgement
We recognize the land as an act of reconciliation and gratitude to those
whose territory we reside on or are visiting and acknowledge
the many First Nations peoples who have lived in and cared for these lands for generations.
Frequently on our trip to Alberta and British Columbia,
we encounter notices like this.
In museums, in galleries, at the theatre
where we watch Guys and Dolls.
The announcer at the theatre is the most honest.
An acknowledgement is not support, but it’s a start.
At the hot springs in Banff we learn how this site
was discovered in the nineteenth
century by European settlers. Then used for leisure
by those with wealth.
At the museum we learn how those springs
were loved and respected for thousands of years.
How a people fought to keep them;
to keep a way of life in harmony
with nature.
We are told how a treaty was drawn up and never honoured.
how a multitude of lives were lost,
languages and culture swept away;
children separated from families and communities.
Yes a notice is no where near enough
But it’s a start.
Susan Jane Sims
Frittering
Idly I watch three swallows
soar over baked roofs.
One bounces its chest off
an invisible pillow of air
that strings across my balcony,
trampolining out of sight into
the Wednesday morning breeze.
The latticed arm of a tower crane
swings across my view –
a sundial notching
each segment of time
with a metal pause.
A black flag snaps
above the crane’s jib.
A pirate ship – its Jolly Roger
warning it is primed to steal
trinkets of time,
medallions of minutes,
hoards of hours.
As if it knows
of my carelessness
with the clock.
How I will ignore its value
when others do not.
Marion Horton
Seeing into the future
I search for a stone, an island stone,
in its centre a hole.
I can see the sea and light,
blue and sparkle.
They say you can see the future
through its eye.
I am sitting on shingle,
wet from waves. I peer through
the eye, hope to see tomorrow
or next year.
The waves rumble and toss foam.
Light catches the high spray.
Will tomorrow be framed in
certainty, round as an egg?
hard and smooth or shiny
and obdurate?
Will next year glisten?
Will it toss and turn,
sharing secrets, wearing surprise?
Clouds mask the light.
Grey enters the frame.
Maybe tomorrow will come
in shades of gloom and doubt.
Maybe the rumble and roar are
warnings, dark voices?
I put the stone back on its shelf.
It wobbles, then settles.
It knows no more than me.
Judy Dinnen
A boy with a telescope
A boy with a telescope,
became what he saw. He
was alone, yet twinned with
the bay, waves, and inlet.
swooping birds, innocent waves
small boy with questions
in his head. Who am I?
he wondered, rocking slightly.
He spied the gaunt rock face,
frowning in the sun, staring
down on his small questions,
his long, stony future.
He turned his scope inland,
a village, tiny dwellings,
feather people. Saw mama
and papa a long way off
studied their silence and
mystery. Who am I? he
tried the waves or the
rocks? No one answered.
He recalled the classroom,
other children, their games,
he, alone, by the school gate.
Was he like them? He mused.
Through his telescope
he sees tomorrow, more
questions, stony faces, fights
flights, climbing
over hills
towards a rainbow,
flowers, banners.
Judy Dinnen
