Selected Poems From:  Poems From Away

SAND PIPERS Hands walk on fingers Legs attached to stilts Are chop sticks Dancing in  stir fry Après ski Sand pipers in Succulent estuary

UNAWARE OF SURROUNDINGS Pedestrian plodding pavement Head down, stooped, shoulders hunched Like fragile porous bones had slumped. Osteoporosis, a trapped old man! But my surmise was trumped. A youth was hidden in the frame Fingers ipadding a digital game Young and old in posture

SKIERS IN LOVE Skiers in love At bench table Day lodge Manning Park. Smooching snow jackets Fluorescent puffy yellow Pollinates bright pink With sunflower seeds Hot over chilli-con-carne One dish sharing Time and ritual

HERITAGE RESTORATIONS Are you: Searching for decoration tips? For a historically correct home renovation. Wanting period wallpaper designs just so? Fussing about china décor, floral or? Getting silver ware that says “colonial”? And fabric and wall trim decade authentic?   Where ought you go for that information? The answer is closer to your slippers than you think. That’s if you are in the heritage home you want to restore. If you are a serious Heritologist call in a Nestologist That’s the guy who does Nestectomies.   Now if you live in Alberta, forget about it! You cannot properly restore a home there. That’s because Rattus Rattus and Rattus Norvegicus Have been poisoned, eradicated, drowned in oil sands Even pet rats like Matilda taken to Alberta have been deported. Yes I am talking about rats. Historians, architects, and scientists say that rats can be curators Of wonderful collections! They gather a random sampling of everyday things And provide a look at how people lived in different eras. Generations of rats can occupy the same nest With piles of delightful refuse dusty and rank Crammed into confined spaces of attics, eaves, or basements. Dissertations have been written by studying the layers Of these major archeological caches above ground! Are you a do-it-yourself type? Go have a look behind pantry or hearth. You’ll need to look beyond the crystallized urine That encases your treasure of paper, from journal pages, Magazines and newspapers, and that adheres to China fragments, silverware, and shiny objects. Ware a protective mask, gloves, and disposable cloak! Without any formal training you can become a Nestologist And perform your own Nestectomies. Sadly because most old-house owners do not appreciate rats’ nests Wonderful collections of things from The Colonial period of Vancouver Island Went into the trash. Poor rats who are not valued as archivists! Come to think of it, even human curators are banished To archival bins of basements, log cabins and self-storage units Undervalued.   Wally du Temple

SEEN DINING Pileated woodpeckers Four out, dining At Gary oak tree Rat-a-tat tat Bark and trunk Thud-a-thud thug Jum! That bug!

FROZEN MUKLUKS Shifting frozen mukluks In steady sturdy gait Hope of reaching family door Snow crunching homeward in the swirling white Which was before Icy asteroids in flight Had sliced his eye And blue pained light Seen before the end of sight In a day of night Towards a worlding door Was no more All white

TOXIC TOWNS Toxic towns Because of political clowns It pains me Extinctions to see To witness oil soaked pelicans Birds dying in agony For our collective addiction To oil Toxic economies Because of political monstrosities Where life is an externality To market volatility It pains me The collapse of ecology But we can have our say To build a better day Support Elizabeth May Create a Maymentum For a pivotal change Towards a sacred balance Wherein mankind understands How human economies must function Benignly Within the totality of the natural world For the survival of life On planet Earth, our only home.

Poems From Welfare Wally's War

MAURICE QUINTON He laughed with his eyes He having neither lower lip Nor tongue nor cheek. From an open throat Drool dangled as saliva siroped Onto the kitchen table Where we sat. A sign on the front door had said, ‘Caution, he who enters here Must expect a gruesome apparition’ I had come for a chat With ball point pen and paper He having no vocal chords Before laptops had been invented To bring supplies for art and living. A walnut pipe well seasoned, rested Polished but now unused in a holding rack. It was a carved artifact of beauty. Beside the portrait of Superintendent Quinton Was his cold steel RCMP revolver Polished with appearance still lethal. A photo of Maurice in red serge hung from a hook His right hand ready on the holstered gun His left hand relaxed on his pipe He wrote that he had never killed With his revolver He never scribbled about The carved pipe, a gift from his daughter, And what it had done. I emptied my supplies Painkiller and soft food Catheter ready I also delivered leather Since Maurice used his fingers To make wallets and purses For a church charity He complained neither with arms nor eyes And often joked on paper A hint of erinmore tobacco Still aromatic lingered on upholstery On saying goodbye I would glance At the Tuscan briar block of his old pal The false friend that was his pipe.

SAVING A BACKWOODS TRAPPER TO DEATH  In sanity A welfare worker Causes good to be. He thinks Save the old man From a log cabin silence From backwoods isolation From wood stove chores From frostbitten sores From stillness of crusted snow He sends a frail trapper  From the trail To a warm southern gale Called a hospice. The trapper, trapped now In the cold of sanitized civilization Dies most regrettably In the pain of noise From endless media mania and the chatter of caregivers. For his welfare It is Insanity

The Peace River Pantoums I wrote several poems in the form of a pantoum while in the Peace River part of British Columbia. The pantoum is Malayan in origin and came into English language poetry from France. Victor Hugo gave it fashion and popularity in his book ‘Orientales’. The pantoum is unusual among strict forms in that it is not of a specified length. It works by quatrains. The quatrains are repeated and the patterns within them are required. The reader takes four steps forward, then two back. It is the perfect form for the evocation of past time. The pantoum can easily enchant because the close repletion of lines sets up a tight, mesmerizing chain of echoes of time and place. I chose this form for four Peace River Poems. Here is one of them. In this poem about Ernie Petersen, the fur trader and trading post owner at Rose Prairie, whom I got to know in the 1960s I need to translate some words: “I want some jawbone” would mean “I want some credit.” “Jawed trade” means “talked business”. Ernie Petersen, Trader At Rose Prairie.   The buyer and trapper jawed trade “What’s fur fetching at the Winnipeg auction?” At Rose Prairie the deals was made At the wood burning stove with caution   “What’s fur fetching at the Winnipeg auction?” Cold winter makes pelt with heft. The buyer fingers a beaver with caution. “You’ve got four winters of debts still left.”   Cold winter makes pelt with heft He checks account ledgers for bills overdo. At jawing for credit the trapper was deft “I needs credit for more than just stew.”   The buyer checks account ledgers for bills overdo. The trapper needs wire, bullets and sugar, sour dough. Doesn’t think of account ledgers or bills overdo For a night with Maxime he’s in need of some dough.   The trapper needs wire, bullets and sugar, sour dough. The buyer pours the brewed coffee and stokes the wood stove. Says synthetic fur drove the auction real low. Celebrities were there before the fur market dove.   He pours the brewed coffee and stokes the wood stove. They chat about beaver, lynx and grey fox. He tops up the mugs from the whisky alcove. Talks of kids, dogs, and women and child lost to pox.   They chat about beaver, lynx and grey fox. They share season from cabins, and tales of trap line. They share bannock and bacon and butter from box Of seasons they talk when barter was fine.   They share season from cabins and tales of trap line. The chewing tobacco and snuff dark and sweet Buyer puts on the table to make the deal fine. Then he sharpens a knife to serve some moose meet.   The buyer and trapper jawed trade.

ODES TO SPECIAL PEOPLE IN A GOOD SPIRIT

Ode to Jane Sloan  For a celebration of life at Ardmore Golf Course the 20th of February 2009. By: Wally du Temple ----------------------------------- Jane Sloan You  are a mother You’re also quite another            Photographer of feeling Care for detail most appealing   Jane Sloan You get perfection Why the introspection? Calligrapher of merit Never seeking any credit    Jane Sloan You are a learner By choice of words a turner Esperanto language speaker Of world harmony the seeker Jane Sloan You ‘re a crooner You’re also quite a tuner Modest soul so self abashing Secret heart so close to crashing   Jane Sloan You are a mummer Acting Spring or in the Summer Inventor and the over-comer Deformed hand the beaten bummer   Jane Sloan You volunteer to the bed ridden Your joy in helping never hidden Jane Sloan you ‘re a rare book Reading worth a second look For smiles and gestures Laughs and pictures  Songs and music Lips and chocolates Winks and wisdoms doggie whispering Bugs and shutters Fires and freedomites Nudes and covers ‘Ni parolu’ , ‘Lets talk’ You’re a book on loan Jane Sloan ‘Hell‘!!!!  ‘diable’ !. I can’t hold you! OVER DUE

POEMS FROM ARDMORE

ODDITY OUR CANINE LADY I went to kiss good night To my cocker spaniel, Oddity Black and white lady  With shiny long hair I caressed her dangling soft ears When I sat beside her throne Which was a stately chair. Carved teak legs curved upward And swept around a shell shaped back. Regal she reclined on a button crimped Silver and puffy surface embroidered With golden leaves. Closest to the pot-bellied stove, While on watch before she dozed. Turning her eyes from the brass mesh Of the fireplace guard which in her opinion Were keeping the pitchy fire sparks at bay She determined to inspect her domain. I followed her almond eyes. She looked at the dark and stark piano Polished with off white keys exposed. Her ears in my hands quivered as she eyed The attack cat Scrambles a barnyard nemesis Which sat on teeth coloured ivory and noised The room as she washed her wretched bum. That’s it! She sort of sighed as her lip quivered up And exposed her own discloured ivory A non-regal utterance cleared the piano. The intruder fled to a keyboard of discordance. Pleased she put her head down Between two fingered paws. Her ears slipped through my fingers. I said, “Good night Odity.” And kissed a silky forehead.  She dained to give me a nudge with a wet nose And what seemed like a smile.

Daddy's Wallet   I climbed my Daddy’s lap and belly. Like a big cat and child jabbered questions. His newspaper slapped and flapped as I Jumpety squirmed and headed my eyes Around daily newsprint and daddy’s arms. I cared for Daddy. My questions and attentions Helped him, I’m sure. They must have because He finished more quickly especially when I got Tangled in his bracers and snapped them.  Sometimes he had toffees Among the coins in his pant pockets. I would push my little hands in To wrestle them out. Sometimes I pulled Out an old friction glossy wallet. That wallet became a game I’d try to hide it here or there. ‘Buffalo hide’, my Dad would say and Carrying me to bed would tell me a stories Tales from the Maoris of New Zealand Or taboos from the Tahitians of Tahiti. Then sleep enveloped me with wonder.       When I got to the hospital Mom was sobbing Then the doctor came into the waiting room And saying nothing abruptly put Daddy’s Shiny buffalo wallet into my hands. wordless symbol Of death and loss Cells and fibres snapped Life limped to death Lungs heaving Weeping Convulsively The wallet brought no joy now.

FIRST KNOWING DADDY BEHIND COLD GLASS I first knew Dad by image Black and white photo Grey uniform behind glossy glass Or I held him as embroidered Red wings outlined in gold. Mom lifted me at night To smudge wet lips on the Cold glass of his air force face. I knew Dad also as silver steam When late at night by taxi in the rain We once waved at a puffing train My image receding from the station.

Piloting Daddy's Buick I would pilot Daddy’s Buick  T-shirt, air-mans’ tunic. It was my Lancaster true. Bomber command in the blue. Sat high on his thigh Ready to climb up the sky! Legs wide on his lap His arms safety strap. Braced on padded tummy My co-pilot was my Mummy. Let’s take off she said. My fists to gear shift sped. Then wheeled with delight Yanking gear shift at right. Then shudder and shake Caused by hands in full take For some grinding screech Had put Dad in full speech. Son that’s your first crash. Put the keys on the dash. You’ll need some flight learning To become more discerning. Or something such said Thank God we weren’t dead!

Ardmore : Departure and Arrival   The Photo Portrait of Wing Commander Dad was the last item to be put into the car. I was hugging it. I had rarely seen my Dad since birth. He had been away at war. Mom had made him real for me by inventing Daddy stories.  Occasionally he had parachuted candies and teddy bears into our back yard from the sky. I would carry these to his picture at bedtime Mom leading me.              I first knew Dad as image, black and white photo in a grey uniform under glass or held him as embroidered red wings outlined in gold. Mom lifted me at night to smudge wet lips on the cold glass of his air force face. I knew Dad also as silver steam when late at night by taxi in the rain we waved at a puffing train my image receding from the station. Taking my seat I hugged the framed picture of my Dad as if he wasn’t yet home and driving the car. Loaded under a tarp we trailored china, bedding, clothes, silver ware, a piano, a sofa, an armchair, and an antique chair favoured by the family cocker spaniel. All else had been sold. My first adventure was starting with a steamship ride away from Vancouver to a far away Vancouver’s Island. We arrived at the corner of Ardmore Drive and West Saanich Road in a polished black Packard sedan on the 31st of October 1946, Halloween. The pavement vanished as Dad wheeled the vehicle and trailer onto the muddy ruts of Ardmore. Drive. “This isn’t a drive,” Mom said. My Dad, George Walter du Temple, drove the labouring car clothed imperfectly in unmatched socks and creased pants. My Mom, Alice Louise du Temple, sat opposite in her fine-feathered hat, her milliners’ arrival bonnet. Her silky cocker spaniel, Oddity, sat with her three sons Ron, Barry and Wally in the back seat to protect her society dress and silk stockings. The move from an upscale Vancouver district had been made necessary after the Dad’s decommission from the RCAF as Wing Commander. The General Motors dealership did not return his pre-enlistment job but found another one for him in Victoria. He had chosen home and property without discussion like the commanding officer he was. He knew that the digs to which he was leading his family could not match the mahogany balustrades, hard wood floors and luxurious drapes of a Point Grey two level home. He was probably apprehensive but didn’t show it. Alice was obviously nervous because she had been permitted to bring so little from her fine home. Dad said,” Remember Dear, you are going to a rural area. The house will be cozy but smaller. It’s a much larger holding with farm animals, meadows and hedgerows. Some neighbors come to play golf between the hay fields and will even pay us for the privilege. It is a good investment.” She knew that Roy and Lilly Walker, her sister and brother-in-law, were included in Dad’s big plan. They would be coming to work on this farm that had a golf course playing through it.  A portion of the property would be sold for their homesite.   The car sloshed to a stop beside a sagging one-car garage. Close by stood a narrow rectangular building which had been an airman’s bunkhouse at the Patricia Bay Airport. An inspection began of our new dwelling. Mom guided Oddity on a new leash. The building had consisted of six eight by eight bunkrooms with a hall down the middle. The previous renter had removed two walls in order that a living room, and a room for sales of golf tickets, paraphernalia and confectionaries could be tucked together with the bedrooms and kitchen. A potbelly stove heated the living room. A wood burning oven range would turn the kitchen into a sauna when in use. A tiny bathroom was equipped with toilet, claw foot tub and closet. Two by four stud walls were finished with tongue and groove unpainted wood. Light fixtures were dangling electrical cords with bulbs swinging from sockets. Dad promised again that all of this was temporary because he would build a dream home soon, a promise that was fulfilled a decade later. Mom returned to the Packard. She wept. She sat there as if she would never get out. Dad encouraged her to show her ‘stiff English upper lip’. As a kid I didn’t know what that meant but I knew Mom was proud of it. I’d look at her lip and shortly she would assume a stronger posture, push her shoulders back and take several deep breaths. Mom was still a proud Brit who with her family had lived in London through WW1. The unloading proceeded with military precision. My big brother Ron, eighteen and strong, wondered where young girls could be found. He helped Dad do the unloading. My brother Barry and I, nine and six years, went exploring around the property. Mom made what decisions she could about placement of the chattel. Mr. and Mrs. Sisson introduced some golfers and neighbours. They had been renting the property from Allen Steamship Company of Scotland from which Dad had made the purchase. Milton Towers and wife owned a two hundred acre sheep farm that occupied all of what is now Glen Meadows Golf Course and extended to Coles Bay. They brought us a gift kitten and some dressed lamb. Mrs. Fraser and her daughters, Diane and Daphne, lived in a two storey, Victorian type mansion to the north. Ron eyed the Fraser girls with a lack of interest. They were shapely black haired beauties but already middle-aged spinsters. Sidney was where the girls were five miles away. In the weeks to follow Ron would use all of his conning to get Dad to buy him a used Chevy coupe. After all the son of a dealership sales manager should have a good used auto. He was thinking ‘dragster’. His speeding, racing and spinning exploits were to cause caustic frictions between Ron and Dad. The Fraser girls invited the family to a welcome dinner. Dad had bought roman candles and other wireworks so later we made a bonfire, set off explosions and rocket launched red, white and blue clusters of falling stars.   After that it was off to bed. I was told to sleep but that was hard. I had a new home, a new kitten, a Mom who was upset and a big brother who resented being forced to move from his friends. As senior child he had been the man of the house until Dad returned. He was muscular, spirited and carried himself cool like James Dean. Both Mom and Ron had grown accustomed to making their own decisions. Dad wanted to make them now. Emotions often jumped like beads of water in an oily frying pan. I walked bare foot on the sliver dangerous floor to kiss Oddity goodnight. She was my black and white silky Lady and Mom’s darling. Kneeling beside her relocated throne I caressed her soft dangling ears. She had a stately chair. Carved teak legs curved upward and swept around a crest shaped back. With an air of ‘I’m not pleased ’ she sat regally on button-crimped upholstery embroidered with golden leaves. I followed her almond eyes as she critically assessed her new surroundings. She glanced at the dust covered wood crackling pot-belly stove, at the dark tongue and groove walls, at cobwebs and spiders on the ceiling and at the discoloured ivory keys of the piano where the intruder kitten was washing it’s wretched bum. Oddity raised her lips and uttered an oath such that the kitten kaboom, kaboomed the keyboard as it jumped and scrambled away beneath the sofa. I named her Scrambles. As Oddity tucked her nose into a cushion I could hear the drip drip of a faulty faucet and then the flush and gush from the toilet followed by a prolonged wheeze as the reservoir refilled. A musty smell came from clay and damp rat scat in the crawl space. The floor timbers were propped up by stones. After good nights were called out by each of us, I could hear Mom and Dad engaged in a whispering duel they thought was private. Mom had read in the local weekly that the Oscar winning best picture of year “The Best Years of Our Lives” by Samuel Goldyn was showing at Sidney’s Gem Theatre. Mom made some sarcastic comments about our future prospects. Sound penetrated all interior and exterior walls. They were empty of insulation. Chapter Two: Open For Business