Migration

Migration

The dotted lines rise skyward, spaced evenly

like kindergarteners on a knotted rope

taking a field trip to a southern zoo

but instead of singing a tune

we hear the occasional cry

It’s my turn to lead

wings sweep away

with mechanical whirr

no teacher in sight

Morning Coffee

Low light on frigid peaks near and far.
Snow highlights unmoving heads of spruce
solid frozen mid November’s premature death.
Last gasp of the river escapes in a ghostly
blanket under shortened sun.
I shiver inside, robed and slippered
grasp the cup
drink your words

Ode of Halley’s Mother

Some hold their children like trophies

Look at what I’ve done

I’ve won the prize

Isn’t it perfect? Aren’t I good?

And theirs sit on the shelf

in the corner, gather dust

lifeless, boring prettiness

until boxed up and carried away

I watch you like a comet

rage across the sky

fly in the face of reason

flee all that burns of me

You play in black holes

and return unscathed

In your path is passion

laughter, drive

My setting sun glows

you rise to music

dash about time

shield your eyes to my light

In need of nothing

you feed on your own fire

forge personal trophies

spill sparks of your day to me

Rule of Thirds

Early morning rises smoky
pink on gray granite
then fades to spotless blue over
brown and yellow shreds of late autumn

I focus my time lapse stare
on bare ranges, every peak
an undressed mannequin
waiting winter’s white dress

A honking flock sweeps past
the lone foreground spruce
in slow motion cinematic triumph
eludes capture

Coffee Rations

He looks me in the eye,

expresses gentle thanks

accepts the gift card I say

in the name of Jesus

pressing his arm so he knows

Touch and Who answered

the prayer from those blue 

eyes set on a leathery field

framed with scrub brush

The flag of his face follows

me to the car, drapes itself

over the passenger seat

and my mind

wanders along streets of militant

people who drove

his retreat to that

corner on this day

in the shy way

rain does not wish to fall 

on the just 

On Campus

I say the long goodbye; leave you to your freshman start.
I feel six years old, clutch my brown paper bag of penny candy
want to cry over more inside than the melting chocolate
(they say bittersweet is the healthiest kind)
Is that what’s smeared on my face? It tastes wet and salty.
As our wheels crunch over pungent autumn,
the growing distance between us fills with falling leaves
until I cannot see you for the blur and flutter
of my eyes.

Perhaps "Why?" isn't the question

For all the ways you are weakened
For all the days you are sore
For all the things you’ve been seeking
The Lord has given you more.

For all the nights you are broken
For all the times you feel lost
For all the words left unspoken
God paved the path to the cross.

In suffering there is a reason
A purpose for feeling alone
Your tears may last for a season
His arms will carry you home.

Christmas Angel

I grab at air and ice, swallow water
swirling cold, numb, hopeless
sink a third time
promise God to change

I wake on shore in revival tears
safe but alone, white face, lips blue,
look for who caught me
find only crushed shells

How is it you can save my life
and disappear or was it
your third time too
No strength, too wounded

In dreams I dive under the ice,
breathe life, bring you home,
we rise, rock and dance
melt snow

War Hymn

In freedom’s psalm the poets weep 

for lives that did not rhyme,

stopped short in prefixated sleep

a postscript spanning time. -JH

With prayer the day is towed to light
as songbirds rest on broken staff,
trill shrilly through the foggy gloom
where mortars shriek to clear the air.
The tremor in the watchman’s rasp
advances time. The hours sweep
o’er wounded in sharp pain and flat
upon their backs with pallid face.
While in the holes the soldiers sleep,
in freedom’s psalm the poets weep. 

No faith is sung in church this day
The organ plays a silent dirge
collapsed in ruins on the stage
while tyrant’s goals go undeterred.
Discordant lines of frowning men
march by as bells refuse to chime.
Boots beat an unmelodic song,
from scores unsettled far too long.
Voices crescendo over time
and cry for lives that did not rhyme. 

It echoes where the sons of hope
in victory cross the gruesome miles,
embellishes the verdant spring;
Ears now hear staccato cries.
The prisoners in black and white
crawl sickly grey from torture’s keep,
climb slow on free will’s crippled feet,
find home in requiem of loss.
Some shattered hearts no longer beat,
stopped short in prefixated sleep.

The bold in bars with bars upon
their chest sit down to drink away
all memory of ignoble days.
While back at home, the ladies wait
with rhythmic hum of ordered lives.
The drumbeat pulse of lives entwined
casts cords across the silvered sea,
pulls those back home who were preserved
a signature of freedom’s prime,
their love a postscript spanning time. 


© Joyce Harback
November 11, 2009

Standard Time

The dreary skies oppressive close upon horizon’s hall;
I turn within to find my joy before the curtain call.
The hearth of home is centre stage and all who gather here
can lift the drape of dark dismay and lighten every care.

Seasoned

I wake to find the pleasant days have fled
and autumn’s luscious colours overthrown.
I rise to see the sun has dropped his head,

the warming sun flash-frozen like a stone.
The earthbound clouds conspire to shut him out;
the lesser light will now take up his crown.

I work to loose compassion midst the doubt
where dreary rains long drowned the fledgling crop,
Impatiently, strong winds swirl roundabout;

I rest my weary head, exhausted drop
and weep for all that’s lost mid winter snow.
I still—the soul’s dark night bids me to stop—

embrace the voice of my Beloved now.
As lilies through the cold of moonlight glow,
I sleep amidst the sweetness of his flower.

A Sense of Place

grass stains, bees underfoot, salt on slugs
glug sun tea, sweating by gallons
handmedown bikes, broken chains, patched tubes
scraped knees, mecurichrome medals

Sit down to roast beef falling apart,
fresh baked rolls, drizzled butter,
rich brown gravy rivers down quiet potatoes mashed and piled,
The dinner conversation is boisterous, masculine
mother bustles about serving in silence,
slaps hands which reach too often, too soon for unclaimed leftovers
brushes up crumbs the dog can’t reach
and the clammy blanket pulls down the sides of the day

dust settles on the books while children
jump and dance on sticky asphalt
eager for the whoosh of heat meeting ice,
whiff of stale freezer
as the ding dong jeep stops to exchange
my quarter for a fudgesicle

Later the washed jars we’d emptied of green beans and peaches
become glass cathedrals for faeries
we chase their lightening glow
the fire around which we jostle for place, warm our hands
on slaps of laughter

brush away ants, watch how they carry a hundred times their weight
like I do the memory of family now scattered and hands holding
the weight of a hundred other worlds,
changing for the better one crumb at a time.

Meditation 1: Consumed

The flame on the sacrifical candle
slips slowly into the middle
of the wax flower, leaving the unmelted
outer petals as a suspended splash
rising from a liquified pool.
Music streams like a tide across our ears.
We inhale exhilaration, lift our hands
to plunge into a shower of words,
scrub away ancient tearstained remnants
of last week. Languid cheeks remember
why mouth muscles stretch back
toward ears as we exhale
into sleep and the floral candle
drowns its own light.

The Sea I Saw

The first poem in months has bubbled its way to the surface and I've managed to capture its tentacles in a hastily constructed trap of pen and paper. The black ink has stained the page in defense, now I must wrestle the pubescent beast into line.

Loons

The house stifles, hot and humid

after days in the wood

reveling in beauty

creation personified

Menopause

a sweltering suffocating pause

if all were stripped away

still I would swoon with the heat

tired eyes slow body

waking nights

no words can contain

nor relieve

I need the air

the cool the breeze

the loon crazy on the lake

like me in this house

Spring

Teasing flirt raises skirts of snow
sashays onto the dance floor sweeping
gravel and scattering robins

Foals and fawn soak in sun, watch
mountains do the same
perspiring coolness into rivers

Rising crocus surrenders
to magnetic rays, abandons
tug o’ war with earth

We rise and stretch, inhale
russet earth, moist with arousal
multiply and replenish creator offerings

A Walk in the Park

The track of the deer
call of the loon
whirr of geese
water lapping at snow
warm winter sun
silence and laughter
still slow summon of spring

Lost

There it is again
I click the URL field and forget
Why. Where am I going?

I get to the room, look around
I see nothing to enlighten me
as to how I got there
what drew me

Is this my fate  Suspended
forever on the margins
of memory
Is it starting?

Time to say my goodbyes
now while I remember
whom it is
I love

Where I'm From

I am from Ozarks, from Quaker Oats and hard work.
I am from the rough-and-tumble;

ill-fitting hand-me-down boots
unbuckled and dripping on the lino.

I am from the cicada's nighttime buzzing;
flowering mimosa and stifling humidity.

I am from singing grace and debating opinion,
from Frank and Eva and too many lives cut short.

I'm from the Show Me State, from singing and laughter,
warm cinnamon rolls and juicy watermelon.

From 8 brides for 7 brothers, the gifted grandpa,
and the dad who made an RV from a hearse.

I am from boxes of Kodak slides,
record albums piled in dusty corners,

the unpublished poem book, the praying mamma
and sticky caramel memories not yet unwrapped.

e-Thrust and iParry

A series of monologues
      from behind caged safety
Strike
      through streaming broadband
Pointed and deadly
      score hits
Withdraw
      devoid of clarity
Exercise dominance
      impale relationship

The Home Office

One label maker
    expensive refills
Pen holders, two
    one a Tupperware cup
Manilla folders (three tabs)
    almost depleted
Four-drawer filing cabinet
    newly acquired, full

Five file boxes
    stuffed and stacked
Six-Drawer Wheeled Organizer
    no wheels
Seven CD organizers
    labeled neatly
One shoebox with CDs
    unlabeled

Book on side table
    Organizing for Dummies

Mountain Biking

The impatient fingers of fall tap the trailer
disappointed droplets want to be snow
but divert into rivulets over summer
worn dust layers

Impatient fingers of son tap the table
anxious to test large limbs on small mountains
traverse rocky switchbacks
attain single-track supremacy

Heart in my throat, I pant along
trail behind, watch his back,
peddle madly, climb for hours, plant my face
in soft dirt, bike askew

Clouds collude with autumn chill
mountains partner to block cellphone signals
alarmed, I pray search parties
will find my sanity, tap an SOS

Board Meeting

I want to publish minutes
about you. a real writer
manuscript in hand
read aloud to my tears

You try not to sleep
as we journey home
converse about nerves
and a long overdue obedience

your gentle snore assures
no pretense is necessary
I drive more awake
comforted by your repose

relaxed in the construction
of friendship that keeps the faith
navigates the detours
breathes the paving of peace

Treasure

breathless words from ancient sonnets
capture Eden’s liquid jewels
drop sweet nectar light on the tongue

sweet vanilla mountain melts
over warm apple crumble
golden crisp leaves brush past

on the last whisper of summer’s breath
evening light caresses sheltering trees
waves a satisfied goodbye to the day

familiar embrace a final wrap
around cascading conversation
spilling like grain from gathering wagons
to say goodnight in the dusk

laughter sparkles in the darkness and scatters
skipping light stars into every crevice
of an upturned face, every corner
of an upturned heart

content in the echo to gaze
like a child in mother’s arms
reach upward to adoring face
touch eternity in the familiar

Believe

I would die a thousand deaths
at my own hand to know you love me
but cannot deny myself long

enough to say I love you

I would write a thousands poems
by my own hand to declare devotion
but cannot pick up your word long

enough to read love

etched in stone
written in blood
hammered in wood

traced in dust by your finger
as you point away condemnation
resurrect the body of work

you planned just for me

and I die
in your arms
live
in your plan
trace your fingerprint
on my heart

Out of Province Inspection

Here's a silly little bit I wrote while waiting for the last piece of the government puzzle to be completed before I can register our new vehicle in Alberta:



I thought performance sports
cars were icons raised
by big boys who like fast toys.
Until I bought one.

I clutch the keys tight
stomach churns as I approach
ask informed questions of the man
in overalls with wise eyes.

Smiling, he overlooks The Car
and my nerves, assures me with a list of other
high end cars he knows and in the end
I hand the keys, pay the fee.

Shiny red performance
road hugger, limit tester now
reigns in Bay 1, crowned by
the ahs of all

The air compressor whines,
turns lugnuts on polished steel
Exhaust chokes like bad wine
from the next bay

Curse the government, anyone
can see this coiled cat purring
with me in its lap
is no threat to public safety.

Do I wait? Do I go? Do I stay,
watch the undressing
of the new ride that rumbles
in my head while I sleep?

I grab a coffee and a Tums.
Write this poem while I wait.
The phone says the asphalt queen is ready
Stamp the form already.

Let me drive.

Late Day

While flying through Denver, area storms delayed our flight. During the long taxi to takeoff I watched an astounding sunset. I didn't have my camera, however, I had my notebook and this was the result that spilled out as we took off.

Late Day

Clouds applaud collision
of day and night, stretch arms east
to rain droplets flung

from furious fingers
over plain wheat
squares and emerald rings

neatly lined. The hand quilt spreads
beyond pink-feathered horizon, drinks
the Merlot thread of dusk

Ragged-top mountains
rip away sky, rise
under a chorus of light

silhouette strength
pass the peace
to my tumbled heart

full of praise and misty-eyed blessing
after running the rocky valley
playing tag with my Creator

I laugh and gasp
piercing air fills my lung-ache,
sets my tongue on thanks.

One Hour Flight

We’re often together
you and I busy going
somewhere
you with friends or the ipod
and I alone
the chauffeur

Now stalled on the tarmac you offer
one earbud to share
a ski movie with
your head on my shoulder
neck in a position
it will regret tomorrow

and I regret nothing
how could I have known
when we hit the ground running
that lightening delayed so many flights
struck so many schedules,
shredded plans for our long weekend

Movie over   you dream   breathe soft
warm head on my shoulder
held firm in place by my cheek
ear against the pulse
of lifeblood echoed
in your own

after a six hour wait covered
in the soot of closed spaces, closer faces
one look in your feisty eyes
fragile at fifteen
I would not trade this
for the flight of the Concorde

morning worship

trees

weep tears
of joy snow-born
under sun / window
purrs pleasure / opens
to warm breeze / bare
branches bounce at
bird ruckus while
earth wakes
breathes
births
S
p

r

i

n

g

in him we live and move and have our being

Spring at 50

I drove alone to the clinic.
Heavy traffic.
Heavier cloud cover.
The wind chill minus 17C
well below average highs.

No average April,
This.
After seven perfect months
of waiting
Alone I sit in the waiting room
Cheap coffee tables hold magazines
with cancer cures and airbrushed girls
The reception counter mercifully high
I don’t have to avert my eyes

No average doctor,
Here. Mid-morning at the specialist
and no waiting
I’ve been here before
at six weeks gestation
That turned out well if you don’t
count the ways he contradicts
me at every turn
my lone child.

Cold
in winter’s pale I undress
from the waist down
and wonder
alone
if he also meant socks

I study
while I wait, the Feminine
Reproductive System
He enters
alone says that’s how it’s supposed to look

At his questions
I chant rehearsed history
family conditions
who’s had What and the Associated Risk

Not your average ovary
This
Left one
Fully involved fibrous
mass

Needs to come out
to make sure
it’s benign

Nurse should have kept quiet
as she booked it mechanically
recites
24 hour stay
general anesthetic
Must be big if he wants it this quick.

I drive away
run
unnecessary errands
report to Brent mechanically
discuss convenient date.

At home
I sit with the dog
curl under comforting fleece
drink wine
eat chocolate and tears
alone.

View by Request

Light on the bough tip
at the spruce top
starling rock me to rest in my nest

Alain Caron and Jazz Café
provide dancing music
for ears worn of winter’s howl

sweet cool breeze
smoothe away thought
of wintertaut skin

moist clouds
wash mountain tops and eyes
with glad tears for April sun

liquid lips kiss
away thoughts
of too-long nights

and wafting warmth from fresh earth
still my face
to taste the tannins of Easter peace.

Shaking Hands with Death

I don’t need
to shake your hand
We’re already
well acquainted

I banged on the nursery glass for three days
while you tortured little niece
Not content with torn hearts in January
you Marched on Jack

I broke my nails grabbing for you –
too late you slipped past the tree
where his car and my fingers
felt your splinters

My pregnant fist in your face
with the baby’s six week crisis
You skulked away then
but haunt every day he lives

I released
with relief
when Ali fell down
to heaven

I tried to push you away
as I guarded mother
and you said
“Don’t touch me.”

With Dad I slapped you
and he slipped
right through
my fingers to yours

In every night you taunt me
I fall, I search, I grieve
for all you have taken
loved ones, beloved dreams

Yes, I’ve touched you often
You’ve lived with me
As I finger the tear-catching hole
Where my heart used to be.

Chasing Scars

There’s a habit I don’t want to break
A longing that’s never fulfilled
The promise I won’t have to make
Expectation I haven’t yet willed

Release all bands and all boundaries
Surrender to the greatest need
Awaken the fire of Your foundries
To sear the wounds that still bleed.

Daily Cross

I’d like to have a proper burial
For all the things I’ve left undone
Words unsaid, love unspoken
Times I walk instead of run

I want praise so oft I dangle
Gracious acts of kindness wrought
To be viewed from every angle
By the ones whose praise I’ve sought

Yet my heart in grief unmeasured
Knows the vacant stare of pain
I would die to know Your pleasure
Help me find Your heart again.

Lay me down beside these treasures
Take my life and let it be
One that fully always ever
Gives and lives and loves like Thee.

You Drag Me

through the rose garden
kicking and screaming I inhale
the sweetness of your glory

I criticize your colour choice
You catch my stumble
over thorns and thrown rocks

I'm so busy falling
into the bush I don't see it
Burning

Essense

Inhale captured sun
from combed cotton on bare skin

Whispers of melted vanilla
in the black currant curve of chest

Collapse in the caress
of caramel cream cheeks

Drink blueberry eyes
and lemonmint lips

Deeply inhale where you cannot eat
this is the memory of love.

Kyrie

Grief
deeper than soul can bear
     
Loss overwhelms
crushes beauty
robs peace

Tears are no balm
.....I harden to cracked clay
.....fallow land

No Selah
.....in silent sadness
thinking stops

It is

too much
too intense
too present

Today's grief
.....yesterday's failure
.....a year's indulgence

Out of my hands
.....I release it

Lord have mercy

to castle

earth’s breath rises
...exhales the night in whispered
...wisps across the valley
knife-edged mountains slice
...through bluebell skies
white crystals dance
...sweep the tips
...in wind-whipped chorus
wild whirling euphoria
...swoops and swirls
...feathers fresh frost

across my path

chains of trains
...lifeblood linking
...voices of our nation
coast to coast
...bedraggled boxcars
...plod slowly
scarred by rust and rain
...graffiti art oil grain
racket along
...parallel trails
...through unyeilding mountains

we are one

you are the beginning of breath
and the ending of sighs

in the least conscious part
your life births mine

you my soil of origin
the rib from which I spring

i make the ascent to zenith
enfolded in your gaze

our joined hearts
my foundation, security, anchor

you lighten my work
arrest my senses

explore my territory
expand my boundaries

you are my balance,
my fulfilment, my rest.

Comfort

Fixing our eyes upon Jesus
We do not sink in despair
Walking by faith through the darkness
His gentle hand guides us there.

While we are still in the tumult
Asking Where do we go from here?
He answers our heart's deepest longings:
Follow me. You will see. Do not fear!

For those who trust and obey Him
He rises with healing release.
And by the grace of our Savior,
Our hearts surrender to peace.

- Joyce Harback, April 24, 1998

Immortalized

Lewis and Clark
two explorers brave
leave home
pave the future
reach out
map opportunity
delve inner passages
awaken adventure
discover the wild

Washing Away Winter

sun on my head

grass on bare feet

dirt on everything

and sweet watermelon

        trickling

          down

            my

             chin

The Gardener's Bouquet

I had a garden growing fair; I loved the flowers planted there.
They all had personality; each one became a friend to me.
I worked their roots and gave them drink, while tending them gave time to think
How my life like a flower grows: first seed, then shoot, then small bud shows.
As roots are deepened in the ground, at last one day, full bloom is found.

So too, my life in Christ begins: a seed of faith breaks winter’s sins
And tender shoots of hope and love spring forth beneath the Son above.
He loves His children planted here; He stirs our roots and prunes with care.
When storms and darkness hold me back and Satan’s weeds of doubt attack,
I turn my face to God’s dear Son and see in Him the work is done.

Sometimes there’s pain straight from His hand, and I don't really understand
How discipline and training here keep me from sin through reverent fear.
Yet while I live and move and breathe, His guarding presence does not leave.
Each day He helps me rest or grow, trust and obey; though winds may blow.
This is how the world will know I live in Him: His love will show.

And while the gentle gardener knows the time to take a bud or rose,
Our Heavenly Father knows best too the perfect time for me, for you.
He gathers us by His dear hand exactly when His will has planned.
Transplanting us to heaven’s home, we’ll bloom forever by His throne.
Created for His pleasure here, our pleasure is forever there.

Written March 13, 1996
Edited June 2007