JERRY JORDISON

Sweat Lodge

The grandfathers are placed in the
Sweat lodge, ceremoniously.
One in the middle for the creator,
And four for the four directions.
People, stripped of all worldly possessions,
Crowd in and circle around the hot stones,
Clockwise–the path of the sun.
Silence.
The elder disrupt the peace
With words of thanks.
And splashes water on the grandfathers.
As the hiss subsides
People go deeper within.
Some with no-thought,
Others with troubling-life thoughts,
Searching for understanding and peace.
Silence.
The Elder erupts with a chant,
And asks each searcher
To express his thoughts
To help cleanse their souls.
More water–sizzle.
More silence.
People crawl out,
Thanking Earth Mother,
And greet the cool night air
On their hot skin,
As they remain in silence
With a sense of renewal

DEBBIE OKUN HILL- NEWS FROM SARNIA

[New post] Why I’ll Never Share a Beer with Canadian Poets Milton Acorn and Raymond Souster Inbox x Kites Without Strings <comment-reply@wordpress.com> 15:32 (42 minutes ago) to me Respond to this post by replying above this line New post on Kites Without Strings Why I’ll Never Share a Beer with Canadian Poets Milton Acorn and Raymond Souster by d78hill Did you choke over my words, spit out gasps into a brown paper bag? Were you startled or just amused? A headline like a poem title needs to grab the reader by the throat and I hope this one does. Still it’s not intended to be disrespectful of two literary giants.  My rationale easily rolls like water from my tongue: I hate the taste of beer and wouldn’t share a bottle or glass of lager or ale with anyone no matter how famous he/she might be. Learn more about Canadian poets Milton Acorn and Raymond Souster during this free reading in Sarnia, Ontario. Also it’s too late to cry over any type of beverage including a tipped over bottle of poetic spirits. Imagine the suds sliding across the wooden table and along the pub floor. Okay, that’s moving away from the topic. Milton Acorn and Raymond Souster are both dearly departed and unless their apparitions appear before us, no one will have the privilege of speaking to them again. Sad news indeed! Acorn passed away in August 1986 due to complications of a heart condition and diabetes. Souster died in October 2012. He was 91 years old. I wish I had met them or at least heard them read. Celebrating Milton Acorn and Raymond Souster during National Poetry Month Both are considered legends in the poetry world. Acorn received a Governor General Award in 1976 for his poetry collection The Island Means Minago. Souster received the same award in 1964 for his work The Colour of the Times. Both would have been great mentors. Unfortunately I was a late poetic bloomer; Acorn and Souster escaped my radar before I knew who they were. Even today, my knowledge of these two poets is limited, gleamed from second hand sources. My goal is to read all their work cover to cover! I wish I had the luxury of time but this is what I’ve learned so far. Souster’s legacy reminds me that poetry does not make one famous or financially wealthy. All his life, he was considered shy and despite being prolific and leaving behind more than 50 volumes of his work, he remained a banker to pay his bills. According to Canadian poet James Deahl, Souster wrote about “love, nature, war, social, injustice jazz, religion, and beauty. He was also the first president/chairman of the League of Canadian Poets and was a kind and gentle man. As I wrote in my tribute poem “Won’t see his poetic face/plastered on a Canadian bill.” Societies in general scratch their heads when it comes to respecting and understanding poets. James Deahl has edited several books to celebrate the legacy of his friends Milton Acorn and Raymond Souster. Acorn’s legacy of work taught me that there are different types of poets, just like there are different types of musicians or artists to suit different markets. Acorn was a “people’s poet” who wrote about everyday concerns for the common folks and employed wit, politics and strong emotion in his work. He produced more than 15 books and like Souster, he enjoyed helping younger and more inexperienced writers. James Deahl is one of those poets who knew and spent time with both Souster and Acorn. He has studied their work and has written extensively about their lives. In 1987, he edited and compiled The Northern Red Oak, a tribute to Milton Acorn published by Unfinished Monument. More recently he edited In a Springtime Instant: Selected Poems by Milton Acorn published as part of the Mosiac Press Canadian Literature ‘Icon” series. Michael Fraser Laurence Hutchman Anna Yin Earlier this year in Toronto, he edited and launched Under the Mulberry Tree: Poems For & About Raymond Souster.Published by Quattro Books, this anthology features tribute poems by those who knew the poet well and those who are just learning about his work. The contributors include:Steven Michael Berzensky, Kent Bowman, Ronnie R. Brown, Terry Ann Carter, John Robert Columbo, Allan Cooper, Robert Currie, James Deahl, David Donnell, G. W. Down, Margaret Patricia Eaton, David Eso, Chris Faiers, George Fethering, Joe Fiorito, Michael Fraser, Ryan Gibbs, Katerine Gordon, Andreas Gripp, Debbie Okun Hill, Laurence Hutchman, Karl Jirgens, Laurie Kruk, Dennis Lee,Norma West Linder, Bruce Meyer, Brian Purdy, Bernadette Rule, Simcha Simchovitch, Glen Sorestad, Lynn Tait, S. J. White, Carleton Wilson, Michael Wurster, and Anna Yin. Norma West Linder  On Sunday, April 27 starting at 1 p.m. at The Book Keeper in Sarnia, seven of these contributors: Berzensky, Bowman, Deahl, Gibbs, Okun Hill, West Linder, and Tait will be reading and celebrating the legacy of Acorn and Souster. More info here. Additional readings are also planned for Ottawa and North Bay in June. As Deahl wrote in his introduction to Under the Mulberry Tree: “No poet learns the craft without the help and sage advice from those who have already achieved a higher level of writing.” Steven Micheal Berzensky Kent Bowman Three cheers to all the poets including Acorn and Souster who believed in the power of the written word and who will continue to leave their mark on the next generation of writers. As an emerging poet, I still have so much to learn. Maybe one day, I’ll acquire a taste for beer or maybe not. Ryan Gibbs Lynn Tait Debbie Okun Hill d78hill | April 21, 2014 at 2:32 pm | Tags: Debbie Okun Hill, James Deahl, Kent Bowman, Lynn Tait, Milton Acorn, Mosaic Press, Norma West Linder, poetry, Quattro Books, Raymond Souster, Ryan Gibbs,Steven Michael Berzensky, The Book Keeper, Under the Mulberry Tree| Categories: blog posts, News-Events | URL: http://wp.me/p4dii3-5U

JERRY JORDISON

Time for a poem of a different nature...

This poem won an honourable mention in a poetry contest.

              EARTH

earthearthearthearthearthearth
earthearthearthearthearthearth
earthearthearthearthearthearth
earthearthearthearthearthearth
earthearthearthearthearthearth
earthearthearthearthearthearth
earthearthearthearthearthearth
earthearthearthearthearthearth beat
earthearthearthearthearthEarth is alive

ED WOODS

Unwanted Response


heavy rains forecasted
with severe lightning
my car at roadside still
it failed again


soaked while fault-finding
I shake my fist to the sky
scream out frustrations

      the sky responded

now naked and shaken
clothing evaporated
soles of my shoes smouldering
I must be content
lightning did not destroy 
the stainless steel wrench
in my tingling hand

PASTORS FRANK BAHR AND ASTRID SCHLUETER

https://www.lutheransonline.com/bahrschlueter

This is the correct website.  Please take a look at it when you have a chance.  Two of my friends in Germany now have a website with books for sale.

They are of a spiritual nature.

Thank you.

MARTHA MESHBERG

Hearts

Hear! I am the Hill of Poetry

brought about by soulful

and natural forces.

Through hail, sleet and disruption

I glean with my Eagle Eye

a spiritual truth

in the healing defence of time;

And throw myself upon

the purifying shores

of the River mouth

of Divine utterance.

It is here I greet the Rain of Bounty

and cast my life upon

the true journey

of the soul, helplessly

and utterly charmed...

For, I am the Tear of Growth

and a Spiritual Warrior

who will be victorious in every battle,

setting my course

for the planets and stars!

For upon the boundless Ocean,

I shall be set adrift

to seek and gain

salvation's Spiritual Sun,

to return hope and order to all men

as a world tree of transcendent light.

For I am the Heart of all mankind.

Martha Meshberg

Copyright ©2001 

POETRY IN SARNIA, ONTARIO

Respond to this post by replying above this line New post on Kites Without Strings Sarnia’s Bluewater Reading Series: A Pictorial View by d78hill Behind the swinging doors of the "Famous Room", a new reading series emerged. Below are the poetic highlights! The official 2014 National Poetry Month poster! James Deahl, Master of Ceremonies and Spokesperson, Bluewater Reading Series. A time for reflection. Special thanks to the four guest readers: John Wing Jr., Allan Breismaster, Lynn Tait and Clara Blackwood. Allan Briesmaster reads from Against the Flight of Spring (Quattro Books) Clara Blackwell reads from Forecast (Guernica Editions) Lynn Tait reads from her manuscripts Chatter Marks and Broken Days John Wing Jr. reads from Why-shaped Scars (Black Moss Press) Featuring New Work Relaxing A stellar audience. "In Celebration of National Poetry Month. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the League of Canadian Poets" Please note: Two more National Poetry Month Events have been planned for Sarnia. Spoken Word welcomes writers to share their work in front of an audience, Friday, April 25 starting at 8 p.m. at the Lawrence House Centre for the Arts. Sign-up for readers is at the door. Admission is free. More info here. Seven poets Steven Michael Berzensky, Kent Bowman, James Deahl, Ryan Gibbs, Debbie Okun Hill, Norma West Linder and Lynn Tait will celebrate the literary work of literary giants Milton Acorn and Raymond Souster, Sunday, April 27at 1 p.m. at the Book Keeper. Admission is free. More infohere. Celebrating Milton Acorn and Raymond Souster during National Poetry Month d78hill | April 14, 2014 at 11:25 pm | Tags: Allan Briesmaster,Bluewater Reading Series, Canada Council for the Arts, Clara Blackwood, James Deahl, John Wing Jr., John's Restaurant, Lynn Tait,National Poetry Month, Sarnia, The League of Canadian Poets | Categories: blog posts, News-Events | URL: http://wp.me/p4dii3-5z

JERRY JORDISON - New Liskeard, Ontario

The story below won second prize in a "Canadian writers Journal' Short Story Contest.



I Loved Ronda Once

            Thirty-five years ago in a little Southern Italian village, Ronda sipped Chianti with me for two glorious weeks. I’ve longed for her since that last explosive night. And now, sitting just ahead in the sixth row is a woman who looks just like her.

            Watching my son perform on the flying trapeze, my face is flushed as I glimpse the profile of that cheek I once touched. Beside her sits a fair skinned man with young eyes. The catcher, my son, grasp the flying lady’s wrist, gleaming to the spontaneous applause, then with a subtle flip lets her go again to fly back to the bar. I need to know for certain.

            If that face is not Ronda’s why is my pulse drumming so violently? I tried to will her to turn sideways, so I could be sure. My wife, Marie, broke my concentration as she touched my hand to ask if there was anything wrong.

            “Scott is doing well tonight, isn’t he?” I recovered. During almost thirty years of marriage, Marie could always sense my emotions. She smiled and focused on the flyers again.

            Wartime was no excuse. We knew it was our last night together before I had to leave with my unit to go north. I had told her that I would return as soon as I could and we’d spend the rest of our lives together. One minute she was smiling, the next, she slapped me and left. I never could understand why.

            With all attention focused on the high wire, I noticed Ronda make her way to the end of the aisle and head toward the washrooms. My stomach knotted with certainty. I excused myself and followed her to the concession area. I stood beside a pay phone waiting for her to come out.

            We were wartime lovers. What would I say to her now? Without time to get my thoughts together, she walked past me, returning to her seat. Our eyes did not connect. I returned to my seat as well.

            Scott was now performing his bicycle rodeo routine. The crowd laughed and applauded. I couldn’t help noticing her laughing face again. As a certain fragrance brings back instant memories, her laughing face brought back memories that I could not deny. I must talk to her. I have to know. How am I ever going to make contact with her, when I am here with my wife celebrating out son’s debut performance with Circus Soleil?

            At intermission Marie grabbed my hand to lead me backstage to congratulate Scott. I saw Ronda, with a young gentleman, flowing with the crowd in the opposite direction. Scott was busy changing his costume. Smiles, hugs and congratulations were exchanged. We returned to our seats as the crowds returned from their break.

            We settled back to watch the Chinese diabolo group perform. There were no more breaks before the end of the show and we had promised to meet Scott after the performance to go out and celebrate. I was beginning to lose any hope of a rendezvous.

            Was she married and now living in Montreal? The man beside her is younger than she is. I remember how she commented on how young I was in those days. We had only known each other for a couple of indulgent weeks. The bombing had intensified. As we sipped our wine that night, we both witnessed a ship in the distance, being blown out of the water. She slapped me and left shortly after that.

            Scott performed again. This time he was with a troupe of acrobats, flipping and juggling at the same time. I sat amazed at the skills he had gained. I remembered him enjoying the stage with me doing magic shows as a child, but he had never displayed any talent for what he was doing now.

            Any hopes of meeting Ronda after the show vanished during the standing ovation as she disappeared into the crowd. Disappointed, I followed Marie backstage to wait for Scott.

            We joined Scott and his friends to celebrate at Marco’s. We toasted and laughed as we talked about their great performance.

            Startled, I looked up as Ronda interrupted to ask if I was Larry. My heart did a double loop. There she was, talking to me. I hugged her and introduced her to my family and our new circus friends. I explained that we knew each other in Italy during the war. I told her about Marie and our son, Scott.

            She was delighted to meet a real live circus performer. Her young escort approached and she introduced him as her son Anthony. Anthony explained that the reason they stopped in Montreal was to see Circus Soleil, on their way back to California, where they now lived. We shared some wine and more conversation.

            I desperately wanted to know why Ronda left that night. I needed to talk to her alone. My perceptive wife sensed my dilemma and suggested that I take Ronda to the empty table to catch up on old times.

            “It is great to see you again,” I began. “I really want to know why you left me that last night?”

            “I would like to apologize for striking you,” she offered. “Do you remember the ship we saw being blown out of the water?”

            “Yes, I do.”

            “I never told you but I was married to a sailor during the time we were together.”

            “You what!” I blurted out. “I know,” she quickly replied, putting a finger to her lips to calm me down. “Let me continue. He was at sea for three months and I had just received word that afternoon that he was returning home in a few days.”

            “Go on,” I impatiently encouraged.

            “Remember, just after we saw that ship being bombed, you reached up and touched my cheek? In that instant I had an intuitive flash that my husband was on that ship. I flailed out at you and left.”

            “Was he?” I enquired. “Yes. I received word the next day he was killed in that bombing.” I reached out and touched her cheek, once again, as I consoled her. I stood up to return to the group, when she took my hand and motioned for me to sit down again.

            “There is one more thing I need to tell you. Anthony is my son. You are his father.” “What!” I stammered. But I don’t want him to know. He thinks his father was my husband, the sailor, who died during the war.”

            She stood up, walked over and whispered to Anthony. They both said their good-byes to the group. She turned and smiled at me, and they walked away.

            “Larry, are you all right?” Marie inquired. Yes,” I murmured, and returned to sit with her.

            I loved Ronda once.