'Hum V' Jesus

photography by
Joel Clements,
Brainstorm Studio







Your 'Hum V' Jesus don’t cut it with me.
Your tear stained prayer books,
pious acts and sideways looks don’t touch my pain.
The demon in me plays addictions winning game.

And while you dine with your lunch bunch,
sip chardonnay and plan a warm beach holiday,
I sit inside the bus stop, waiting for the rain to stop,
dying for my next hit, and feeling like a piece of shit.

So when I show up, you gonna grow up,
walk up, cough up some loose change
and be Jesus in a real way? Let me eat and drink today?
Or will you just drive by while I’m contemplating suicide?

‘cause Jesus was a walking man.
He walked and talked and sat down
by the side of the road, in the ditch. That man wasn’t rich.
Jesus handed out life and fish.

That’s the Jesus I wanna know
that’s the one you gotta show me
If you wanna reach me, teach me,
then you gotta touch me where it hurts.

And if my next score is what makes me tick
it might make you sick, but it
might take me through another night.
Yeah, it ain't right, I ain't a pretty sight
but this is real life, so you gonna get real?

The good news, the upside
is that the will to survive
could arrive in your shaking hand,
slow steps, down-turned eyes.
Your spare change; my fish and life.

Lesley-Anne Evans
February 2008

The fear of white

I have found there to be voids, like the
times when the stark white of it is blinding
transfixing all attempts at meaningful expression,
mocking my tongue-tied immobility with blank eyes.

A fading memory of grade school reminds me that
figures placed in appropriate order upon paper make sense,
so that is where I begin to break the curse,
to place one or two words, tentative sentences into

the void. But my heart longs for the rush of thought
and the cramping of my fingers as they frantically try to
match the pace of mental discourse around
something glimpsed in passing, a brief transcendent

thought, that should someone happen upon it, they might
feel a catch in their throat or an ache in their gut
and maybe the urge to cry -- Do you know what I mean?
Like when you listen to a particular piece of music, and

it tears your heart from your chest, and leaves you
struggling to breath.

Lesley-Anne Evans
December 2009

Ode to Arid

my own photography…







She described you as ‘brown’
and ‘not to her liking’
in a turned up nose distasteful kind of way.
‘I like the green of it,’ she said
and I wanted to take my little soapbox
stand upon it
and sing your praises…

Instead,
I sit down, righteous pen in hand, and
write an ode to the proven beauty that is dryness
and would argue that
green is needy, garish and greedy,
fed day after day upon relentless rain…
soaking in, sodden, superfluous super-saturation.

While the brown of it --
the golden stretches of rolling bunch grass and
Ponderosa dotted highlands are soft, undemanding
on my eyes, providing
fodder for ranging cattle and quarter horses
and contentment
for those satisfied with ‘just enough’.

…A conservative abundance.

Lesley-Anne Evans
November 2009

You might like me

I long to share things with you
thoughts, feelings, my heart
Yet you choose to talk about the weather
and the son of a long forgotten friend

I’m part of you
I came out of you
Yet you deny the part of me
that I want to give back to you

So, I share in the superficial
join the chatter, and fill the dead air
with lifeless words
inside me is me
unspoken, unrealized, unknown

I retreat to my room to my
pen and paper expose,
And wait for the airport farewell
my crocodile tears
the prolonged goodbye,
to a cardboard cutout of someone
I want to know better
who smiled and said,

......“not today thank you.”

Lesley-Anne Evans, Sept. 2007

Daughter of the King

One day she wakes up weary,
of the life she’s come to know.
She used to feel potential
now all she feels is old.
Her eyes have lost their brightness
and her soul is growing cold.
Nobody seems to notice but the Lord...

and He whispers....

You are lovely
You are worthy
You are my delight, for you are daughter of the King.
Broken beauty
sing a new song,
lift your eyes and see yourself through me.
You’re in me.

She looks for ways to feed
a hunger she can’t name.
The black and white of childhood
is lost in shades of grey.
And to find herself she thinks
she must give herself away.
She prays in desperation
to hold on another day,
Then she hears him...

You are lovely
You are worthy
You are my delight, for you are daughter of the King.
Broken beauty
sing a new song,
lift your eyes and see yourself through me.
You’re in me.

You’re his chosen and beloved one, be free.
You’re the perfect, precious daughter of the King.

You’re his chosen and beloved one, be free.
You’re the perfect, precious daughter of the King.

You are lovely
You are worthy
You are my delight, for you are daughter of the King.
Broken beauty
sing a new song,
lift your eyes and see yourself through me.
Lift your eyes and see,
Lift your eyes and see,
Lift your eyes and see yourself through me.
You’re in me

Written by Lesley-Anne Evans and Shawna Froese, Feb. 2007

Emerging

Photography by Lisa Mabey






Today, at the public pool edge
a fleeting reminder of who you once were --
golden haired cherub in ruffled daffodil-yellow swim suit,
precariously teetering on the edge.

No longer infant yet not quite child
rounded, soft, with her
eyes wide open and heart untouched
by pain of knowledge or experience.
Touching and trying with a tiptoed courage
and insatiable appetite for all things new,
a fearless explorer with Daddy trailing behind.

Only yesterday this was you…
Darting out in ever widening circles into the world,
then back to hold tight to my hand.


I want to breathe this moment deep into my lungs…


… savor the taste with my eyes.


Lesley-Anne Evans
November 2009

First bite

Self portrait by Graeme Evans







Do you feel it…
sometimes…
an insatiable striving for knowledge?
Do you crave it, because
Knowledge is achievement.
Knowledge is position,
Knowledge is power?

I know I want it.

So I have to ask…
When Adam and his first mate took that one (small) bite of
the fruit of the Knowledge tree,
was it sinfully delicious, and dripping
with the juice of ‘knowing’?

Was that first nibble what started it all?

‘Cause it seems we spend so much of ourselves
in this obsession with understanding,
researching small nuances on every possible subject.
In our information age, our research culture…
the possibilities are virtually endless.

So we log on,

…and surf away…


Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

OUTLASTING MOTHS: Great Men

Dear readers,

In this wide brave world of the internet, my mention of another human being behind some more words may or may not matter to you… but I have found some incredible writers and poets 'out there', and want to simply ask you to consider the words of this one.

Rachel Phillips;

OUTLASTING MOTHS: Great Men

Walking wounded

photography by Joel Clements







Here’s to the walking wounded --

The ones who continue to stand upright,
mortal wounds hidden from public sight,
bleeding relentless, internal blight,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

Hearts ripped beating from red blossomed chests,
fermented promises long time suppressed,
still hoping while hope dies a prolong-ed death,

…Here’s to the walking wounded.

Half awake players of first dance wedding nights,
catatonic creatures with complacent lives,
silent screams in pissing down rain endless nights,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

Red letter leaders turned concrete grey,
futures tainted by moral and economic decay,
as pink slips beget need for food stamps today,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

The smelly man hunched on the bus shelter floor,
the starving children of front page tabloids galore,
the haunted eyed stranger I’ve learned to ignore,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

Lesley-Anne Evans
October 2009

The Fallen

The leaves fall under the trees in autumn. Oak leaves under oak trees, maple under maple, aspen under aspen. Branches reach over them, as if in one last attempt to capture the past.

With branches outstretched, the trees stand as silent sentinels. Wet with autumn rain, they stand alone in their solitary sadness and mourn the loss of their magnificence. Maple tree mourning maple leaf.

But oh, the brilliance of the leaves as they lie on the ground, glowing with intensity. Adorning the tired green of summer’s remaining grasses, they are as significant in this new setting as they were in the old. Leaf tips curl up to hold captured rain drops. They lie together in a riotous celebration of colour, each leaf worthy of belonging in a child’s collection of special things.

Until their colours slowly fade, and the leaves become a patchwork quilt for the roots.

If you look up into the trees now, you will see that their grieving has ended. On the once leaf-laden branches, a hint of life appears again. The buds lie dormant, waiting for the day that the upward flow of sap will swell them into significance, burst them into beauty.

Pregnant with hope, the trees await spring.

Lesley-Anne Evans
Autumn 2006

Brave New Day

My blood runs thick this morning
a heaviness wraps around my joints --
and it greets me sheepishly, like an uninvited guest
returned for a longer stay.

My drug of choice… hot coffee
with milk and white sugar… is not enough
to awaken my inner workings.

My mind anticipates a thaw later in the day, when
joints will move easily -- though creaking -- and
blood will pump like oil to lubricate my extremities.

So, this morning's walk is slow and deliberate, as
dog strains ahead, then stops to
breathe in reminders of passersby.
He marks the spot.

Beside the pond, a branch accepts heron graciously,
as indigo mirror perfectly echos the vignette.
Cattle singing over breakfast in the farm yard
invite me to linger, feel their song.

To the south heavy clouds are parting and
blue is there, with it sun on Okanagan Mountain.
All this is enough to draw me on, and

keep my leaden feet upon the path,
enough to hope for sunshine
and for hope itself --

On this brave new day.

Lesley-Anne Evans
Oct. 15, 2009

Outside the door

Ancient history, I thought,
what's done is done --
on to new things and a fresh start.

But, it shadowed me
lurked in dark corners.
Peered, with bloodshot eyes into
conversations sprinkled with
insinuations.

I realized, after a time,
that hurt cannot stay outside the door.
It must come in,
sit down,
and acquaint itself

… with grace.

Lesley-Anne Evans
2009

Legacy

photography by Robert Evans You would think
the smell of death would
have the power to break down
unforgiveness and stubborn pride.

What I mean is
there might be a coming to terms
with stuff,
like slights and rifts and differing opinions
and even some bigger things,
when coming to terms with
endings.

Yet, the broken breaches
caused by words poorly spoken
are a series of little deaths
adding up to
mortal wounds -
irreconcilable differences.

And, being human,
we clutch tightly to what is ours -
fighting for
the last word,
the last breath,
and leave behind
a legacy of

… regret.

Lesley-Anne Evans
09/26/08

Road Warrior

photography by Lynda Norman








She defines a small space really --
a brown speckled bump on
the solid yellow line
of Gordon Drive.
Feather’s ruffled by
intent mini-vans and
self-focused lives,

her expiration date is blessedly past.

They say mallards mate once,
for life,
and I wonder…
what will he think
when she doesn’t come home for dinner?

Lesley-Anne Evans
2009

Three Short Poems

1.

Blackbird, blackbird, blackbird, blackbird.
Blackbirds on a telegraph wire.
Jostling, bobbing black head hellos,
sanguine communicados.


2.

Hard to swallow lump,
heart beat tangible.
I wait for your call --
do you forgive me yet?


3.

Panic packed in matching bags…
do I have all I need
to make a good impression,
to be who I really am?
Just three days at home
that isn’t home anymore.
I left a long time ago
and going back hurts.


Lesley-Anne Evans
2008

Child of Darfur

There are six things a child’s eyes should not see, seven that break the heart of God --

Mother, large with child, shot dead and
sand drifting over the still smoldering village.
The last piece of bread.
The loss of all comfort -- and a culture.
The stiff back of the world.
The death of hope.

My faith without action.

Lesley-Anne Evans
September 2009

Photography by Mia Farrow, 'Darfur child traumatized baby', from www.miafarrow.org.

Words sink in

photography by Susan Scantland







Do you hear the words --
the lyrics of the Top 10,
and New York Times Best Sellers
calling out of love and fame and fantasy.
You can have it all.

Are you buying in,
Are you selling out?

Do you hear the voice
older than the ages
cutting through the noise
telling tales of upside down and inside out.
Are you listening?

Will you let it in,
Are you selling out?

The world is calling
the voice is loud
still a small voice whispers
beyond the crowd.

Are you buying in,
Are you selling out?

‘cause the truth is out there…


Lesley-Anne Evans
November 2008

Land

photography by Lynda Norman







Give me space

breathing room

a place to think.

Give me land so vast you could get lost
just by standing in the middle of it.

Give me room enough to look from a distance,
and see without obstruction.

Allow me to consider unhindered creation
and in the looking

see God.

Lesley-Anne Evans
06/02/2009

Tangible

Now you might think otherwise
or question my experience
but the truth of the matter is --
I’ve grown accustomed to wide open spaces
and finding God there.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Out of my depth

I’m standing on the gravel shore, yelling,
waving madly with both arms,
me -- middle aged mom in large sunglasses
anxious at the sight of you
drifting just outside the bouys.

It’s not that far, I could wade to where you are,
or maybe swim the last few meters…
I'm pretty certain I could, if necessary.

Still, an instinctual flush of hot danger grasps my throat
and launches me from lawn chair to water’s edge,
exposing my maternal obsession and modestly clad flesh
to the beach crowd.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Compulsion

How subtly do I
flick the switch
from collection to compulsion
interest to obsession --
just as cat lover becomes cat lady
filling my shelves morphs into building shelves to fill.

Now here I am, slave to the superficial
while lovely, hungry, complicated eyes wait
watching, wanting only love
in mine.

My eyes, flitting frantically for another something
to fill the gaping maw of my misplaced need --

Help me --
flick the switch.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Wind

photograph by Joel Clements










I cannot see the wind
(in a tangible way) with my eyes
no matter how long I stand and look
for it’s source, for it’s destination
(yet I know that it is there).

I see how it plays on the surface of the water
creating patterns, ripples, white caps, storms.
I feel it pulling at my hair, convincing loose strands from my ponytail
that tickle my face, get into my eyes.
I see it sway the Ponderosa as easily as the fields of grain
that move in waves before it’s breath.

And I think, how like the wind
to be so hard to pin down, yet everywhere
around, in, over, under, upon me.

I cannot see the wind
(in a tangible way) with my eyes
no matter how hoarse my voice for asking
how bruised my knees for bending
(yet I know that it is there)

I feel how it presses me, presents itself in people,
circumstances, undeserved kindnesses and grace.
I hear it in the melody of Chick-a-Dee
and child outside my open window.
I know it in my deep and silent places, my hurts,
my dreams, my unexpected realizations.

And I think, how like the wind
to be a thing of faith, unseen yet everywhere
around, in, over, under, upon me.

How like the wind.
How like you.

Lesley-Anne Evans
September 2009

Horses

They stand in the clarity of valley's first light,
knees loosened,
heads bowed,
eyes closed,
facing sunrise over the south-east bench.

Steam rises from sway backs like
prayers of the faithful in a
black poplar cathedral.

Trail weary travelers worship early morning rest.

Lesley-Anne Evans
Feb. 2009

There is a Place

His family is broken, and his life torn apart
His Daddy left them for a woman and a new start.
And he’s only a boy, now he’s man of their home
Keeps a stiff upper lip when mom leaves him alone.

She sits in the chair, feet submerged in the tub
inviting wellness to come with wax, polish and scrub.
Then she books another appointment for the very next day,
tries to hang onto feelings that will soon fade away.

Just a bystander wondering what you can do
‘cause life and confusion is clouding their view.
It would be so easy to just look away
than to point them to Jesus, than to openly say...

There is a place,
there is a plan,
there is a story of grace,
written by the Great I am.…
You could point them to Jesus.

He’s working so hard that he’s missing the truth
that the dream that he’s chasing has stolen his youth.
He’s feeling the pull and he’s longing for more
He’s paying for a lifestyle he can barely afford.

Her husband can’t love her the way that she needs
and this man that she met is so easy to please.
So she picks up her phone, makes a questionable call
His voice drowns out another voice, gentle and small.

Just a bystander wondering what you can do
‘cause life and confusion is clouding their view
it would be so easy to just look away
Then a voice deep inside you compels you to say...

There is a place,
there is a plan,
there is a story of grace
written by the Great I am…
You lead them to Jesus.


Lesley-Anne Evans
2008
These words were written as song lyrics… the tune in my head still not put down onto paper.

31 Flavours

Do you ever really know where you stand with a women?

Tempting hues of bosom buddies and best friends forever are shadowed
by thoughts of becoming next week’s awkward acquaintance.
How uniquely feminine that friends can be chosen like flavours of ice cream;
Sweet, but too rich for my taste; A little tart; Too chunky;
Plain vanilla’s my favourite, but perhaps a tad expected, uneventful?

Ah yes -- now we are friends for life,
or at least until a better offer comes along.

Why is it so hard to get past superficial infatuations,
work through sticky messes and stay,
for the long haul?

Are your young emotions caught up in the evolution
of your relationships like mine are?
I try not to watch from the parking lot.
Slights and alliances and gossip and groupies… imagined or real?

My concerns may be so much baggage on your tender shoulders --
echoes of my past an unsolicited prophecy of pain.

Lesley-Anne Evans
September 2009

Delight

Unexpectedly you appear,
in wild and lusty profusion --
floating over the wayside grasses
like exclamation marks, or
polka dots on an apple green summer dress --
As if our passing somehow matters
in your tentative lives at the edge of the interstate --
That we are worthy of spontaneous celebration.
So, you clap your hands in abandon,
then lift up your lacy skirts
and dance.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Returning

First day --
subtle glances, eyes meet
as you move from my world to theirs again
and I trust you there
(for the most part).

Locker filled with all you prepared well,
mind open to new facts, figures, friendships.

I stand back and watch you go,
leaving me incrementally,
each year a little easier, for both of us.

The youngest one, the last
to need me in that physical way of
tuck-ins and bed time prayers, applied bandages, and
now it will be mine to tend to bruised feelings, and broken hearts.
Not long now, I fear.

For you are a beautiful one --
strong and athletic and
able to take on the world courageous,
for that I am thankful.

I remain here, peripheral --
daughter of my mother and mother to this daughter
waiting, praying,
cheering on the inside.

September 8, 2009

Dusk

photography by Bob Evans







There’s an expectation at the coming of night
that with the curtain of darkness drawn down tight
activity will cease with a deep sigh,
and peace will come.

Yet, all it really takes is a step onto my back porch --
to feel a playful breeze rise over my wakeful skin,
to smell lavender preparing to be ravished by tomorrow’s honey bees,
to hear the trill of tree frogs promising passion in the darkness,
to know that night is not a silent ending
rather a dark resurrection of life and love.

Lesley-Anne Evans
September 2009

Pink Warrior

Girl in the fuscia raincoat
twirling at the top of the playground hill…
Round and round, eyes closed

(fully in the moment), until
he advances up the slope
guns blazing.

Fists clenched, you
stand your ground and
force his retreat.

Warrior princess of the school yard
you spin around again,
a vision of victory

while your pastel clad playmates
run screaming
for a teacher.

Lesley-Anne Evans
Fall 2008

Love is stronger than death

photography by Lesley-Anne Evans








It wouldn’t take much, maybe
just belief in a love greater
than the separation of two lanes of worn asphalt,
to reach out your moss covered arms,
roots stretching triumphant down the embankment,
and take back the forest primeval.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Conflicted

'Glaring empty', by Lisa Mabey








I sit on the edge of your bed
and watch you leak
small drops
of life.

I anticipated doing things for you,
rather than this --
this waiting, hovering,
trying to interpret
what your heart mumbles
between slurred words.

Like a beachcomber, I search
for tiny wave tossed treasures,
then leave for home - empty handed -
and pray for the tide to turn.

Lesley-Anne Evans
03/02/09

Jazz singer

Five o’clock shadow on your eight o’clock face,
you hold the mic tenderly in your embrace.
Your baby face wet with traces of sweat, and
you sing to me, you sing to me.

Main stage lights glitter and black ebony glows,
brass band sparkle matches the shine on your shoes.
The boys play on as you croon your song, and
you sing for me, you sing for me.

Heat wave in the words that haunt your lips,
crowd of thousands wrapped ‘round your fingertips.
Platinum wives and young women breathlessly gaze, as
you toy with us, you toy with us.

Black patent shoes dance on the door to my heart,
your flirtatious promises are a well rehearsed art.
I’m mesmerized by your contrived gestures of hand, and
I swoon for you, I swoon for you.

Then it’s over, the starry night fantasy done.
You exit stage right, your encore is sung.
My heart quietens, then resumes a familiar dance
to my true love’s song, my true love’s song.






photography courtesy of our imac
photobooth application









Lesley-Anne Evans
2008

Returns

I want to draw your attention to this lovely photograph 'Backstage', by my friend Lisa Mabey. She's a very talented, beautiful and humble woman whom I had the delight to meet when our daughters played soccer together last year. It's my absolute honour to begin posting some of Lisa's photography in concert with my poems, and hope that you will visit her blog 'Breath' to view more of her glorious work.

Lesley-Anne







Returns

It could be pure coincidence
that on the afternoon you come back there is a storm brewing.
I feel the heat of August sun withdraw behind clouds
moving in fast from the west.
I see pampas grass bend low to accommodate the breeze.
I hear the porch chimes call out, "storm warning"
as my head unpacks memories.

You are unpacking cardboard boxes
and maybe expectations of a renewal, or at the very least,
a new start, just up the road.
So it could be an aligning of circumstances --
the weather, you, and my dramatic tendencies
to sense something more than a change in the wind.

Still, there’s something emerging within me --
resolve like an Oak tree, deep rooted, watered in,
able to withstand storms.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Diversity

photography by Claire Evans







The same God; angry, jealous, holy
cracked open bedrock chasms to devour hard-hearted betrayers,
also holds my tears of grief and self-pity
in the palm of his open hand,
delights over me with singing.

The same God; creative genius, humorist
dreamed up aardvark and blue-bottomed baboon,
also considers my heart's response to quail babies
following their mother across my cul-de-sac
in a perfectly straight line.

The same God; mighty, just, compassionate
inspired men and women to leave complacent lives
take up causes of world proportion, like aids, orphans, slavery,
also removes my insecurity, my near-sighted view of life,
anoints my pen.

To God be the glory, forever and ever.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Transcendent

photography by Joel Clements






Toubadours --
lyrical lines of airborne comrads
inhabiting space between sea and sky.
Harmony in form and function

yet, mammoth and undeniable,
like heat-seeking missiles --
transcending watery depths
and drawing up fish.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Old growth

Driving through I couldn't help but notice
how the forest flourished,
to the very edge of the asphalt.

As if, at any moment
the deer ferns might grow legs,
tumble down the loamy banks
and run, unhindered, with long lost cousins

on the other side.

As if the Sitkas waited, breath held,
for our transient passing
only to close in upon themselves
in an ancient prayer circle, and

again offer up forgiveness for our misguided intrusions.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Visit

photography by Claire Evans







You waited, didn't you…
until the last evening
as the sun was kissing clouds
like pink candy floss at the horizon.

I wasn't expecting you
and so, all the more sweet.
Your breath erupted and hung above the deep
and my heart sang out … whale…

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Cut

photography by Robert Evans









In the distance striped fields of ochre and green show how
one day, soft topped grasses moved like waves in the wind
and how a passing Massey Ferguson laid them down, unresisting
into rows like palomino manes, subdued and willing to embrace
the sun, heat up, dry out, offer up body and blood
as fodder for ruminations of cattle and poets and
farmers at the Feed and Tack.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Away

Some days
if the truth were told
that is, if I were speaking it aloud
I’d say I want to run away
opposite direction to anywhere you or they are.
To a pine box even, or to float, lifeless,
in cold silent fathoms.

My mind screams
shut up shut up shut up
to incessant words, arguments, bickering.

I settle for an angry walk, wet faced in
pissing down rain.
Until mercy comes with full mouth kisses,
turns my heart home.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Forgiveness

I looked down only for a minute
to scribble something
(meaningful)
in my journal,
lifted up my eyes and it was gone.

All of it --
foreshore,
headland,
horizon.

Suddenly shrouded in a veil of soft grey mist,
making mystery of what was,

like a covering over all of my sins.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Crescendo

There’s music in the vineyard --
a rising tympani of leaves
exposing their soft bellies to
the western wind.

Harmonies of vine and wire
vine and wire, vine and wire
and the rhythm of staccato posts
support the melody.

Bees buzz, tasting floral hints
of autumn’s fruit
while heavy hot summer sun
pulls the song from root to blossom tip.

There’s music in the vineyard --
a complex composition carries on.
And, the cry of red-tailed hawk -
a grace note.


Lesley-Anne Evans
01/07/2009

Crow Babies

photography by Claire Evans


The whole, wide, white-crested ocean
and within clear view of your
wind beaten pine
was not enough
to draw your
bright, black, beady-eyed attention.

Instead, you flew
with your fuzzy-headed sibling
from pine branch to cedar-shake roof
of the cottage next door,
chortling softly to each other
and attempted to take a bath
in the rain water trapped in the gutter.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Walk a mile

photography by Claire Evans



Say nothing.

First, slip your foot into
my travel-worn shoes.

Can you see
scenic bi-ways, foot paths
and well intentioned plans
realized but for weather and love?

If so,
come share
the warmth of my hobo fire
and billy can coffee.

If not,
wipe the dust from your feet
and walk on down the road

in silence.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Seabird

Photography by Robert Evans

How does it feel to leave land behind take to the sea live on silver offerings and faith in your ability to stay afloat regardless of weather? Such humble beginnings you wake alone to dirt walls and just a glimmer of light. Hunkered down in your snug burrow fed by swift and sleek parents, then pushed from your nest you fledge quickly to cries of their approval Now it’s time… No backward glances or salt pillars You fix your eye on the watery horizon and fly seaward. Lesley-Anne Evans July 2009

Husband, hunter-gatherer

Husband, hunter-gatherer

I’m looking for bits of rope
tossed up by the sea
Anything, really…
with knots tied in them,
some remnant of a sailor or fisherman’s craft.

Ok, you said.

Relieved to find some tangible purpose
for our walk to the tidal pools,
you searched a short time
and pulled a long, knotted, shell-encrusted, perfectly weathered rope
from between the rocks.

Holding it up to me
with a smile
you asked…
Like this?

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Words 2

When I plumb the depths
and draw up fresh
wet and glistening considerations,
presenting them on
heirloom plates -
an offering

Do you quicken, hunger
for the taste of complex spice,
pour Shiraz and savour
... slowly...
or do you crave
simpler
sweeter
things?


Lesley-Anne Evans
28/07/2008

Channel Swimmer

You stand on the edge
waves lapping at your ready feet.

In your gut emotions wage war
provoked by whispers of darkness, sharks
and endless miles of open water.

Yet, out there is the siren call… of land
and other less solid surfaces.

Just offshore, bobbing
in a liquid trail of moonlight
the support boat waits.

You raise your hand
tighten the strap of your goggles,
and step into the water.

Lesley-Anne Evans
29/07/2008

Leg Hold

He kicks the ruler once, hard
It skids across the linoleum and
connects with Connor's foot
Resentment stuffed deep
fists shoved in pockets
he shoulder slams Connor
into a locker door
then shuffles his untied DC's
on past him to Room 105

It is only 9:15

Walls and expectations
might hold him
'til 3

Lesley-Anne Evans
07/03/08

Hawk

Treetop sojourner --
feather’s ruffled against the early morning chill.

Expectant sentinel
over earthly offerings that scurry in frosted stubble.

I wait

and watch

as hunger takes flight.

Deadly beauty circles heavy over me and
life ends…
within a sweep of un-gleaned grain.

Lesley-Anne Evans
06/02/2009

Things I saw while not looking…

A lone robin -- Spring’s ambassador --
hopping tentatively over the tired snow.

Redwing blackbirds calling in raucous warbles
from hidden perches in the frozen marsh.

Three tundra swans banking wide white circles
in the valley below us, on our way home from school.

The sun painting my kitchen a watery yellow
through fingerprinted winter windows.

Lesley-Anne Evans
02/03/2009

You might like me

I long to share things with you
thoughts, feelings, my heart
Yet you choose to talk about the weather
and the son of a long forgotten friend

I’m part of you
I came out of you
Yet you deny the part of me
that I want to give back to you

So, I share in the superficial
join the chatter and fill the dead air
with lifeless words
inside me is me
unspoken, unrealized, unknown

I retreat to my room to my
pen and paper expose,
And wait for the airport farewell
my crocodile tears
the prolonged goodbye
to a cardboard cutout of someone
I want to know better
who smiled and said,
“not today thank you.”


Lesley-Anne Evans, Sept. 2007

Open Water

Dedicated to my friend Art Suke, 1958-2009
















Open Water


Launching at the ‘El.’ is easy,
dry-dock jockey does the work,
lift, drop and go...

Mirages shimmer at the horizon
the sun burning colour from
the bleached blue Okanagan sky.

On the lake it’s 10 degrees cooler.
I cruise south to Okanagan Mountain
no commitments,
no expectations
...alone.

The lake ahead waits like flat glass while
Albertans take their time at brunch --
their loss, my gain.

Peace, open water, silence as
I cut the engine and the boat settles
into dark wash denim liquid.

Well seasoned fisherman, an eagle
flies large circles overhead.
I watch him watching me
...competition for the morning calm.

I fill my thirsty eyes, my mind, my soul
with a deep and quiet gratitude...
a silent prayer to my Creator,

Who watches, and walks with me,
and knows what lies ahead -- all of it --
open water, life
... eternity...

by Lesley-Anne Evans
Oct. 2008

Gulls 2

Gulls 2
by Lesley-Anne Evans, Jan. 2008

Gulls are drifting inland on updrafts from the sea.
Wantonly weightless they float overhead,
calling boldly to me of flight and freedom.

Creature of the middle earth I stand in salt spray, toes
sink in wet sand, thoughts sink deeper.
I lift my face skyward, and consider their foreign tongue.

Then, rusty hinges on the screen door and
you call me from the cottage…
warm voice carried on the wind.

I turn,

my heart welcoming the parameters
of love and life.

Lake Stone

I walk to the edge of the water… only yesterday it was rippled by a soft wind moving the surface and my attention had been drawn to the rhythmic sound of the waves. Today the lake is almost silent. Snow is falling unexpectedly as it’s April and time for Spring. But the falling snow adds to the silence, the hush, and I find myself in a holy place.

My eyes are drawn to the stones along the shore. The water level is low at this time of the year, so the rocks are exposed in a way that they never are in summer when I’m down at the beach more regularly.

The stones along the edge of the lake are rounded, beautifully smooth and round and coloured in tones of red and brown and grey. The water is transparently clear, so every rock on the bottom of the shallows is distinguishable. There too, the colours are similar to those on the shore, yet defined by the water they are darker, more dramatic. They too are rounded and smooth.

As I stand and look down at my feet and around me, I can see that there are millions of rocks, each one different and unique. It reminds me of people… side by side and some touching and each one different and unique. Some rocks are in the shallows, some in the deeper water. Some are in the transitional areas along the lake’s edge where they will sometimes be submerged, sometimes exposed. Some are permanently part of the beach… unless someone picks them up and throws them unexpectedly to a different location. Beach stone to lake stone and back is possible with the help of someone, some child perhaps.

What stone am I God, I wondered. Am I on the beach, warm and dry, or am I submerged in water, wet and cool and defined by colours only the water can provide? Am I a stone in the shallows, or the deep?

I sense that I am an emerging lake stone… in the riparian zone where sometimes I am more of the lake and less of the land, yet sometimes the very opposite. My circumstances still change me, storms can move me, and I appear quite different one day from the next. The parallels are not what I’d like them to be… a rock , stable and fixed.

Then I’m reminded of stones of another kind, and it doesn’t matter their origin or their appearance or even their location, rather it matters their purpose and usefulness for the task. I think of the stones that were lifted from the bed of the Jordon River and placed on piles as a sign, altars of worship to the God that delivers. And I desire that for me. That my life be a living sacrifice, each day laid on the altar with other stones as a sign of what God has done. A simple lake stone, emerging and becoming part of something beautiful and significant and pointing to God.

by Lesley-Anne Evans, April 2009

Dark Lamb

On the morning that you pushed out of
her warm yet constricting comfort;

Did you know --
that you weren’t snow white
pure, and commonly desired?

Did you sense --
the beginning of knowledge in your belly
of things outside commonplace, or
revelations of rebellion?

Did you guess --
as you kicked up your heels
running joyful on your newly dried legs
in stubble not yet promising summer sweet grasses,

that the darkness that set you apart,
might be your complicated saviour?


Lesley-Anne Evans
April 2009

Words

Words

Today
I have grown weary of utterances
both yours and mine
spoken, heard, yet
not sinking in,
words ripple out to
the horizon
... gone...

Yesterday’s words return like echoes across
a darkly organic lake,
alive with possibilities of leaping trout
and pan fried fillets for supper.

Claire at Play

Claire at play

Tousled waves halo your sun blessed face.
Sweetly rumpled, fresh from dreams,
other awakenings yet to come, and

your hands are busy, intently moving cards
this way and that, humming, happy,
oblivious to my thirsty eyes,

so I sit, coffee in hand, bible in lap
torn between morning devotions
and the vision of glory at my feet

while this small solitude is injected with life.



Lesley-Anne Evans
18/08/2008

I Saw a Poem

I saw a poem

I saw it clearly as I let my eyes linger --
something there
just beyond the obvious

and, like a trout hovering while the fly is cast and
insistently played upon the surface of the pond,
I felt it drawing me

words forming on my silent lips
as God spoke poem into existence
and I, taking the barb-less hook

swallowed deeply.

Lesley-Anne Evans
07/04/2009

Nightfall

A dog barks in the distance
carried on the still warm evening
breeze through my open window

the leaves of the katsura whisper
of water over stones
and thoughts washed clean

I lounge in cotton sheets
while indigo darkness absorbs
twinkling lives of distant neighbours

careful

hush now

and you will hear…

waves embracing shoreline
and the stirring of gentler things