'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