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