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