Five Poems by Meg Freer

 

Final Petal

in memoriam Bob MacKenzie

 

you a wild, wild rose, already bedraggled

lost petals one by one, faster at the end

so many poems and stories not written

photos not taken, trails not walked

at least you won’t have to avoid

goose poop on the river path anymore

and I won’t miss your photos of the geese

 

I’ll miss sending you updates on my milkweed

the two I planted from seeds gathered by the lake

that got eaten each spring by some hungry animal

and the third that grew this year unexpectedly

a few inches away but not tall enough for flowers

 

you would love my photo of garlic chives

their simple lacy beauty, each blossom

a burst of tiny white stars

 

you never made it over the new bridge

across the river, never saw the view

of Belle Island’s north shore

but you crossed another bridge

dropped that final petal

a whole garden of words

ascends with your last breath

 

Voices for Whom All Is Dark

 

A voice blue over wind, over wave,

high as a moon-slice in the sky, a holy fool

weeps bitter tears for the poor, the starving,

deplores the longevity of items we covet

long past their usefulness, wraps himself

in a page from the book of the future.

 

A voice high and kind, heart

and mind bathed in ice fog,

she walks with shopping bags all day

in long black skirt and tights, wool coat,

felt hat, all in black down to her gait,

ponderous as blackstrap molasses.

 

Thwarted at every turn, they hear

no answers in the darkness.

 

June Blues

 

June erupts, too much, too soon,

shoves Spring off the train

like the conductor evicting the passenger

who didn’t listen when he yelled,

“If you are caught smoking on this train,

the next stop will be your last stop!”

 

Overgrown bushes and weeds appear

out of nowhere, an over-eager horn section

busting out all over before anyone

has time to make a plan for the show,

but Spring had dawdled along for the ride

and June just wants to get going

with all summer’s colours and lush harmonies.

 

Give me less drama—just a slow accelerando

through several shades of cool green,

pink and mauve, a bit of eye-popping white,

to the deep sunset tones of marigolds and nasturtiums.

 

Wanting Times of Anticipation

 

When six percussion players

walk onstage and stand

behind the orchestra.

 

When you listen to a piece

with so many horns you feel

like you have June bugs in your pants.

 

When you wait for that single ting

of tiny brass cymbals

during a lull in the clamour.

 

When you let your mind add the music

left out when the needle

passes over each groove on an LP.

 

When you slip into and away from each note

with fine-tuned style

and comb out the lullaby seeds.

 

Note: Composer Richard Strauss’s father told him his music had too many horns and made him feel like he had June bugs in his pants.

 

Tag Team

 

ENVY and CAILS

ERON and REMOS

tags on the wall

graffiti today

on a hot summer day

grab your best buddy

drive up in the van

unload the gear

scatter spray paint cans

across the grass

do a test patch of buff

your new pocket can

paint a background of red

or silver or blue

how ’bout a tribute

to Mother’s Day too

pickles and tentacles

ghosts and some teeth

never out of ideas

just give us some space 

 

Meg Freer was woken up one night in 2015 when text that looked like a poem flashed in front of her eyes, even though she had never written poetry and didn’t want to. Since then, poems have arrived less aggressively, sometimes like musical phrases, but still with a strong visual component. Her photos, poems and prose have been published in various North American journals. Meg grew up in Missoula, Montana and went to school in Minnesota and New Jersey, where she later worked in book publishing. She now teaches piano in Ontario and enjoys the outdoors year-round.