Eleven Years -- for mom

Grandchildren have been born,
divorces, weddings, fires, new homes,
and jobs, wars and rumours,
faith lost and found.


No longer does the phone ring,
no longer do you bake the cakes,
or the pies  --- this morning there is a
dutch apple pie in the oven.


It is I who must welcome the stranger,
It is I who must show hospitality.
Oh, how you must love that Lora's
church is doing a "welcoming strangers" series.


It is I who now sends prayers
to the grandchildren and the children,
to the world leaders, to the people
I pass on the street.


It is I to who lives with the truth
you taught, "to whom much is given
much is required."  Life is
an opportunity for sharing.


I give thanks for  your presence,
As I peel apples,
as I read the paper,
as your eyes gaze into mine

Your death mom changed me.


gkn October  30 2018

Living White

On Saturday, we went with grandchildren
to a concert, we danced, we clapped, we sang
while others went to the synagogue
to worship and died

while I had a pedicure from a
two year old, played with a dog and his boys,
and celebrated a fifteen year old
black youth were shot dead

a new town council was elected,
I celebrated hopeful progressive, perhaps,
politics, while in Brazil a right
wing politician becomes president

we talked this morning, Jane and I
about hope and despair about change
possibilities, about lowered minimum
wages, and the loss of sick days

our refugee ancestors

history.

gkn, 2018

An Autumn Day

Through willows
weeping seed pods
wind blows

resistance.

Through leaves
red, yellow, orange
sun shines

hope.

Geese honking
overhead V's
formation

engaged.

Waves crash
white caps
surface

revelation.

Child's laughter, sly
grins, twinkling
eyes

live.

gkn October 2018