Waves by Kris Demeanor
This is the first piece written by Kris Demeanor as Calgary Poet Laureate. Presented in City Hall Chambers on March 19, 2012.
My mother always claimed the safest, slowest through lane comically early
Gladly hindering progress to forego the uncertainties of merging
My Dad preferred the rapids to the steady stream
Relied upon the abiding whims of strangers in half ton propulsions to let him in
And time and time again, they let him in
And whenever he angled and squeezed
When signal lights and politeness collided
The still hand, fingers splayed
A goalkeeper after pleading the penalty kicker to wait saying okay I’m ready
Or the two fingered hinge, the airforce pilot’s economical salute
Or, when he really pushed it, and nearly clapped the shoulder, his family braced against the seat backs and dashboard, preparing for impact, wailing Jesus, Dad!
Still the less reckless commuter moved over
And the gratitude then was the full arm sweep that said – I fully acknowledge your sacrifice and need you to know it!
Time and time again, his encapsulated brethren
Let him in – and he let them in
You don’t see this in Berlin, or Copenhagen
Maybe Edmonton
Hunger for connection
Here is as a close a dose of humanity as the daily crush allows
Or perhaps merely thirsty for basic courtesy
Through 57 years of change this courtesy remained
At 16, he wandered Crescent Heights with a hammer hoping for work on a construction site
And now Dad has handed me that inert old shotgun from the basement shelf and pissed off to a place of moss and free range egg stands and quaint cafes
And waves
And his abstract landscape, the split horizon of yellowed chaff and muted blue with a solitary barn
Is on the wall, a raised hand in the rearview
A distant thank you for making room while snaking home from Forest Lawn
Making space for four of us to wonder, and sprint, and learn, and curse, and gorge on Chinese food
And drive to and from the homes we knew that blazed with life and now silently absorb the strains of strange goodbyes
Like drivers spending collective months of their lives inside
When trapped by the indifference of circumstance
We don’t know why we do
We don’t have to
But because it feels right
We reach out
And break through
(first poem written by as poet laureate by Kris Demeanor)