T-Shirted Target


Icy cold outside

But seats filling

In the warm hall

Anticipation of Glory arriving.

His t-shirt read

”I love doing this…”


Pig tailed daughter at his side

Talking up a storm

She had been the reason

Eighteen months

Nasty divorce

Mom was the custodial

He was a mess

Smoke booze

Cloudy days in the rig

A woman or two.

And whipping himself.

But Pigtails prayed

Mom was wise enough

To let her

Hold out hope

And the girl had stuffed

A John’s gospel

In the Kenworth’s

Glove compartment.

Talks and drives

And hamburgers

And Dad was naming

The name of Christ

Now with respect

And wonder.

…Michael came on stage

Beat up piano

Central to a sea

Of happy lights.

”God you are my God…”

The knitted pair

Bumping elbows laughing

And clapping in communion.

Verses came easily.

Almost as if the other

Four thousand

Were not even there.

Just the One.




I recently acquired a poetry book by Waterloo writer Rienzi Crusz. The title How to Dance in this Rarefied Air copyright 2017. What I didn’t know was that Rienzi had died this past September. He was 92. I was privileged to chat with him a couple of times at the grocery store where I worked part time for years.

My interest initially was tugged by his book Gamboling With the Divine. Ah yes a poet of spiritual things, as well as observations from a native of Sri Lanka moved to snowy Waterloo Region. I loved his stuff and I told him so.

In the recent book there were many entries explaining how he got into poetry, what he loved about its endless topics, sounds, forms and provocative word choices; how he never fully got to the destination but was tickled in the journey. The foreward was written with great insight by a friend who taught at University of Toronto.

I remember Mr. Crusz telling me to use poetry to express exactly what I was moved with feeling to write at the moment. Not to worry about getting published in hard copy in Canada. That was a crap shoot at best. But rather to get it out to friends and loved ones as often as possible. And to leave a legacy of happy, holy, honourable, humble, sensual, atmospheric words and sounds.

Mr. Crusz did that and more.


Cold Spell


greyish parking lot

as day awakens

air bracing

but not too much thank you

still recalling Chapman’s song

its all yours God

yours God

everything is yours

from the stars in the sky

to depths of the ocean floor

I am His also

His creation…remodeling



and given loads of slack

hoping against hope

this crummy slush morning