 Meet Peter Gilchrist, Canadian poet and canoeist... he captures the rhythm of the land and the spirit of the people -- molding his poetry with a style and vigor that delights the mind and tugs at the heart. Peter's Cowboy Poetry Magic There's magic in the air tonight. It whispers through the birch and swirls around our moonlit camp like prayers inside a church. My daughter's curled beside the fire exhausted but content. A canopy of woodland sounds creates a perfect tent. My son is sprawled across a rock, his face towards the sky. Galactic possibilities absorb his focused eye. At times like this I'm confident that God created streams as conduits for happiness and music for my dreams. © Copyright Peter Gilchrist A Simple Act "To breathe", a verb that means "to draw in breath", extracting life-sustaining oxygen in rhythmic repetition, stalling death, deferring life's conclusion once again. A simple act, this breathing, it would seem but somehow lungs dissect the air, extract essential bits and formulate a stream of nutrients that make one's life a fact. What physiology describes, we feel. The freshness of a morning mist inhaled rejuvenates a weary throat. We peel away the stress with every breath exhaled. I live in spite of love, for every day your eyes entice my breath to steal away. © Copyright Peter Gilchrist Splintered His tires had spewed the gravel once again. The dust refused to settle. Splintered light refracted through the shattered window pane and disappeared as day resolved to night. She sat, for hours it seemed, a shadow bent across the only kitchen chair that still remained. Her shoulders drooped in mute, resigned lament, a silhouette that blurred as evening waned. The boy was still, afraid to make a sound. He huddled in the corner by the door and watched her as she slowly turned around and searched for where he cowered on the floor. She stood, and all the shadows fell away. "Just you and me. We're going to be okay." © Copyright Peter Gilchrist Your Craft I eddy out to watch you read your line. A sideslip left to miss the rocks below. Your power and the river's rush combine to thrust your sleek canoe into the flow. The morning sun is gold upon the yoke as fingers lightly play on paddle shaft. The water curls around your subtle stroke. It's pure delight to watch you ply your craft. A sparkle springs so lightly from your blade. I never see you pause or hesitate. You dance across the troughs the waves have made and fly the crests that they accentuate. Don't envy me for lines you have not penned. Your paddle speaks pure poetry my friend. © Copyright Peter Gilchrist April 2003 Gold Medal winner at the Net Poetry and Arts Competition. Totem The totem of his camp rose from the sand. The poles were gathered in and neatly placed. The rounded stones were set by human hand and on their sides the fire's warmth was traced. What hunter passed this way before we came? What wrinkles lined the corner of his eye? Who lay beneath this barren teepee frame? What dreams unraveled underneath this sky? Our paddles ply the same meandered course, compelled by something he would understand; a gentle but insistent guiding force that sighs its pleasure softly through this land. In solitude he rested in this place. I know this man. I just don't know his face. © Copyright Peter Gilchrist March 2003 Honorable Mention at the Net Poetry and Arts Competition |
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