By: Norman Guertin
Northern winds infusing the RKT 20 Hardcore Canadian.
Stealthy air, worming through the headgear like an outlet fan.
Vent holes at the helmet crown covering this noggin.
Air currents directed to its various shell channels and in.
Whisked airflows; adorned circulation over this and that.
Noddle, hair, chin bars, visors—exhaust.
A human head expending heat; core temperature, at stake.
A pressure cooker sporting a temperature exit; a rider crossing a lake.
Vents solving it for avid participants aiming for a cool down.
No sweat; none wanted—wrinkled foreheads about to frown.
Sliders over vent holes meddling airflow amidst features.
Ears, eyes, brows, nose; and cheeks, lips, lashes, hair—skin.
Helmet failings, too, allow for entry and exit—gaps, cracks, and holes.
Stale air otherwise free to mix; escapes the bulky headgear—goes!
Perpetual atmospheric flows; a heartfelt state of mind for this rider.
Brushing transfers have one speculate—too deeply for most sledders.
Gentle airflows touch me; it is you, big brother—isn’t it? I know it is!
I cannot be fooled; not to the umpteenth degree—not even by you, bro!
Stealthily, you flow by; through me, around me—within me!
I see your body; feel your presence—sense it with glee.
Your breath, fresh and cool, has this chilled backbone quivering.
Your attendance; super obvious—companion in snowmobiling.
You are me; and I, you—fruit, from a same genealogical lineage.
Seems we are together for the long run; I most certainly hope so.
Dire risks of contemplation; moments of serenity—pure bliss.
Without suitable inspection, toying with consequence, I plunge amiss.
Wading in such desire; near peril—nirvana, if you will. Yet, I am so alive!
I nearly join you; encounter your maker—the analogy, rather retroactive.
How easily one’s spirit becomes that great big ghost during such runs.
Caution to all! The union of the latter, with body—deeply intellectual.
Treacherous reflection of sorts—haunt of all haunts.
We lay blame; accuse—deflect the aforesaid living revenants.
I’m in you; you’re in me—'Peter Frampton Comes Alive!’ Remember?
Do you recall those uttered words, Ray—slurred like true tipplers?
We both knew each other well; indeed, we still do—inside out!
Right here, interiorly—a left fingering the belly, the right, this heart.
You replied, Mister Ray—fabulous member in humanities.
Come! Join us; hang out! —and please, shoot the breeze.
Four o’clock; our sixteenth-hour adjournment—a daily refrain.
Happy hour! Food, drink, camaraderie—frequently on the brain.
Here in spirit, brother; inside this poet, you are—throughout me!
This friendly affair; it is far from over—not by a long shot!
Share your entertaining ways during our upcoming Algoma stint.
Nephews, offspring; myself included—all yours to reacquaint.
Tell us your stories; intensity and embellishment, to boot! —lay it on.
Distort. Stretch! Give it your best, big brother—CAMERA, ACTION!
Sew us in stitches; inflate beyond beyond—hilarity, the order of the day!
For this quintet, Sir Entertainer. Pile it on thick; for us—for us five! Honesty, respect, and admiration; esteemed forthrightness.
You are loved, man! —held in high regard, Your Highness.
Your added décor to stories told; fun, hilarious, original—creative!
The pleasure is ours; receptors of your words, Rhéal-André—high five!
The unique narrator, you are; there is but one—you, Mister Ray!
You, exceptional member of humankind—teller of all tale tellers.
Come! Touch me with that wonderful freshness coming my way.
Those northern boreal air currents sifting by this noddle, as we sway!
A left, and then a right, as we negotiate a network of groomed trails.
All that ever-moving air; each iota—astounding memories, without fail!
Is there not a countless number of them amidst the gathered stock?
Delightful recollections upon which your family clings, eternally.
Cool whooshing air amidst my facial features—zipping in great flecks.
It is you touching me; you, watering up the eyes of this emotional wreck!
What a breath of fresh air, you are, riding partner—undeniably very cool!
Seeing you, I can all but do; your cherished stare—glaring like a fool.
A printed giclée, unlimited edition; admirable—not a silly concept!
Not at all, Mister Remarkable; Mister Special—Mister One-And-Only. Start up your engine, pal; make ’er sing—just like a tuning fork!
Up those Algoma trails; give it that all-special acoustic torque!
Helmet outlets kept wide opened; communication lines, ultra clear.
For you, great companion; yawning barn doors vent—apertures endear.
Within this gentle gaseous flow, I breathe with ease in the hat I wear.
A sense for passion; your feel for zeal, good brother—time to hit the trails!
Oust the cadmium red from that old peeling green asphalted building.
Get ’er out of there, the beauty 2016; time to go play—get cracking!
Let loose; you are quite able; after all, for what else, could we shoot?
Beautiful sled; a thousand cubic centimeter engine—four-stroke, to boot!
Come, brother! Let us make tracks; that is the gist of my reasoning!
Does a spirit even weigh one feather? —then, Ray, come and play?
IN HONOUR OF, AND DEDICATED TO MY BROTHER, RHÉAL-ANDRÉ GUERTIN
Non-fiction