Winter Idyll

 

Light snow flurries spiral gently to the

forest floor long since hidden under a

snowpack from many earlier snowfalls

adding its loft and bright crystalline

beauty to the landscape. This an urban

forest accessed by a widespread community

prepared to delve into the ravine that holds

it in perpetuity for the animals and birds

that thrive within its generous acreage

and the people who live within distance

of access to this natural treasure they all

share. It is where a small proportion of

the population finds itself in search of

nature and tranquility and the opportunity

to feel free and unhampered by the calls

of urban life where it is incumbent upon

them to be pressed for time and distance

oppressing the soul searching for meaning

in their lives. Here they wander among the

trees, along a waterway, clamber the hills

descend the valleys aerating their lungs 

and freeing their limbs to recall of youth

and meet distant neighbours valuing and

searching for solace from the distractions

of their lives. It is where their beloved pets

run free themselves to commune with their

own replenishing their shared optimism in

the existence of the nature of all things.

 

 

Forest Fauna

 

You've noticed, haven't you that in

the summer months the forest holds its

secrets tight, reveals none of the drama

inherent in its habitat for those creatures

who relentlessly hunt as carnivores and

those destined to be their prey themselves

content with browsing, whether on land

in the air or in the waterways coursing

through the forest precincts. The skills

it takes to note the presence of clues

like scattered feathers, an owl's discarded

pellet, the partial pelt of a small furred

animal to interpret the life-and-death

theatre of existence in the forest are not

those of an oblivious visitor. During the

winter months when the forest floor is

steeped deep in snow the threat to life

and limb of small creatures deterred in

their desperate flight from violent carnage

wreaked upon them by fleet-footed

omnivores can be read and deciphered

with far more ease; delicate versus robust

paw prints, the final frantic effort of 

outspread wings leaving their impression

then flown off with up and away, the

tell-tale bright red splotch on pristine white

all relate the silent messages of forest fauna.

 

 

What If?

 

What if -- all you profound and earnest

searchers for that ineffable spark of

evasive knowledge -- the purpose of life is

quite simply existence. Know this: the

Universe owes you no explanation nor

explication. Travel the length of your

journey prepared to discover your own

responses to all you see, feel and will

experience for that response is yourself

alone, we all are unique in our perceptions

and what one person finds insufferable

another will find of interest in surmounting

difficulties to prepare for their place in

the world. Prepare to acknowledge those

moments of pleasure and satisfaction just

as much as those times of bleak suffering.

Never fail to find comfort in your own

sense of being and share it with those you

love instead of seeking counselling and

failing to acknowledge your endowment

of critical cerebral and emotional balance.

 

Take Notice, Ye Cynics

 

The Alpha Pack has convened yet again.

Among the twenty scoundrels in attendance

along with their unctuous on-side cronies

with the collective potential to exercise 

unlimited power to challenge that of our 

creator who can summon earthquakes

volcanoes, tornadoes,  floods and fire to

remind we cowering creatures who it is

invested in command of cowering billions.

There they are in the splendid array of

their feted accomplishments; a litany of

failure by a gathering of egotists whose

self-regard is resolute and impregnable

to criticism for those that do are bereft

of influence, incapable of gathering to

themselves and their cause the tumult

of revolt. The crass and the avaricious

find it expedient to their ends to cling

fast to such leaders while the righteous

and the courageous call all to notice.

Dissatisfaction in governance however 

fails to move the principled intelligent

to the office rank and repugnant with

humiliation. Even for the people by the

people spectacularly failed, leading to 

the hubris-endowed and their ambitions

those least bothered by conscience to

rule, dissemble and assemble in triumph.

 

There Is This

 

Speak the language of nature

and you will have an audience.

If words fail, do not despair

that poetry can not emerge for

nature is the foremost expounder

of poetic images whose presentation

transports in an ecstasy of visions

The poetry of a sunset, of new

fallen snow, of a child's smile

a bird's song, a blooming rose

and an ancient tree stretching

its arms up to the sky extolling

the perfection of its creator.

 

 

Geography

 

You see, you read, you hear and you

experience then you synthesize and the

result is your very own lesson on the

intersection of history and geography

at any given time leaving you with

the realization of so many histories

and so many geographies and you know

the repetitious nature of it all and you

sigh, or you fail to and instead shrug.

You see an infant held in its mother's

arms, an adorable child with large and

luminous eyes into which can be read

its future in years of adapting to being

and thriving and becoming, its destiny

assured. You see an infant held in its

mother's anxious arms, the child with

large, vacant eyes in which there is no

future for it has already lived its destiny.

That child has reached what will become

of it in reflection of where it was born

and what it has too soon suffered.

 

That Elusive Fountain

 

Appearances certainly can be deceiving

but despite their faded appearance and

joyless expressions those gathered in

this place have a love affair with life

and they are determined against all odds

to cheat the unctuous solicitations of

the Grim Reaper. They may have lost

possession of many of their faculties

but the urge to survive remains constant

alert and defiant. Throughout the course

of the day they stream, one by one, in

pairs, ambulatory or pushing walkers

alternately being themselves pushed in

wheelchairs, all sharing that one ambition.

Some are new to this unit where the

lighting is maintained in a soothing dim

constancy and many are returnees; the

former for pre-surgical assessment, the

latter returning after open heart surgery

for routine checks. There the survivors

of long lives congregate in their white

wisdom studiously ignoring the presence

of counterparts yet occasionally leaning

forward to enquire of personal experience

as in recovery details by the anxious

willing to break the unspoken conspiracy

of courage in silent aloof indifference.

 

Wondering

 

I wonder why it is that the most frequent

dream that visits my sleeping hours that

I identify as a recurrent nightmare has

always been of myself at different stages

of my life wandering a busy street

looking, looking for familiar signposts

that would lead me home wherever that

home at any given time happened to be.

My subconscious mind busy while I

sleep dredging up concerns not known

to me during waking hours; am I then so

emotionally vulnerable? I think about our

two little twin poodles, brother and sister

who we know have thoughts and memories

and can discern far more than we credit

them with in their emotional attachment

to us. Their sensitivity to our emotional

fluctuations must come from somewhere?

Their language skills and capacity to

decipher body language, their willingness

to communicate to us their own body

language speaks to a deep need of their

very own. So I wonder when they sleep

do they too dream and wander about an

unfamiliar landscape in search of their

own vague recollections of dependency

on their mother, recalling no doubt her

deeply protective instincts, now absent.

 

 

Fortune

 

Oh the places I've been to, the landscapes

I've seen, touched and that have touched

me throughout my long and fortunate

life. Standing on mountain summits and

looking out over the countless peaks

marching into infinity, ambling about in

an old-growth forest, the masts of ancient

trees rising as of nature's cathedral ...

paddling lakes and rivers alongside loons

and great blue herons, cooking meals

over a campfire, watching the embers

drift skyward to join the multitude of stars

winking back from the deep velvet of

the sky. Living among people in far-off

countries of a heritage, culture and language

not my own. I could write of my adventures

and I have, just as have countless others

whose escapades allow me to see, hear

and feel what they experienced and through

them have been to Easter Island, Alaska

Antarctica, the Himalaya and Africa.

What more could anyone ever desire as

long, my love as you have been with me?

 

Winter Garden

 

There, in my tender mind's eye our

summer garden still thrives in grand

colourful insouciance, a vivid reminder

of loss in a winter landscape whose

confined colour palette wearies my

consciousness that reverts to dreaming

of summer breezes, a searing sun

casting brilliance over the banished

splendour that roses and lilies awaken

my grieved sensibilities to mourn.

And does nature care that we are so

deprived of the joy of summer gardens?

She remains removed and singularly

unimpressed. This is, after all, her

world and we its tenants. These are

her seasons and she has her reasons.

Our gardens are her gardens in very

fact, on loan in the most temporary of

ways. Yet empathy does not completely

elude her. She nudges us to notice and

regard her very own unrivalled winter

garden, there for our visual comfort.

 

 

Winter Walk

 

The early morning sun illuminated

the house this morning in contrast

to the days when grey gloom

pervaded the atmosphere within

and without. Clear blue winter skies

come with a pricetag bringing icy

temperatures in lieu of snow and 

so cold that blustery winds wreak

havoc on warm-blooded creatures

huddling in their shelters. In the

forest among the trees where snow

yet remains on trunks and branches

and the forest floor is steeped in ice

all is still, no birds sing or flit about

much less the furry denizens last seen

frantically in search of denning-up

victuals to over-winter. Tramping

through the forest trails with their

winter-entrancing landscapes we

briefly savour the sharp air tingling

our nostrils, pinching our cheeks

as we watch the antics of our little

dogs clad as we are in winter gear

seemingly impervious to discomfort

entranced by the atmosphere, at one

with the forces that shape our world.

 

 

The River Remembers

 

The historic river where the raucous

shouts of coureur des bois once rang

loud as they encountered riotous rapids

runs deep and wide. It is a river where

great fighting sturgeon and carp can still

be found, ancient fish too skilled at

evading those whose hunger for fame

in the world of fisherfolk reeks of

urban legends.  Great pine forests once

bordered the shores of that wild river

harvesters sending the felled giants

on their journey downriver, the river

bottom deep in their shed bark leavings.

Now it is small pleasure craft that ply

those waters, their white sails shining

in the sun. At this winter season though

nearby residents await the freezing up

of the river for fishing huts to spring

into presence, hopes of catching one of

the legends still uppermost in mind. On

this early winter day, a weather anomaly

crests over the river; above, the sun 

gleams through the clouds while snow falls

in a squall that obliterates sight lines as

an ice fog wraps the river in recollection.

 

 

You Are A Jew

 

You remember with great clarity when

as a child you were cursed as Christ-killer.

You are a Jew. You recall those persistent

queries by strangers to have you state

where you were really from when you

responded Canada. You are a Jew. It is

never far from your mind in childhood

watching your parents and their friends

gathering quietly, whispering to one

another words that meant little to you

but which memory dredges up, words

such as work camps, concentration camps

and death camps. You are a Jew. When

you became old enough you read about

the Inquisition, Pogroms, the Final Solution

and quivered in helpless rage. You are a

Jew. Because you are a Jew you developed

a sixth sense, knowing and fearing and

yet hoping. Because you are a Jew when

you hear certain phrases they stab your

soul. Now other generations experience

what you did and as they do your own

simply continue as Jew-hatred consumes

the minds of psychopaths everywhere on

this Earth. You shudder when you read

and you hear and you see repetitions of

the familiar. You see, you are a Jew.

 

 

Marathon Man

 

How to sketch the physiognomy of

the man friends and acquaintances know

as a triathlete for whom no physical

challenge has ever been a daunting prospect

and who even now has the demeanor and

physique of an athlete bursting with an

abundance of nervous and physical 

energy his wife laughs of in despair

for she lives with the agonizing pain

and suffering while we only see glimpses

of it now and again wondering how it can

be sustained and how it is possible that a

man with such physical resources and

enduring stamina has been left reeling

in the wake of sequential failures of

body parts requiring surgical interventions

therapies, patience and brief intermissions

when relief signals him to address those

beckoning hurdles to break more records

even as his body breaks, a body worn by

a man whose police rapid-response work

failed to satisfy his urges exposing him to

recurring danger, pursuing prowess in

setting standards and outdistancing them.

He is stoic, this man, in his suffering, taking

comfort from the concerns expressed by

friends wishing him a swift recovery from

the latest of so many surgeries destined to

restore his failing body for yet another and

another glorious exertion extraordinaire.

 

It Becomes You

Surely there can be little doubt that though

it is formally cast as a noble reminder 

nudging the holder to commit to its standards

a conscience can seem extremely annoying

for those who view it as totally expendable.

On the other hand, in close communion with

one's subconscious, the two work in tandem

requiring little introspection resulting in 

reaction and action and in this manner

expresses the deepest core values that a

human being can attain to. Think of it:

conscience challenges us to think of the

welfare of others. That constant in our lives 

steers us unerringly toward behaviour we

have no reason to feel derelict in. No reason 

to feel much of anything in fact since 

however we are guided by that prod 

thought is redundant in favour of simply 

responding as we know we should and 

will, and get on with our lives. The conscience 

asserts its presence as a reminder to our alert

consciousness when we become aware

of events, agencies and personalities

absent conscience leaving in their wake

a moral wasteland and we are reminded

time and again of the vicissitudes of

human nature and the boundless exchanges

that identify us as immune to the stirrings

of a latent conscience finding favour in the 

more pedestrian exercise of its guidance.

 

 

 

Humbug: Hallowed Hollow Esteem

 

No mere commodity to be devalued

by any, social capital is an integral

part of our public persona as much as

it is an instrument of personal pride and

self-assurance. Once the display of

personality was the precinct of the wealthy

the socially connected, the powerful and

the celebrity class attracting attention

admiration and awe for having risen

from among the pedestrian clay for

inheritance, charisma, political clout

and power bestows on its holders an

aura of greatness difficult to define

since it is but an aura and nothing more.

Ah, the bewilderment of those in the

greater aggregate interpreting aura as

entitled admiration yearning for their

own place in the warming sun of public

acclaim. Enter the magic of the Internet

and all that was rare has become common

aspirational and open to all. Simply

synthesize the attributes of stardom

and claim them for one's own. Readily

accomplished in the fantasy world of

social media where frankly casual

admissions of superiority are channelled

eliciting attention and approval and 

lo and behold another star is born

shining high on the firmament of ego.

 

 

Restraint

 

You like this woman, much younger

than yourself, for her bright intelligence.

You think she feels the same about you.

When you meet an exchange of warm

greetings, where a hug seem appropriate.

She is married, her husband as close to

uxorious without being nauseating, two

very nice people. When you speak so

animatedly there is always much to discuss

usually matters pertaining to local and

world news as lively discussions ensue.

It can be a refreshing experience those

spontaneous conversations, each adding

somewhat to the information gathered by

the other. She is scrupulous with her

distinctive appearance; willowy is the

word, with an eye to style. So when she

wears a close-fitting shapely winter coat

the eye follows and the thought lingers

can she be warm enough, albeit unspoken.

You recall your annoyance when your

mother would observe of your middle-aged

figure that in her opinion you looked gaunt.

The deep vertical creases in your friend's

once smooth face mirror the pains she takes

in her diet, the cheeks drawn, eyes now

hollow, the smile as bright as ever, the

contrast unnerving. You grope for words

and swallow them, instead committing 

to commenting how 'delicate' she looks.

And when she turns her face askew to

ask whether that's a compliment, you

smile right back and say, yes, of course.

 

Lauding Terror

 

In brief, what are the verities but a

movable feast viewed through the lens

of faith and ideology, the merest mist

of wavering the signature of the

uncommitted those who move

effortlessly between love and hate

and in their subconscious hate is

inextricably linked with faith when its

raison d'etre extolls the extermination

of those whose differentiated verity

fails to align and the veneer of civilization

slips, revealing the savagery of morbid

hostility rewarding the deaths of

innocents with promises of glory

where the exploits of slaughter are

feted and the death-deliverers become

celebrated, renowned role models

in an ancient ritual that speaks to

the hordes as a hallowed obligation.

 

 

'Tis Life, My Friend

 

Sad to say my friend your choice

while still young and full of optimism

has come back in your old age to sting

you with the reality that was waiting

in the wings yet coyly masquerading

as love when all it represented was the

opportunity of escape. You, on the other

hand, are at a point in life to which

there is no escape and you yourself

engineered the landscape that has shaped

the present in an disagreeable tableau

that would never have occurred to you

back at a time when you felt so eagerly

flattered by the amorous attention of a

nubile young woman anxious to escape

the smothering lack of promise that

her rural background represented while

you were the urbane, sophisticated and

unhappily married older salesman 

unable to resist a future with a young

and pretty woman whom you could shape

to your own devices only to discover

environment had already shaped her

and you are now left alone, lonely and

elderly inhabiting a 'retirement home'

while she, still young, occupies the

family home, has the vehicle and enjoys

countless trips to exotic destinations.

 

Mythic Realities

 

Lilith was too sensuously demanding

and Adam was too fearful of her

urgency. He regarded Eve with her

bashful nubile hesitation obedient to

his demands and all was well. Lilith

went her way establishing her own

dynasty of women regarding themselves

superior to the weak vacillation of men

taken aback by the impudence of women

of impulse and confidence, complacent

in the thought that Eve would remain

forever compliant until the day she

challenged and offered Adam opportunity

to view existence outside the familiar

to explore and satisfy his curiosity

not knowing he had none and would

not take the apple she had nibbled to

infuriate the tree's lawful owner who

ordered them expelled. Eve's stark 

disobedience did not fall far from the

tree that Lilith had long since abandoned

to forge her way in the world against

the condemnation born of suspicion and

fear borne of men toward women.

 

Doubly Wronged

After the war, thousands of Jewish children ended up in orphanages all over Europe as a result of the Holocaust. The toddlers in this children's home in Etterbeek, Belgium, survived in hiding, but their parents had been deported to Auschwitz.  US Holocaust Memorial Museum

The night of broken glass was the

opening salvo in a monstrous solution

that dispelled disbelief, the occasion

when the dire message signed, sealed

and delivered gave warning and nudged

the conscience of the world to grudgingly

permit the transport of children from

Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia

Poland shipped off to Britain then to

Israel, Australia, Canada, the United

States for haven from certain death at

the very time when doors were being

slammed in the face of Jews desperate

to escape what became the inevitable.

The passage of a lifetime where young

memories lingered on the faces of parents

their voices, their assurances, their

absolute absence from existence yet

haunting those children surviving the

curse of the Holocaust. But wait, on the

cusp of death themselves now their

lifespan ebbing they are assured the

reparations that a different Germany now

proffers, diligent post-war in rescuing

the nation from its atrocious place in

history to make amends. Cash awards

an apology yet nothing can restore lives

stolen and memories laden with sorrow.

The official view that bestowing cash

compensates the vacuum in bereaved

children's lives as brutal as the original

campaign to destroy all Jewish life.