Wednesday, January 12, 2011

And Now Abideth Faith, Hope and Charity


















All those humanly vital ingredients for survival
are there, in abundance, Faith, Hope, Charity.
Does the order and the singular manner of their
magnitude concern us in the dark night of despair?
Suffice that they manifest, for without those
sisters of survival, devastation, forlorn destitution
and graspingly greedy Death alone would remain.

One might assume that Dread Death had
feasted extravagantly enough as it was, consuming
a quarter million of Haiti's perennially
hopelessly indigent. But no, there he is, the
fallen angel, slavering over those newly delivered
to his bony maw by disaster-endemic choleric disease.

The millions of earthquake-displaced huddling
in makeshift hovels of canvas, plastic, paper and tin
against nighttime cold and winter rains, praise God
and fervently pray for deliverance from these
incessant tests of their simple faith. As they raise
voice in Hosannas their faith remains their hope.

They extend charity of thought toward the
outside world stricken by Haiti's pathetic presence
reflecting a people's miserable past, present and
destiny. Charity rains down heavy with morose
guilt from abroad as thousands of organized
charitable groups provide water, food, medicine.

Predators roam the squalid camps seeking out
the vulnerable; women and children. Who to keep
them safe from harm? People linger without
purpose, seeking comfort among their own, as
orphaned and lost children weep and seek
refuge and food to still their pangs of hunger.

Foreign governments pledge aid dollars that
slip effortlessly into the pockets of corrupt
officialdom. In crisply washed frilly dresses,
hair meticulously pigtailed, girls and women
join their menfolk in voodoo ritualistic ceremonies
and ruined cathedral masses where the bodies of
other faithful remain interred under the rubble.

In this ruined, bleak country the Three Graces
of timeless legend immortalized by human need
and nature's devastating deed, dance gracefully,
raising plummeting spirits. In Haiti, Faith, Hope
and Charity clasp one another with love and divine
forbearance. Well they might for what it avails.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Birthday Card



















What is the occasion, after all, but another
measure of the time we have shared, one more
year cluttering the previous seventy-three
that have expressed themselves in childhood,
youth and maturity. All seasons of our life
we stumbled upon in a symbiotic grace that
marked our lives and the years gaining in
swiftness of impetus as surely as impulse
and compulsion marked our early years.

Another feverish flurry of covert activity
in preparation for the striking hour and the
presentation received feigning glad surprise.
Gratitude does hover to the fore in view of
anxiety awaiting reception. How could I not
appreciate this creative impulse even as it leans
on an earlier culture and convention, for is not
time and longing and forlorn love timeless?
Without an end and a beginning...?

We live to love for without love where is the
value? That remains a constant, the compelling
force reflective of our lives. Our years carefully
numbered, as we are born to begin the journey
of life circumscribed yet haphazard the experience.
The love and care you render unto me as a
manuscript embellished with twining floral
displays, illuminated characters of a heart-torn
verse by Khalil Ghibran sorrowing of time's
passage and love's lost grandeur, itself timeless.

We are given, in our age, to gentle observations
and all-too-wry introspection. A touch of gladness,
a dollop of sadness. We cannot but recapture the
merest hint of the memory of the carelessness of
youth, the notionality of time everlasting. Our
minds, in youth, cannot grasp the reality of what is
transitory and finite. Like the ageless poet, reality
remains the purview of the elderly where regret
has no place in fondly detailed reminiscence.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Have a Care, Do...


















We're giddy with excitement reminiscent of
childhood, embarking on a little adventure,
a divergence from the ordinary, courting
danger, yet convinced we are invulnerable
to harm, capable of skilled manoeuvres
to keep us safe from misadventure.

This is the new year we have embarked upon.
An auspicious start, with mild temperatures
unaccountably replacing the norm of an icy
January. Sufficiently mild to bring rain,
not snow; fog and icy mist rising on the
landscape, melting the winter-accumulated
snow and ice sending streams and rivers
running unseasonably early.

To the wooded ravine we are determined to
hie ourselves where the slopes and the trails
have been glaciered in gleaming ice, challenging
sturdy balance in a series of slips and slides
as we grasp at tree trunks to steady our
too-imminent descent and interrupt our
hurdling, sweeping-swift passage, adrenalin
rushing and laughter gushing as we call to one
another to exert caution and have a care.

But that's just the thing of it, for it seems
we haven't a care. As though forgotten now the
years that have swifted to bring us from carefree
childhood to carefree dotage. That assured
confidence of the young and heedless now
settled upon us as a tenuous late-life gift to
make of it what we will, tempting and twisting
our elderly noses mischievously at chance
which leniently overlooks our rash enjoyment
politely taking no toll this time around.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Living Recklessly

What is this world coming to?
We've become awkward and hapless
in our long-familiar environments
suddenly quirky, demented beyond
meticulous meteorological record
keeping and aboriginal recall.

The reliable, familiar and long
accustomed climate we have so
carefully adapted toward has turned
in against itself and our expectations
like Nature pouting that she has been
for far too long taken for granted. A
bruise to her dignity and imperial majesty
she will no longer countenance.

So, mortals, live in fear and suspense and
countenance this, if you can: massive
snow squalls without end, ferociously-driven
winds driving monsoon rains and widespread
flooding or snow banked as high as a
highway overpasses; icy terrain and great
tidal bores uplifting the restless seas.

Opaque fogs obliterating sight lines.
All human efforts to cope destined to fail,
the skies and the land and the seas suddenly
owned once again by the elements, absent
human-contrived conveyances as trains,
planes and ships are mute and humbled.

Mass migrations of people and animals
fleeing inundating floods submerging
bridges, highways, homes and hope.
Earth-shuddering quakes, arousing
tsunamis, and volcanic eruptions sending
rivers of molten mineral and dense, dank
curtains of ash to obscure the sun and the
wide, blue sky. Treacherous landscapes
where once benign, arable fields lay.

The uncertainty of surprise and survival
stalks the land as nations strive to cope
with disastrous by-products of Nature's
pique expressed in unimaginable levels of
geologic, climatic and geographical extremes
we struggle to surmount, as ineffectual
bystanders complicit in our own undoing
as though fate would so have it.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Blue-Black-On-White


















The great vault of this winter sky
shimmers a bright virginal white
instructing and reflecting the
monochromatic landscape below.
The dark pillars of the forest trees
hold up the indistinguishable horizon,
lightness meeting lightness, bearing no
impossible burden like legendary Atlas.

That white vault releases its frozen
burden, swirling atmosphere-dappling
snowflakes absorbing sound, tenderly
blanketing the icebound ground.
The prevailing silence in the grip of
winter's relentlessly frigid presence
elevates the landscape's pristine
beauty to the ultimate genius of
nature's existential design.

Errant wind bursts flick soft snow
clumps from snow-heavy branches.
Birds stir and nestle deeper within
the cold-muffling comfort of enveloping
snow. Foraging animal tracks dimple
and elaborately embroider the
ground's smoothly iridescent covering.

A single crow rises effortlessly on the
grace of the wind's conveyance, alights
on the spire of an ancient pine, its pinions
so dark against the prevailing white they
glow a sheen of darkly bright blue. It sits
there, master of all it surveys, cawing
derisively at the quadrupedal gait of creatures
whom nature disdained to gift with flight.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Redpolls In The Cedars


















The wind has whipped itself into a
frenzied fury, swirling ice crystals
into a stinging veil, creasing our
flesh-bared faces, creating a rosy
cheeked visage on each of us
plodding the fresh-fallen mantle
cresting the forested trails.

The great bowl of the sky is heavily
overcast, yet brilliantly lit, a vision
of whipped cream, a delicious stainless
steel bowl of dairy-pure, silver-edged
clouds. Not a bird to be seen nor heard.
Only the sound of the wind chugging
through the wavering tree tops,
clacking their frozen leaf-bare masts.

There is ice lathered thickly below
this fresh layer of snow, revealed as we
slither and slip down frozen slopes and
creek-side embankments. The luminous,
silver-white sky is briefly transformed
as a soft-gold disk is revealed, then retreats.

Snow-laden spruce branches swing
under the urgent thrust of the insistent
wind, sending a spray of sun-kissed flakes
below. Snow descends on the landscape
in lazy puffs and swirls, touching everything
in a fantasy-display of winter beauty. There!
gentle sounds of redpolls in the cedars.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Flame Out

Eeough! Glad I decided not to go out
with you! I mean, like, those pants are
really green, aren't they? And the jacket,
bright yellow! They hurt my eyes, said the
fourteen-year-old, diagnosing a truly
repugnant wardrobe choice her errant
grandmother has blithely indulged.

Nice and warm, and that's practical
for a winter-day walk in the woods, comes
the defensive response. A half-indulgent,
half pitying grimace the result. What,
after all, can the young and the sight-sensitive
expect from the aesthetic of jaded,
sartorial-insensitive elderly. They are,
after all, elderly; given to unfortunate
taste lapses. But love forgives all
transgressions.

How many years? Oops, forget the candles,
just choose one big one, the child recommends.
And a cake. Like this one? How about this one?
Chocolate or strawberry, and nice icing designs.
Yum! Grandmothers bake actual cakes.
Granddaughters indulge in the production
of virtual cakes, courtesy of electronic
devices and their uncannily clever apps.

She flicks her adorably pudgy little finger
across the motion-sensitive screen and
voila! The large pillar candle inscribed with
the numerals (!gasp! 74) is aflame, and so
brightly burns those years. Here, grandma,
blow here and pouf - flame out...