How Personal It Is

He spoke with the subdued
passion of loss, this genial man
whose former robust presence
had been as a formidably friendly
hovering presence, those rare
occasions when mutual interests
intersected between a German and
a Jew. Now, he looks spectral,
inverted within himself, his smile
wan as he recounted his
92-year-old mother's death vigil.
Expected, he sighs, and so glad
he is now that he took both his
now-departed parents to visit
places, while he could, they would
otherwise never see, from nearby
Austria to far-off Canada. A good 
and loving son, and the listener's 
heart could not but heave for him. 
He spoke wryly of his mother's 
feeble but still commanding 
manipulations compelling him to 
do what he would prefer not. 
Not a dozen years younger than 
his mother, I wonder idly her
role during her generation's 
best-forgotten Holocaust years.

 

The Waterfall

The radiant sun was clearly out
illuminating what remained
of the still-vibrant fall foliage
mass, yet to litter the ground
below maples and birch,
oak and poplars being divested
of their seasonal surrender
to inexorably impending winter
but look there, on the near
horizon, a steadily approaching
tsunami of watery steel-grey
purposeful and powerful
to drench this day in the
vast fishbowl of deeply
unsettled atmospheric conditions
that make short shrift of hope.

The Wildlife Enthusiast And the Gardener

The Wildlife Enthusiast
And the Gardener

They're blighted little ingrates
little doubt about that.
Ingratiating themselves so 
we have compassion for their
well-being, feeling it incumbent
upon ourselves to aid our
local wildlife to survive
harsh winter by doling out
the seeds and nuts no longer
available to their foraging habit.
So now, garden fall chores
completed with the final
planting of spring-flowering
bulbs, signs present they've
all been dug up, nibbled to death,
despite having been generously
sprinkled with hot pepper flakes,
that effort and expectation all
for naught. Scold those impish
little scoundrels? Do they care?

 

In Your Mirror

How odd it seems as
you suddenly find yourself
peering closely at those
so familiar as family, friends
neighbours, to see them
as they really are; faces
lined and grey, unkempt
hair and bloated body,
quite hugely disturbing as
you wonder what's gone 
wrong. But it is a welcome
diversion, you realize,
making note of how very
demoralizing it has become
to recognize those blights
of late, in your mirror.

Designed By Her

The consummate relic represents
a true masterpiece whose
provenance might belong to the
atelier of a famed artist
celebrated for his divine skills
as a master carver. But this gem
was carved not from wood
as Grinling Gibbons would
have fashioned it, but rather
from wood long perished and its 
delicate presence like an ancient 
Asian carving from ivory or jadeite 
is as supremely delightful as any
carved replica of nature's beauty
layered exquisitely, like the
ravishing petals of a blooming
peony. It is, however part of
nature's classical oeuvre much
predating antiquity, a matchless
primordial treasure courtesy of Her.

Kind Condolences

Planted lovingly with high
expectations in the spring,
begonias and geraniums,
marigolds and dahlias all
enjoyed their share of sun kisses
and rain blessings, tickling
their roots to delve deep within
the rich soil of the garden,
to tickle our gardener's fancy
when their luscious blooms
in petalled freshness blushed
in a rainbow of colours,
gladdening our hearts. Now,
diminished and cowering in
the frosts of autumn, they're
plucked and composted 
returned to the soil that nurtured
them, the garden bleak and
forlorn, bereaved and in
sad mourning once again.

 

Him and His

Take no mind of the cane
his heavy body leans against,
nor his careful gait,
for though his body is no
longer what once it was, 
his love of nature compels
him now as ever it did
and with his robust little
companion who between
chasing cheeky squirrels
amongst the woodland
trees stopping to raise
its keen eyes now and
again in worship of the man
who never neglects its
well-being, he forges
through the leaf-strewn trails,
recalling other times, but
never so good as these,
the years have left
to him and his.