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.