Castaway

 

Who ever might have imagined

that the ancient oblate spheroid that

resulted when a vacuum containing

nothing created a cosmic explosion

casting gases and dust in a great arc to 

cool and become our home, a rock of

refuge for nature's creations where we

would thrive and mature, populating

continents, sailing its seas, discovering

and conquering, would find us now in

such peril? Who might have imagined

there to be so many islands on Planet

Earth, each of them now claimed by

every human now alive and hoping to

remain that way clings to, isolating

ourselves from one another to elude

the stalking of the silent, deadly virus

that has invaded, threatening our existence

as with each tide of increase it succeeds in

achieving habitation of another host who

in turn transmits its pathogenic guest

onward in its predatory quest to multiply

and destroy, a conquest it gains unless

prospective hosts sequester themselves 

to starve its intent and stave off death.

 

 

On Notice

There's a reason why antagonists are

portrayed to reflect the regard in which they

are  held in popular opinion. As a northern

people we absorb the lessons of intimacy

with nature welcoming the inevitable. In

that respect the seasons' arrival at nature's

designated times are accepted and celebrated.

Each of the seasons has their purpose and

becomes a welcomed presence. Only Old Man

Winter seems predisposed to overstay his

welcome. On arrival we rejoice and indulge

in a multitude of leisure pursuits geared to

advantaging the presence of cold, wind and

snow, exulting in the beauty surrounding us

and the invitation to make use of the lofty

white coverlet that puts the land to rest. The

indulgences of  winter comfort wear thin

however as time moves forward leaving us

less bewitched by cold, ice and raging winds

when the arrival of spring lifts our spirits

and we yearn for the sight of verdant fields

and forests to replace the presence of snow

grimed by age and atmosphere. Winter placed

on notice of evacuation can be a hard sell

and nothing seems to please the departing

season quite so much as lingering cold and 

snowfalls topping up the vanishing snowpack.

While winter grudgingly packs up his baggage

of ice, snarling wind and freezing temperature

he leaves a parting message: I'll be back.

 

 

 

Yesterday's Child

 

Fiddleheads in the garden

slowly unfurling

Lilies-of-the-Valley

not yet belling

the Manchu Cherry

sprinkling white confetti

on the vibrant green

of urgent grass

and swallows executing

their preying arabesque

while beyond the

sun, a pyromaniac's frantic dream

slips behind the houses.

Sitting idly on the swing

spring air filters

through the maple's

tender thrusts

as bees target straight for home

and the mesmerizing hum

of the neighbour's mower

returns growth to order.

The children

never recall other years

only living in the warmth

of the breeze

pulling stray hairs

beyond the spiralling

loops of the bicycle.

Memory of another child

yaps close behind the

flushed faces of

this spring day's children.

 

 

Voyage to Strange Latitudes

 

In the strange latitudes

of that hemisphere

animals wear shifting eyes

wind blows a hollow song

through aeolian strings

set on a razor's edge.

             There

the newborn adorn

dark furniture like a

ship captain's parlour

displaying mementos

of exotic voyages;

mewling objects d'art

             and

love is played at feelingly

coevals plucking sole eyes

doing the rounds

in comradely fashion

so all can see through

fortune's mists. 

             There

mountains blossom

bright thorn flowers

earth opens welcome

chasms for escape from

terrifying sameness.

In that country

trespasses are welcome

in boiling cauldrons

spitting primal brew

             and

heat brings saline dew

to unsuspecting brows.

 

 

Windows to the Universe

 

In the sphere of culture and heritage

of primitive provenance there is

vast irreconcilability between the

past and the present, one venerated

the other basking in blasphemy. As

when ancient civilizations viewing

the heavens recognized the abode of

the gods, sacred and obscure, hidden

from human eyes and knowledge

a veritable closed book to be worshipped

as humanity lives its humble existence

below. The great unknowable heights

of the Earth's geology shared with

the heavens all the godly sanctities

demanding obeisance and worship

as remote from human habitation one

from the other until humanity obsessed

over the existence of all that is and was

and will ever be, sending rude emissaries

to the sacred heights on missions of

conquest of noble pinnacles of granite

and having achieved those goals

using grand summits to house views

of the cosmos to unlock nature's secrets

in the process alerting the gods whom

peering humankind must not enrage.

 

 

Talking Back

 

I thought that

talking to photographs

of dear departed

was the last desperate act

of a senile mind

never realizing that

people locked away in their heads

often have nowhere else to turn.

I always dreamed about a

captive audience to receive

my unprotected thoughts

so wrote this fellow

whose poem had been so

poignant. He responded

saying I'd been the

only one to answer

the silent echo of his need

behind bars of steel.

Letters chatted back and forth

and one stranger whose body

was a prisoner

communed with another

whose head was also

that way. He wrote

wistfully of memory

of birds winging forests

and his incarcerated

birthday celebration.

In the last letter he

asked me to wish him luck

getting ready to put on kneepads

go before his parole board.

Looks like he's no longer

sending letters in search

of captive company. Guess

he doesn't need me anymore.

Wonder now if photographs

ever appear to talk back.

 

 

Arras

 

The waters rush

white-capped and lunatic

over granite boulders

speaking eloquently

of erosion

and infinity.

       The lonely cry

       of a flighting bird

       shatters the air.

Willows stand dank

roots entrenched

in the timeless brew

flinging arms

at the careless sun.

Winds bend long grasses

whiskering the lip

of the waters.

       Creatures dart headlong

       to join the element

       they know best.

This landscape evolves

a rich and humid

syllabary

of forgotten tongues.