The Message is the Medium

 

My friend tells me

it's been nice 

knowing me all these years.

With a pat on the arm

he says I've

been a good sport

and even

pleasant company.

That's how I know

he's just recalled

         the date

and like last year

and the one before

has forgotten

to get me an 

anniversary gift.

The surface child

acquisitive me

never fails to be 

disappointed; yet

      somehow their

belatedness and haste

doesn't make the words

tripping hopefully

from his familiar mouth

sound any less sincere.

He sincerely hopes

I won't strike a

        tragic pose of

           benign neglect

weep tears of self-pity

like last year.

Strange how some things

never change.         Odd

how we never 

seem to learn.        Nice

that life goes on

any old how.

 

 

We May Yet Hope

 

We tried our best

and believed

we taught our children

sensitivity, intelligence

appreciation toward

the benefits of hard work

and a fine aesthetic sense.

The shock!

to discover

on the dart board

passed so many times

never before noticed

stapled photographs

at points of

highest benefit.

She to whom

we owe allegiance

smiling deathlessly

her face pockmarked

by unerringly

directed darts.

And there they are

the Prime Minister

and all those elected

to high posts in government

irremediably scarred

barely recognizable.

Does this behaviour

defy patriotism?

Have we raised a

viper's nest of anarchists?

 

Influencing Mores

 

Social distancing was once the sole

baileywick of the cultural and social

elite who wouldn't dream of mixing

it up with social and cultural inferiors.

Neighbours who got to know one another

all too well might on occasion begin to

practise social distancing. Mothers were

notorious for instructing their little

Jimmys and Nancys not to play with

those nasty children of Jewish, Black

or immigrant parentage lest they be

contaminated by whatever character

flaws their race was known and despised

for. Eventually a classless system of

equality prevailed and it was the poor

and the ignorant who became the social

outcasts whose presence one distanced

oneself from while celebrity culture

embraced all, oblivious of heritage. Now

the yellow peril that racist seers warned

of while the world watched as its culture

of sacrifice and work ethic rocketed

it into superpower status inadvertently

unleashed a deadly menace it refuses

to own returning the world community

to its waning isolationist defence against

the demon of morbid contamination.

 

 

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.