The Blushing Trillium

The bright trill of a cardinal
lilts through the roar of the
prevailing winds coursing through
the forest, over-riding the shrill
punctuation of a pileated woodpecker.
Overhead, spring-bare tree masts
glide to the urging of the winds,
trunks sliding and grinding, tops
clacking, an Aeolus-led orchestra.

A small orange butterfly lifts
into the wind, asserting its independence,
refusing to be intimidated, flying
counter, a tiny rebel patiently searching
a mate. Honey-suckle shrubs, first to
flash new green buds. Hazelnut bushes
have hung out their soft-furred catkins.

There, a carmine-bright trillium
thrust out of the spring leaf-strewn
soil, beside a companion blushed
by the Master Painter's hurried stroke,
the carmine dipped in bridal white.

Felled By The Wind

Over there, three hundred people felled
by a series of catastrophic tornadoes,
ripping through five States of the Union.
Here, a ferociously bellicose windstorm
blasts like a renegade locomotive
through the masts of the forest,
canopy yet absent, to shatter the
upper storey, bringing down a bristling
mass of boughs, branches and
last year's dessicated leafage.

The atmosphere is redolent of the
promise of fresh green shoots. Tiny
red blossoms blow off maples and the
first of the spring-hesitant trilliums have
finally thrust through the rain-saturated
forest soil. The sky is by turns a vast
sheet of blue where the sun's intensity
bakes the air, then suddenly sullen winds
whip up a froth of dark clouds unleashing
another deluge of biblical proportions.

Beyond lies a wind-felled carcase, a
familiar giant pine, that only yesterday
stood aloofly ancient, the forest sentinel.
Now it is a snag, sitting forlornly on the
forest floor, a great white sliver reaching
imploringly to the sky; the tree's huge body
horizontal now, limbs raising the trunk
off the ground, needles bright green,
indignant at this betrayal, its sudden demise.

Parental Love

We know that we shall
never feel a joy as pure
as a child's delight,
the radiance of a trusting
smile that lights the eyes,
transforms its guile
into an expression of
life's full purpose; ours to guide,
support and fully invest
the child with aspirations
to discover through the
long journey of life
every treasure to be unearthed
by which true meaning of
success may be measured
and achieved through love.

Needy Humankind

Since the dawn of time when primitive man
became fully aware of his own presence and
consciousness he has been bemused and
fearful of the transience of life. A potion,
a natural spring with magical powers,
some mystical plant feverishly sought to
confer the beneficence of life everlasting,
recognized as confined to the privilege of
the heavenly-reigning Gods with their
impenetrable hierarchy of mystery, regality,
mischief and worshipful demands of
subservient, obsequious humankind.

Finally, it was understood that a panoply
of gods was but a naive human invention
born of desperate need to believe in omniscience
and the omnipotence of a divine being under
whose direction nature herself shuddered.
That need to understand the phenomena, and
attributes of the physical and spiritual, of
the natural world. Since then the knowledge of
faith incarnate has revealed salvation to be realized,
and with it, the ongoing life of the soul, courtesy of
the selflessly altruistic act of sublime sacrifice.

Much Obliged, Wikileaks

Should we be overly concerned that we
are considered an enemy target by the world's
latest manifestation of a hate-festered ideology
that came to vitriolic life out of an Eastern religion's
sacred scriptures? Why, we harbour no ill
feelings against those whose heritage and culture
is inextricably bound to their deity's commands
to the faithful to render abject and complete
surrender all they hold dear, inclusive of their
very lives, to be gladly and passionately
given as a gift in the pursuit of the struggle
to defeat the enemy by suicidal
martyrdom and mass, explosive slaughter.

The blessed martyrs to rise to Paradise,
where nubile, adoring women await to
do them sublime service, as ordained.

The enemies of these devotedly rabid
suicide bombers readily enough identified;
degenerate non-Muslims: Crusaders,
infidels, Jews, Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists,
lapsed and/or unrecognized Muslim sects -
in short, all who live and breathe, love
their families and cherish life represent
the enemy, for they stand accused of
Islamophobia and are therefore consigned
to death delivered in as many inventive
ways as possible. The entire process much
to be accelerated with the hoped-for success
of acquiring nuclear and biological agents.

Pace the Apocalypse.

Hello, Again....

Hello, again... You know my face and
I recognize yours. I stand here,
because you will not. I rang your doorbell
and read that familiar look of disinterested
contempt that slides into a rictus grin
creasing your face as the charade commences.

This is not meant to be a provocative act,
nor is it meant to become a confrontation.
We are two who share a community
although our languages are dissimilar
and our concept of the social contract
also differs substantially, it seems.

I stand before you explaining the charity
whose interest I have volunteered, briefly,
to represent. This charity represents
a dread disease that is the scourge
of humanity striking without favour
all it can with its sinister morbidity.

But of course there are many others
whose appeal one responds to simply
because there is a distinct need to do so.
And those other appeals are also brought
to your door for your due consideration.
And to all of these appeals the result
remains depressingly consistent.

You know all of that. And you and I
also know you will respond as you have,
year after year; the choices seem aptly
chosen to reflect the haughty scorn
settling like a dank, dark cloak over our
encounter. 'Not right now', 'Not this year',
'Some other time', 'I'll think about it, come
back at a more convenient time'....

The mask of chill courtesy slips
but occasionally. I thank you, nod my
head, close my kit, back off your porch
as your door slams shut and the overhead
light is swallowed by night's dark hours.

Those Among Us

An efficient, often brilliant tool,
differentiated hugely from one
owner to another, owing much of
its potential and proclivities to the
mysteries of DNA strands inherited
through random genetic selection and
marginally through careful
nurturing of that sublime
instrument, the human mind.

So much is evidenced in ongoing
displays of minds surrendering to
emotions rendering rationality moot.
Restored by force of will to absorb, address,
synthesize, formulate, express and relate.
Its functions vast yet unpredictable,
elemental and profound; incorporating
all that is to be human. Minds
intersect, deflect, interact, deny, accuse;
perversely humankind's greatest
strength and most unfortunate failing.

Creation, innovation, passive
acceptance, rigidly divisive attitudes
deliberately hostile, struggling toward strife.
Should a less than fastidious mind take
it upon itself to adopt all the dismally
atrocious, unsavoury, depraved
traits of humankind be awarded
the kindly assurance of a resident soul?

How to be redeemed without a soul?
Sorry: no transfers, no substitutes
considered or accepted. Life is not a
dry run, and the soulless will not be
welcomed to return. Free will elevates
the mind, it does not encumber it.
Reasonable enough; if only.

Tales of Ourselves

Humanity is everlastingly
fascinated by itself. For less
an emotional conceit than it is
an imperative of primal curiosity,
enduring and implacably
sought as validation
of our very existence.

From verbal tales of ancestral
agreements made with the
gods of fortune and laudatory
heroic exploits, to tribal and
clan myths and gossip, as natural
to the species as the rhythmic beating
of the human heart, the
beating of tribal drums.

Written history, mythic anecdotes,
oral story traditions and pantomimic
dance displays honouring and
decoding human interaction
illustrate, define and celebrate our
presence within a universe whose
dimensions and possibilities
are beyond probe.

There may be parallel universes
in the stratosphere and as near as
our touch, yet beyond our consciousness,
but we humans have our own parallel
lives as near as an outstretched hand
grasping the creation of a story from a
shelf laden with tales of ourselves.

My Subconscious

I have no idea, none whatever, why I might have been so grovelling; it was a dream, after all; perhaps true instinctual personality claims its presence when our sleeping mind is in control.

We are of like vintage and heritage, the women I was standing beside. And there the similarities end. Her face is well known in the world of aristocratic society. She has made a name for herself, first as an outstanding writer, and then as the wife of a media baron. Her dark, seductive beauty and her penchant for wearing alluring, expensive clothing added another dimension to her celebrity persona. As did her acerbic wit and graceful carriage.

So how was it that we were standing beside one another? Much less in front of the grey, cut-stone mansion that she owns, along with her estimable husband? It was a dream, there need be no other explanation. Other than the curious fact that the dream was of my mind's making and where was this taking me, and why?

Aside from the niggling little thought that it was strange that I would even dream about something so peculiar - but such is the human mind, evidently, undisciplined and prepared to go where it will, one can only conclude.

There we were, she kindly enquiring whether I would like to venture inside her home. And there was I, anxiously assuring her that I would so very much appreciate that opportunity. And then there we were, suddenly transported into the interior of that place, with its majestic height, breadth and width, larger than any place I had ever before entered. This place surpassed in size, exquisite interiors and costly trappings anything I'd previously seen in places like the Villa Vizcaya or Biltmore, or photographs ogled riffling the pages of Architectural Digest.

Biltmore House is a 250-room French Renaissance-style château.
She led me through room after room, one outstanding chamber after another, all furnished with antique pieces, marbles and bronzes. On the walls of these gilded, sumptuous spaces were more paintings than I'd ever before seen, and I could recognize the presence among them of Old Masters. Her husband, lord of the manor, was nowhere to be seen. He had been released from prison, I knew that, but was obviously elsewhere detained.

Finally, she ushered me into a room that appeared to be a bedchamber, much smaller than any of the previous rooms. In it, seated upon a chair much too large for his frail figure, was an elderly, bewizened man. His facial features led me to the conclusion that he must be an elderly relative of her husband. It was evident that he wanted something of her. She lifted him, slight as she herself was, and deposited him within a playpen, one that had a chamber pot in it, and there he sat.

Suddenly she was transformed from the graciously beautiful matron that humbled me so, to a feral cat that tumbled itself about on the floor, and which began slithering and sliding there, as a creature demented. I felt a sense of responsibility toward this woman, though she no longer resembled a woman. I reached over to the tumbling creature, managed to still it, and lifted it into my arms. Whereupon it lay there, panting, but still.

Carrying it, I began to stumble from one room to another, down long, lighted, carpeted and picture-hung galleries, looking for someone responsible to whom I could hand over the burden of this poor creature. To no avail, for there was no one there, no one present in any of the rooms, the place a huge palatial estate with no one seemingly in charge.

The person who had been in charge was no more, displaced by a creature that now licked my hands, now grimaced, utterly dependent on me. Time to awaken.

A Springtime Aria

The wind howls its insistent
right of way through the
trees sheltering birds
from the misery of the
rain bleeding relentlessly
over a landscape darkened
by an atmosphere-wounded sky,
bruised clouds shuddering
from east to west, drenching
all that huddles beneath.

Defying the icy rain and
frozen pellets, a cardinal exits
its shelter to post its blazing
red presence and embroiders the air
with a springtime aria. A brief
flash of movement, colour and
music to momentarily
brighten this gloomy day.

Humanitarian Principles

This world of mankind is such
an awkward, disjointed living space,
where some are blessed by fortune to
live with security to prosper yet the larger
balance live with fear and exploitation,
conditions reflecting the basest instincts
of humans to violate one another in every
conceivable way as vile predators.

Minds that have been enlightened and
liberated from venality and tribal enmity,
hubris and hate initiate life lessons to aid
the victims of tyrannical monsters; the
virtuous humane challenging the vile
monsters among us. Someone must respond,
the victims plead, to come and stop the killing.

Government troops launching rocket attacks,
sending snipers to rooftops to target women,
children, the elderly when they cannot engage
the rebels. They must come, they cry to the
outside world, on the basis of humanitarian
principles. "If they do not, we will die". Rape,
shelling, sniper fire. Taking sides in a civil war.

These pleas are deeply moving. Who can fail
but to respond? In Libya, a respected elder
speaks of humanitarian and Islamic principles,
"for someone to come and stop the killing".
Islamic ears of his neighbours have gone stone
deaf. Only Western ears appear to have
become attuned to this dreadful dilemma.

Have Courage

Have courage, the leaders say,
strengthen your resolve,
remember your heritage;
we will surmount these
difficult times for have we
not prepared ourselves?
Stiffen your spine,
straighten your back,
stand tall and prideful
for are you not the people
of these islands? We are
like no other nation,
steadfast in our duty,
compliant to the country's need;
resourceful, courteous, civil
and peaceful as Buddha
enjoined us in our Shinto
traditions. We will prevail,
we shall overcome the burden
which Nature wrought to
complicate our lives. This
land of the rising sun will
be once again triumphant.
The emperor has so decreed.

Bet On A Perfect Storm

The rumbling bass crescendo of one
deeply thrumming musical phrase
after another in a series of thunderclaps
with the percussive quality that
reaches deep into the listener's
viscera to take us back in primal
time when this was music as
now interpreted by Japan's Kodo
drummers to evoke our distant past.

The celestial drummers' basso
profundo inviting the skies to light the
dark basket of night in a blaze of
brief glory, with divinely impressive
cymbals and the brass of tubas pacing
eruptions that blast throughout the
night-time hours. A trifecta of perfect
drama to impress those huddling for
reassuring comfort in their beds as
torrents of rain pound their windows.

The three elements joined in pursuit
of presenting the ultimate play of
atmospheric conditions in a violent display
of relentless, arrogant power that Nature
now and again permits her vassals
with the wind drawing on opportunity to
conduct the symphonic tone poem played
to its reluctant audience.

Seasonal Appropriation

Yesterday the daytime atmosphere
smothered of light, dark with
blue-black bruised clouds scudding
across the sky under assault of an
icy wind slanting heavy rain horizontally
like a displaced ocean, and we stuck fast
in our houses to escape the deluge,
feeling like aquarium-dwelling fish.

But today the sun teases out from
behind those same bruised clouds loath
to dissipate. That golden orb twinkles
light then disappears, engaged in a
game of its own playing now-you-see-me,
now-you-don't against the blasting winds.
The rain is no more, to be certain; in its
place ice crystals falling, searing
unprotected blossoms in a fiery grip
of frozen fierceness.

And we wonder, whatever happened
to the pair of goldfinches we saw this
morning, the glory of their song lighting
the dark day, the sun's ardent kiss
briefly illuminating the bold yellow
of their tiny breasts. Do they now regret
their rash flight, returning to this
seasonal unruliness?

Returns of the Day

Happy Birthday to me.

I am now a half-century old. Isn't that compellingly stunning? Fifty years. What a mystery, where has it all gone? What have I got to show for all those years? Where is the happiness, the satisfaction? I am fifty years old. What have I accomplished? Above all, why does no one care?

I am friendless. I have no life companion. I am bereft of company, of the comfort of sharing my life with someone. Why, why is that my reality?

I am a decent person. I have a good heart. I know I do, I know I am. I have given more than ample thought to all of this. I am left with no answers, just more questions. These are questions I cannot answer. Answers elude me. Is there something about me that puts people off? Do I offend people by my personality, my character, my values and my choices?

If so, what I can I do about it? Why though would I want to do anything about it? What I present as is me, loud and clear. This is me, whatever my characteristics, my propensities, my inherited and my adopted flaws and properties. Doesn't the good in me outweigh what others may construe as the bad? Why am I left alone through life?

In the nature-and-nurture argument I began with many benefits. My genetic inheritance gave me physical attractiveness, and that remains, reflective of my age. I have carefully preserved my physical presence, just as I have groomed my psychological essence. I remain to the present time a physically attractive woman. I am a kind woman, I believe myself to be that, at the very least.

Other clear attributes are intelligence and an ability to get on well with people. Deep-seated and continually being accelerated for the former, a decided social facade of necessity on the latter account, reflective of most other peoples' public persona.

Since I invited my latest live-in disaster to leave, giving me instant, but short-lived relief, I discovered a transmission of disease that could eventually lead to cancer. I felt so betrayed, you cannot imagine how I raged with the injustice of it all. But the surgery was done, to cleanse me internally of the infection, and I've recovered physically. I was fearful about the surgery. I've never before had surgery, had to be admitted to hospital. I've been healthy, and that's because I look after myself. The very prospect of surgery infused me with terror.

I have been without work for a full year now. I have a household to maintain, a house to pay for, car payments, a multitude of bills to pay. The confluence of a downturn in the economy and a tightening of government expenditures meant the professional contracts with their generous remuneration as a contract worker were now denied me. That, despite my long record of professional work for a number of government departments. Of course, what remains a serious strike against my obtaining future contacts in this economic downturn is my lack of bilingual proficiency; that always seems to trump professional excellence.

In that time frame of no work I developed an Internet presence through a web site I spent hugely tedious and difficult hours designing and preparing for presentation, as an invitation to hire out my experience in another field; that of understanding and communicating successfully with animals, particularly domestic pets. Over the years I have gained an intimate understanding of how their minds work, how to communicate with them, how to dominate their instincts while still respecting their autonomy to an extent.

Teen-age girls can be so cruel. Even to their mothers. My own child belittled my efforts, spending too much time telling me to 'get a job', to 'go back to what you were doing', informing me that I was delusional in thinking I could earn a living through my animal-communication expertise. I was to return to the technical professionalism that had up until this point given me a reliable living wage according to her. As though that's all it takes. Kids know everything.

My parents gave me the impression they viewed what I was attempting to do with the same lack of respect. Although they had agreed to finance me while I was going through this period of instability. This was not what I envisioned for myself. That my parents would begin paying for all my expenses, straitening their own retirement income. My father warned me that the monies transferred monthly by him to my account represented the major portion of their income. As time went on and began to stretch toward a year, he became increasingly short-tempered.

That's typical of him. I was traumatized as a young girl by his gruffness, his demanding character, his anger when his expectations of me went unmet. My mother always acted as the buffer between us. But she had no greater confidence in me than my daughter, expressing the very same doubts with respect to my new initiative. I explained to her how tired I was of working for other people, of always being under someone's thumb, of having to negotiate the social miseries of peoples' jealousies and attempts to undermine my professionalism. I know that this kind of thing is a constant in most peoples' lives, but I was sick of it. I wanted to control more of life; myself, without being indebted to the good graces of people I hardly respected.

My mother insisted I had to get out more, that remaining isolated as I was doing was unhealthy for me. As though I wasn't aware. Yes, I grew increasingly depressed and miserable. Who wouldn't under those circumstances? Knowing that all the men you've ever been involved with while professing to love you really were interested in controlling and exploiting you. Not one of them ever made a decent living. Not one of them was an intellectual and ambition-led match for me. And that was fine with me. All I wanted was to be valued for myself, for what I am, to be cherished. Was that too much to ask for?

I have my companion animals. Two cats, eight rabbits, and ten dogs. Each of them is possessed of a singular personality, a loving, dependent presence. They mean the world to me. My daughter detests their presence, much as she did the presence of the men who temporarily shared our home. The animals represent an embarrassment and a nuisance to her, even though she is attached to most of them. She will no longer invite any of her friends over.

My erstwhile best friend who always confided in me when she had problems of her own that I commiserated with her about, is not there for me to unburden myself of my worries and concerns when I need her. She has become suddenly unapproachable. She did say she was intending to call me directly after my surgery, and did not. She did tell me it was her intention to have us get together to celebrate my birthday. What intention?

The morning of my birthday I was greeted first off by a disgruntled daughter leaving for school, grumpily calling out "happy birthday!" as she left the house for her bus. Nothing else from her. After school she spent the evening with a friend, at her friend's home. Can you even begin to imagine how anguished I feel, knowing no one cares about me? My parents, they say they care.

I don't want my parents' care. I want the care and love of someone with whom I could share my life. I've been abandoned by life. Surely I deserve better. Why is it that rotten, nasty, miserably selfish people have contented family lives, and I'm denied one? What is it that makes me so undeserving of happiness?

Why must I continue going through life utterly disconsolate, with not a living soul to share thoughts and experiences and aspirations with? I'm emotionally drained from crying myself to sleep.

Happy birthday, oh yes, happy birthday. Maude, my Australian Shepherd, left a huge pool of urine in her bed. So much for dogs never soiling their nests. She's six years old, it's not as though she doesn't know better. I haven't been sleeping at all well, lately. So the morning of my birthday I slept in, did not get up as usual to let Maude out before five in the morning. She cannot hold her bladder, never could. So that's what I did, first thing; cleaned up Maude's mess.

And then the others, the pack, began howling for attention. Some of them drive me insane sometimes with their unbridled demands. But even when I rail against them, I love them. They are the true constants in my life; demanding yes, but returning unblemished love to me.

I'm angry with my parents, and don't feel like speaking with them. Two days earlier my father went off on one of his tangents, telling me that eight months of supporting me and their grandchild has left them in a tight financial squeeze, and when was I going to get out and look for a job, any job? They could manage, he said, to supplement my income, but not remain forever the only support; I had to contribute.

As though this is something that hadn't occurred to me. As though I haven't been anguishing over this. As though I planned all of this. Accusing me in other words of being a succubus. If I learned something over the course of the years being their daughter, it was the necessity of standing up for myself. I hung up on him, and won't answer the telephone when they call.

Just as well we live an hour's drive distant from one another. I hate it when they visit. I feel constantly under pressure of scrutiny. As though they're just looking to comment on something to get me fed up with their presence. The feeling, I'm sure, is mutual; we just tend to exasperate each other. I told my mother it would be better if they didn't come by this week-end. I'd informed her earlier that I had no wish for them to get me a birthday gift, under the prevailing circumstances.

My mother sent me an email, wishing me "happy returns of the day". Happy? That's a word that is absent from my dictionary of life. I have never, ever known happiness. Others have, but not me. I have no companion, no one to care about me, no one to communicate with. I am completely alone.

What would I like for my birthday? Someone to hug me, to kiss me, to murmur their love for me. My mother cried when I told her this, she said she would do all of that and more. I don't want her to. That is not what I want, and she knows it very well. Even though I said too that I would like someone to prepare a meal for me, to bake me a birthday cake.

Happy birthday to me.

Susceptible Aversion

Blood of your blood, flesh of your
flesh; a partner to the marriage contract;
one to whom we give our trust through
a covenant of close friendship, matters
may not necessarily be as they are
assumed in the wake of confession,
declarations, expressions of faith
and trust vested in that intimate
relationship. Those revelations
imparted in that spirit of trust,
the avowals, admissions revealing
the inner self's concerns may prove an
irresistible resource to those who
do not unduly concern themselves with
violation of trust, succumbing to spite
when recrimination and bitterness
enter the resentful mind precision-bound
to probe within for carefully filed
vulnerabilities in a conflict that
does not recognize the white flag of
future reconciliation. The choice
is there, be aware and withhold
those precious, rare inner thoughts
rather than risk a psychical conflagration
inured to redemption. Or take your chances,
reveal all and assume your naked soul
will never face betrayal. Or, as the
wizened hag says, whisper revelations
of the inner mind to the family pet.

Her Silent World

Silently she pads about,
her dark little form accentuated
with grey, a mere wisp of a thing
long removed from the alert and
inquisitive, playful companion she
once was. With the loss of hearing
went our communication and her own
voice, frozen in the silence of
that sound void. Does it concern her
that her world is now a silent one?
She is often clearly confused
and perhaps that is because
her eyes too have lost their
brilliant acuity. And now, she
sees confounding shadows where once
clear objects informed her vision.
Not hearing, she does not react,
but with panic when her eyesight
cannot protect her from walking
into immovable objects. This
strange new world confuses her
memory and her confidence.
The slender thread of intact
smell, the lone sense remaining
gives her life purpose, as
appetite is assuaged.

c/o The United Nations

The Blue Marble

• NASA Goddard Space Flight Center Image by Reto Stöckli (land surface, shallow water, clouds). Enhancements by Robert Simmon (ocean color, compositing, 3D globes, animation). Data and technical support: MODIS Land Group; MODIS Science Data Support Team; MODIS Atmosphere Group; MODIS Ocean Group Additional data: USGS EROS Data Center (topography); USGS Terrestrial Remote Sensing Flagstaff Field Center (Antarctica); Defense Meteorological Satellite Program (city lights).

What's new, you ask, in the world
of advocacy and global diplomacy?
Well, the Old Girl has a new admirer,
defender, one to staunchly vouch
for her pre-eminence royally
vested in the serene mantle, crown,
scepter and orb of the
Universal Mother.

The mother indeed, of all she surveys,
and she has a long, wide, gaze.
Mother Nature may feel
complacently that her domain
is securely hers, absent the occasional
irritating presumption of humankind,
like stubbornly wayward children,
interfering, making of themselves
intolerable nuisances
she generally ignores.

But the conscience of original
people of the Earth and its
mountainous terrain has been piqued
in shame at what she majestically endures
through her palpable surrender to
noblesse oblige. Bolivia has now
petitioned the world body of the
United Nations to ride to her rescue!

And that noble lady sighs.

Anomie of Ingratitude

It comes hard to the
understanding through
repeated experience like
an exercise in living, colourful
human emotions and
exasperating ameliorations
that the reality simply is that
there are those for whom
life in all its unexpected turns
and exigencies remains a
self-defeating exercise
in futility. They cannot and
will not find comfort
in the steadfastness of those
who love them, choosing to
flail at their efforts, the
living embodiment of denial,
going on to curse the fate
that assaults them at every
wrong turn they prefer,
exercising their free choice
to flout responsibility
insisting on their
pre-ordained path to
self-destruction.

The Elements Primeval

No sooner does the mysterious
curtain of night fall than the softly
quiescent atmosphere becomes suddenly
aware of an alteration in the night's
program as the steady beat of distant
thunder shatters the comfortable, dark
silence. Stealthily, then with growing
confidence the approaching storm
builds momentum, advancing to
pierce the blackness with brilliant
eruptions of jagged fire. For endless
hours throughout the night the
solemn procession of thunder claps
its admiration of its very own displays
as nature herself applauds the titanic
performance of her star players. A
puissant sound stage has overtaken
the night, introducing theatrical
light displays under which the
landscape cowers, hesitant and uncertain
that the imperious drama will eventually
depart, having demonstrated how
Armageddon might very well
mount the stage with its
co-conspirators, death and destruction
aiding natural calamities
of primeval disorder.

Metaphor

The requisite conditions for
a leisurely stroll in the woods
all there; spring,
moderate temperature,
lightly shaded clouds
pulled down over a
heat-renascent sun
bright enough withal to
illuminate the landscape
with an enchanting yet-winter hue
compelling the winter-weary
to venture out with
cocky confidence where
those more experienced
tread with a wary eye for
the long, sleek corridors of
stubborn ice resolved to
remain beyond April's
sun and rain. Those
prepared for such
exigencies offer a
lifeline of balance and
stability to the ice-challenged
strangers in their midst,
urging, here, take my arm,
I'll guide you through.

The Garden, Unbound

No regrets, no mourning the
passing of winter for we hosted it
unwillingly for too long. The
vernal equinox brought us closer
to the heavenly furnace warming
the atmosphere, though snow
and its companion-ice still
stubbornly stipple the backyard.
Garden soil, so recently released
though not yet thawed, appears
loamy-black and densely composted.
Out of its moist yet chill interior
begin to sprout the first early
stirrings as spring nudges the
garden's memory to awaken
awareness of timely appearance
and we rejoice as we welcome
back the flowering bulbs, the
pale, fuzzy buds of Magnolia
soon to edge the leap into bright
sumptuous blossoms, as we busy
ourselves liberating the garden
roses from their winter shields.

Blood Sport

Mankind, imprinted by Nature
and tethered to the survival imperative
remains a creature of competition.
Red Mars stalks the Planet
to satiate the primal urge
of bloody conflict. He has not
far to wander in his pursuit,
meeting and greeting his old
companion Death, arriving and
departing. On slow days he can
linger and disport himself on
the hunt, slaughtering
wild beasts, assisting the
wilder hunters. Failing that,
take his leisure at sporting events
where the losers are soundly trounced
and the winners triumphantly
take all. Never to be bored, he
may enter the political arena
where competition in that
endeavor too is stiff with the
cadavers sitting to rapt attention
heeding the battle cries of
ascendant leaders, whiffing
victory, holding aloft their
coded banners; again the toughest
prevailing. Here's to another
Mars-profitable day in the arena.

Organizing Chaos

My intemperately febrile
mind, certain of its
sovereign prerogative,
relentlessly unbidden
and undisciplined,
dredges up
random thoughts
implacably resistant
to order and sense,
each jostling the other
aside, the din
from their compelling
yet competing views
a chaotic impression
of irrationality
until finally, an
explosive epiphany
of neurons firing
takes command, synthesizing,
drawing comparisons,
reaching conclusions
and all is distilled
into one cogent result;
sanity redeemed.

Inheritance

Faith, embraced by many
is not a universal absolute,
although those who claim it
cling also to hope,
another type of
inheritance that seems to
suffuse the human psyche.
This is the psychic element
that ensures those
who give it harbour
may survive
the sharp shoals
of survival.

The Ultimatum

She smothered a pleased laugh as he reached for her, pulled her over to his side of the bed, encircled her with his strong arms and squeezed. "Amanda", he growled, "when was the last time I told you how much I love you?"

"A few minutes ago, when you watched me pull on my PJs", she responded. "But go ahead, tell me again."

And he did. And they laughed together, this time. He smothered her with kisses. Until she pulled away and spoiled everything. That would be his take on it, not hers. She was compelled to bring it up again. And again and again. They would begin the 'discussion' with lowered voices, so they wouldn't wake the children. Things would escalate. His voice was never raised, but she could hear hers becoming shrill.

It would end, as it always did. Her sobbing, feeling utterly inconsolable. And him doing everything he could to console her. The warmth of his body inevitably did that. But her simmering resentment at her argument yet again set aside would rankle and last well into the coming week. It always did. The unfairness of it.

By the time he was ready to make the return trip home, after another week's absence, and she was anticipating his arrival with both excitement and anger, she focused on the weather.

In the winter, if there was a snow squall, a whiteout, a weather alert, he would postpone his departure. And then he would arrive home late Friday afternoon instead of Thursday night. That long drive. Each time there was a news item in the papers about accidents along his route she would shudder. Weather, driver fatigue, driver inattention, and drunk drivers.

She was sick of feeling this burning anger with him for abandoning them throughout the week. She was fed up with feelings of helpless apprehension, about whether he would arrive home on Thursday giving them a long week-end together, or Friday meaning a short week-end. And the unbidden, frightening thoughts of an accident, and then there would be no shared week-end. Those were the thoughts she tried to shut out of her febrile imagination.

It would end differently this time. She was finished with succumbing to his reasoned arguments. She had thought about it thoroughly, forcing her mind through any number of scenarios. Imagined how he might react, and how she, this final time, would resolutely defy his entreaties to her to be reasonable. She was reasonable, that was always the problem. It prolonged the problem. She was too reasonable, because he equated 'reason' with leading her inexorably to his way of thinking.

Which was that they had both made the decision to invest their future in another country because in their professions where they lived there were too few opportunities to get ahead. They had discussed all the issues, their details, made some hard decisions and agreed that it made sense to leave everything they were familiar with, including family and friends, to emigrate to another country where the opportunities seemed more abundant.

It hadn't been as difficult for her as she imagined it would be, through sleepless nights, leaving behind everything that was intimately familiar to her. They made that huge leap in faith in perfect union. Both believed they were heading for a better, more satisfying life for themselves and for their future children.

Which meant that they had not even a skeleton crew of family around when they finally did start a family. Three children they had now, at an impressionable, vulnerable age, when they needed both their parents close at hand. And there was the problem. His work took him eight driving hours' distant from them week in and week out. On the week-ends he would return home, exhausted.

And she was fed up. Exhausted herself with the predicament they found themselves in. She was left with the children, and also had a full-time job, one that reflected her own profession just as his did the one he dedicated himself to. And neither would budge. His position, remotely located, was no place to raise children, whereas her location answered to all the children's needs.

But she couldn't maintain the pressure of a full-time job, looking after a home and the emotional and practical needs of two boys and a girl whose extracurricular activities with music and sports meant one parent dragged herself off to events, while the children complained that their father was never around.

Nick, she would begin pleading with him, we didn't marry so we could lead separate lives.

And their arguments - reasonable, civilized debates he called them - drained her emotionally. He would make the drive every Thursday night to arrive back home sometimes in the early hours of the morning Friday, so they could spend most of the week-end together. Some quality time that was, with each of them feeling strained and drained of energy.

"You've got to understand, Amanda", he always said. "This surpasses what I even dreamed I could achieve. It's important, important to me, important to the industry. I'm using skills I never realized I had, I'm surpassing my credentials as a professional. I'm making a name for myself. This won't be forever, it's going to lead to even bigger things. I'll be able to write my own destiny, in a way. Be patient, it's just a little while longer."

It's what he always said. She always accepted that. She couldn't help feeling aggrieved that his work meant so much to him. His argument was that it complemented his love for her; there was no meaningful comparison, but as a professional, a scientist, someone on the leading edge of break-throughs in the field, he was compelled to be there, to help scientific history evolve.

These thoughts kept running through her mind as she waited. No inclement weather this evening. It was finally spring. The snow and ice were steadily melting. The temperature dipped only to the freezing point, not below it, these nights. His drive would be uneventful.

And this time her demands would be final. She was through with patience, with reasonableness. She didn't care about the success of his professional career. She wanted him with her, with her and the children on a full-time basis. She'd have it out with him. And if he regarded what she had to say as an ultimatum, then so be it.

She waited. She waited as the hours passed. The last message she received had from him was two hours stale. She knew how he hated using his cellphone when he was driving, and she respected that. When she finally heard a car door slam outside, she relaxed; she could feel her shoulders falling gently back from their hunched tightness.

But he didn't burst through the door and call her name. No one did.

There was, though, a knock at the door. She rose, parted the draperies and peered out the crack. A car was illuminated by the outside light, a vehicle with its running lights still on, motor running. A figure in the car, exiting slowly, to join the one waiting on her porch.

Friends!(?)!

Saturday morning, 11:00 a.m. bzzzz
Are you mad at me?

4:20 p.m. bzzzz
You're not texting back. I guess you're mad. Can I ask why?

5:30 p.m. bzzzz
What did I do?

7:30 p.m. bzzzz
Look, if you don't text back and let me know why you're mad, how can I do anything about it?

8:14 p.m. bzzzz
Still mad at me? Can't you talk about it with me?

11:55 p.m. bzzzz
All right, whatever it is, I'm sorry. I can't say more than that, because I don't know why...

She doesn't know why. At gym class I told her to go stuff herself, only those weren't the words I used. I'm really fed up. Roxanne disgusts me, she really does. She never knows when it's time to let go. Just yap-yap-yap and then more yap-yap-yappity-yap.

I'm fed up with all of them, actually. All my friends. But her in particular. Some friend. I thought I'd had it with her last year, when we were still at elementary school. First year of high school and I'm still dragged down by her. My own fault, I guess, for agreeing to let her join my circle. She's known all of them since forever, but she came wheedling and whining to me to let her join us. We all have lunch together, ten of us, two guys and the rest of us girls. Actually they've all known one another since forever, I'm the only new face.

It's been seven months. We usually get along really well. It's just lately that they've been really, really bugging me. Moms says it's because they're jealous of me. She always had that problem at high school, she said. She always says that. I don't have any problems. I don't know if they're jealous. I just know they're bugging me.

Because of Trevor. They all like him, a lot, and he's been part of their group, always has been, so what's the big deal? We discovered, he and I, that we have a lot in common. That's all. End of story. We're not "going out", the way they all claim we are. We're friends, really good friends. I trust him, and I like him, I respect him, he's intelligent and he's a really, really nice person. He says he likes me a whole lot, and for the same reasons. He's my best friend. I think that's really neat. I never thought I'd have a guy for a best friend, but now I do.

That's aside from Erin, of course, she's my best friend too. I've known her the longest. But Erin has her own group of friends at school, people who share her classes and I've got mine. Actually, they're people I introduced her to, to encourage her to feel comfortable with a group of friends at school. Outside of school, we're one another's best friends.

I told them they were driving me crazy, to just let go of it, just drop it. I said they were behaving like second-graders, with their stupid comments, their inane innuendos, their giggling about me and Trevor. We're friends, I keep telling them, friends, can't recognize the word, don't know what it means? They think they're being clever, poking one another in the ribs, breaking up. They're idiots. And Roxanne is the absolute worst.

After our hissing contest at gym I told her I wasn't interested in pursuing the matter any further, and if she continued to bring it up, she could do it to herself, not to me. It's no loss to me if I cross her off my list of friends.

I haven't spoken to anyone else about my argument with Roxanne. It's no one else's business. She's been the instigator of all of this, inciting the other girls to keep bringing it up, so it was to her that I said point blank, give it a rest, a permanent rest. She thought that was hilarious; peculiar sense of humour that just points out how unreasonably stupid she is. That was Friday.

And then those text messages. I didn't feel like responding, there's no point. She knows very well what the problem is, just wants to act the innocent. So on Monday, that's today, she gibble-gabbled to everyone how I was mistreating her. Our mutual friends. At lunch time as soon as I sat down with the group, most of them got up and moved away.

I said you've got to me kidding me. I said to Morgan, what's up? Nothing, she said, just that Blake was sitting there and we wanted to get away from him. No one really likes Blake, but he hangs around, and no one wants to hurt his feelings. He's as nauseating a character as Trevor is brilliant. So, I said to Morgan, how's that new, he's always here, why now move away? She changed the subject.

At lunch time there was me, Trevor and Maryanne. Those are my loyal friends. Although I haven't informed them, either, what the undercurrent problem is whereas you can be sure that Roxanne has told everyone within ear-shot how I've been unfair and nasty to her.

At least, this way, I know who my friends are, don't I?

Into The Pellucid Sky

A hoarse, croaking call
and the large black bird
settled upon the
dark, jagged mast
of a lightning-shattered
pine to wait,
hunched into itself
broodingly patient.
A movement below
and a sudden descent
securing the object
of its desire,
then swooping high
into the pellucid sky
settling upon a crook
in a thick old branch
to plunge the beak-held object
repeatedly toward the bark
enabling the extraction
of the nutmeat within.