Sabbaday Falls

The ferocious froth of the Sabbaday brook

belies its genteel name born of a Sunday

go-to-meeting era of times long past,

when sturdy settlers turned to gentle

pursuits after prayer, horse-and-buggying

on over to meet and behold the power

of their natural surroundings, the amazing

geological formations born of an ice age

scraping and moulding the mountain

landscape.  Time has long tumbled by

and that age long gone, but the ancient

landscape remains inviolate, nature's proud

and lofty heights, the tumbling glacial-cool

waters thundering through clefts and

crevices, chasms and walls of towering

granite.  Pools of lichen-green meltwater

haven for fish, the surrounding forest ringing

with birdsong, shaggy maples and yellow

birch, pine and spruce witness to changing 

seasons, a static arras of timeless beauty.

 Welcome! To The U.S. of A.

A brief self-consultation results in

the kind of split-second confidence

that slips into self-recrimination, for

you sit in your idling vehicle helpless,

haplessly waiting for your line at the

border crossing to move, the while

watching as those on either side do, 

and yours does not.  Fears fully realized

when, finally, yours is the penultimate

and you gawk as the border officer

hands back passports to the occupants 

of the car before yours and questions

them interminably, finally ordering the

trunk be opened as the long-haired car

driver emerges, throws up his exasperated

arms, performs a little jig of helpless fury

soundless in rage, then returns to his

driver's seat, and with a curt dismissal

gestured, is allowed to drive off.  Your

turn, and a rictus-grinning mouth orders

hat removed to reveal your elderly pate

as he scrutinizes passport photos, barks

questions from his smooth, youthful

face, reaches over to open the lid of the

freezer chest on the back seat, glares

at the pathetic collection of fruits and

vegetables your wife couldn't bear to

leave to perishable waste in that one-week

absence she bold-faced lied about not

"transporting" into the country, then

wails as he plucks out the few

California-grown clementines meant

to be eaten at the state rest stop a mile

from the border, as the uniformed,

glowering fellow, badged and duly

authorized hunches his 6'+ height to

thrust face into the interior, enquiring

whether perhaps, a $600 citation might

be preferred, then swivels to toss the

offending fruit into a trash bin, finally

giving leave to depart his presence.

The Familiar Unfamiliar

How serendipitous it was to

hear the sweet innocence of

music and songs they danced to

when they were themselves

sweetly innocent.  Youth and

vivacity melted with time's

inexorable journey into the 

future, they are now aged, grey

but yet responding to the allure

of memory as they rise to clasp

in an embrace as prelude to a

pairing in the measured, quietly

voluptuous movement of dance

while their little dog nips 

indignantly at their swaying

heels, anxious for the

comfortable assurance of

dull normalcy's return.

The Mountain Stream

The mountain stream, cold and

crystal clear tumbles and thrashes

its furious way over tumbled

granite boulders glistening in

the afternoon sun, foaming and 

thundering its tumultuous passage

from mountain side to forest brook

filling the air with its raucous descent.  

The red and black streaked corridor 

of rockface contains its passage, mist 

rising and gently spewing over the

landscape of birch and beech, oak

and hemlock.  the forest understory

of dogwood and pine saplings

absorb the spray, bedecked with mosses 

and lichens glowing moistly green.  

Bracken and wildflowers stipple the 

green with bright floral colour like 

the stars in a dark night sky.  Thrushes 

burst in lilting praise, butterflies vie 

with dragonflies to own best record for 

aerial arabesques.  The brook conducts 

its aquatic orchestral symphony with

drama and life-affirming grace.

Fragments:  A Life

There was a time, once, when a 

world renowned art gallery and

museum prized his photographic

work, chronicling their fabulous

collections of sculpture and paintings

of centuries past, of landscapes and

still-lifes, portraits and interiors

portraying a historical recollection

of nature and the nature of human

history.  From rude peasant life in

farming communities to imperious

visages of armoured, bannered 

horsemen courageously embarking 

onto the battlefield, the fearsome 

traditions of war, plunder and rape 

unleashed on canvas.  Greek legends

of immortals sculpted in softly 

gleaming marble. And his own
creative visions immortalized by a

commissioned portrait.  Now, in

back of an antique shop, there for 

sale, the dusty, dispensable oil portrait 

and alongside as a bonus, the photos, 

the peerless rarefied ignominiously 

tumbled from its proud pedestal.

The Story

of The Emerald Isle

'Tis a world of the "The", so it is,
Ireland, whose people detest 
"The English", bade their sons
be prepared to be prepared to die
for The Homeland, where the fathers
are given to relishing The Drink,
are also hopelessly addicted to
The Dole, yet breed incessantly,
adore their lovely wee bairns
and weep inconsolably when they
die of neglect, malnutrition and
disease, constantly afflicted by the
ravages of The Hunger, but for those
who escape early death and become
besotted with The Church in whose
name Catholics and Protestants
detest The Other.  And did we 
mention atall, atall, did we now,
the priceless gift of The Gab?  
Och, now, did we overlook the
good fortune to be born among
The Irish, and not to spurn The 
Shamrock?  Have a thought, now,
will  ye, for The (angelic) Bairns,
honour The Gaelic, and pledge
never to forget The Troubles.
Saint Patrick, bless him, also
blesses Ireland.  To The Confessional,
ye sinners!  Take the (consecrated)
Host, me son; recall, above all,
The pitiless Famine and be secure
in the knowing The Heavenly Father
rules His dominion on high, smiling
on The Irish Eyes.  Och, aye, 'tis
The Song and The Dance of it all!

To Frank McCourt, with great respect and admiration.

 Once, Upon A Time

Guess it was that long ago,

after all, when packing for

a holiday destination was

light-heartedly efficient and

as carefree as we were, back

in those misty evergone times.

In went jeans, tee-shirts,

shorts, swim suit and we

were done with it all.  Now,

lists are frantically put together

beforehand, checked and

anxiously double-checked.

Now, we require reading glasses,

prescribed and over-the-counter

medications, first aid kits,

comfortable walking shoes,

skirts, dresses, trousers and

blouses, sun block and night

clothes - and never done with it.

 

Nothing Personal

That cat again, that sinister

hunting fury, biding time,

awaiting the unwary presence

of another bird, hatchlings if at

all possible, a tiny furred rabbit,

chipmunks, whatever crosses its

path to perdition.  The pathetic

remains of mice and moles to be

cleared away, given burial 

after its predations.  Squatting

there, awaiting its purpose in life,

so infuriating the man that he

dashed from his front door like

a frenzied windmill, arms akimbo

shouting imprecations at the

feline languorously moving off

just as after-dinner strollers

passed by his garden hearing the

hisses and the damn-yous, the

invitation to vamoose before a

neck-wringing occured, shaking 

their heads, moving on with

alacrity, as another urban legend

of a house of crazies is born.

Bold New Generations

In the early morning sun
the garden is awhirl with
frenetic swoops of bees and,
above all, dragonflies
resplendently iridescent in
brilliant greens, blues and reds,
challenging the flowers for
the title of most brilliant.

Fresh candidates in all
categories appear, some
dazzling with aerial displays
of impressive skill, others
presenting gossamer-fragile
multi-layers of fragrant petals.
The master of choreography
sits approvingly, aloof, a
grandfatherly creature of
aged girth whose lustre has
been lost in the mists of
evanescent seasons whose
purpose is to inspire and
admire the energy and beauty
of bold new generations.

How Are You?

A chance encounter, a surprised

recognition, for we are only

acquaintances and many years

have intervened.  We are of

different generations, but both

grandmothers, and there is

released a floodgate of details

in notes minor and major,

since there is more we have

in common than what sets us

apart.  And when we finally

take leave of one another, we

simultaneously obey an impulse

that floods our emotions; embrace,

murmuring solace and comfort.

Toy Marmalade Poodle

His is a very small presence,

but his presence is not

limited to or by his

inconsequential size.  His

angelic appearance is much

to his credit, despite there is

little angelic about him; his

expectations rather, are

tyrannical, demanding his due

as the thimble-sized master

of the abode we share; his

slightly more equal and

entitled than ours.  Ours the

responsibility for his constant

comfort, reassurance and

provender, notwithstanding.

 The Ephemeral Woods

Heat has settled upon the

landscape, an entitlement of

the season.  As is the rain,

descending without pause

for days upon drenching days.

Humid heat does nothing to

dampen the birdsong emitted 

from the talented throats of

song sparrows, robins, cardinals,

goldfinches besotted with life.

Mist rises from the dark, churning

waters that thread throughout the

forest.  Mosses creep, and fungi

have made their impudent

appearance on roots and

stumps, squirrel-nibbled.

The forest canopy is luxuriantly

verdant, wild grape vines clinging 

where they may.  A nesting owl sits 

solicitously within her nest in a blasted 

pine. Wind unleashes droplets clinging

to leaves and dense needles.

Upon the forest floor thrive bracken 

and dogwood, interlaced with 

purple-blooming cowvetch. Buttercups 

and daisies, hawkweed and fleabane, 

orange, yolk-yellow and watermelon 

pink stipple the dripping green.

 The Spirit of the Garden

The spirit of the garden

pokes her impish pixie face

deep within the dew-glittering

blossoms that greet the

morning sun, kissing them 

with the fervour of her

gardening soul, humming

softly to herself in echo of

the cardinal trilling welcome

to dawn as she directs the

traffic of hummingbirds and

bees, gently pats twining vines

into order, flicking spent blooms

\with her green, slender fingers,

speedily absenting herself as

the gardener makes his smug

appearance to assess the

order of his gardening day.

 The Yawning Void

It is there, simply there,
subtly obliterating contentment,
an emptiness that felt, unbidden,
compelled to settle in, to nestle
deep within our defenceless
grieving consciousness in that
absence that greets us each
and every day startlingly anew.

It insists on its dominion
over our devastated emotions,
on exerting its control over
pain, memory, loss.  And we have
welcomed that intrusion, laid wide
our vulnerability, aided it to lodge
deep within.  Its overwhelming
presence, the human condition.

The joy in life becomes gratitude
only when carefree existence is
threatened by loss.  Then springs
alive the agony of absence, the
loved one gone, absorbed into
that dark emptiness that yawns
impartially into eternity.

Landscapes In Nature

Photo essay courtesy of J.S. Rosenfeld

 Fancy That!

Up there, in the stratosphere,

it was clear a level of hostility

was underway, some difference

of opinion leading to an aggravated

confrontation that clouded the

roof of the world with threatening

dark whorls of incandescent rage.

A theatrical production of 

cataclysmic proportions seen

now and again and forevermore.

The impending storm of elements

in a moody clash drew nearer,

alerting the tenants on the floors

below that something menacing

was portending.  Worried upward

glances verified that the distant

clamour as of giants tossing

shafted bolts of fury at a hapless

target was drawing ever closer,

alarming those below of weak

disposition.  Those of more sturdy

stock safely cowering in their

homes, watched transfixed as

the giants tore wholesale pieces

of the sky to jab them at one

another, drawing appeals of 

mercy ignored as the vanquished

exploded in brilliant flashes of fire.

 The Flamboyant Garden

This is the garden that tantalizes

and teases, luring us each morning

to perambulate its pathways,

to turn and discover discreet

new surprises, softly awaiting

delighted discovery, dewy with

pearls from last night's downpour.

Glittering, those pearls, as priceless 

ornaments sifted over the crowning 

beauty of cascading flower-bedecked 

vines, clambering roses, fragrant lilac 

and emerald-green foliage, a bower

of brightness under shimmering sun.

A brilliant chorus consolidates

the sensational scene, cardinal

trilling atop the spire of the pine,

song sparrow singing its presence

within the dense-needled fastness

surrounded by the architecture of

nature's multitudinous bounty.

We wander, amazed with our senses 

reacting to fabulous revelations, the 

groomed and orderly yet riotously 

singular textures and shadings shamelessly 

boasting their peerless freshness in prideful

display.  This tempestuous, tenuous 

presence fragile with timeless patience.

 Livid History

How could you? appealed the

teen to her grandmother,

responding with swift dismay

to an anecdote of reminiscence;

two very young people who

intertwined their lives until

one decided they should part,

the other dissolved in grief

until on reconsideration their 

young union was renewed

and pursued into a long, shared

future.  Well, said the grandmother,

yes it was cruel and he suffered

but that was a long time ago.

The girl would have none of that,

snapping back her disbelief:

But that's my grandfather!

 Hidden Garden

Unknown and unseen by

passersby, our secret garden

is our private delight, leaping

into vision, surprising us

constantly with its display of

flamboyant blooms, fragrant

floral sprays and the fabulous

verdant architecture of vines,

trees of ornamental diversity,

leaves like spoons and spades,

lances and air-light feathers.

None but we privy to its

splendid array and glorious

colour, shapes and enchanting

discoveries of unexpected

appearances, shared by bees,

butterflies, dragonflies and

birds that shelter in the

dazzling performances it

daily mounts in the theatre

of its lively exuberance.

Our Garden

 The Drowning World

Drenched, near-drowned we are,

in Nature's bespittaled spite,

these dark gloomy, oppressive

days of unrelenting rainfall.  The

soil flails, cowers, objecting in

the weight of the deluge, refusing

to open its satiated maw as 

waterways course livid with

muck, churned by the opened

skies, incapable of restraining

the dark menace of burdened

clouds groaning and clashing,

releasing themselves from the

bondage that threatens to hurl

them to the landscape below as

they leak and bellow their agony,

dashing floods below, flushing

roots and whipping branches from

their living perches, all stifled and

strangled, gasping to dry, feel

sun, be rescued from the world

turned into a churning seabed.

The Canadian Rockies

Photographs courtesy of J.S. Rosenfeld

Following Orders

How very liberating

it must have been to calmly

state "nicht schuldig".

To serve a master like the

German Reich whose purpose

so neatly dovetailed with

their very own sentiments

and indeed direction 

toward a divine destiny.

How relieving and

honourable to say, placidly,

with such serene conviction

that they were, after all,

merely and sincerely

with all the passion

they could muster,

following orders.

Not for them, proudly

diligent in their duty,

to refuse to murder, bit

by needful bit, an entire

people.  For they represented

the dregs of humankind and

those that herded them into

death camps were, in reality,

the chosen, supreme.