The Long Approach

The murmuring hush of the

wind blowing long, green

leafy streams hanging from the

Mulberry weeping in the humid heat

of the day presages the passage of

darkening clouds sliding over the

blue sky, obscuring the sun's

furious furnace.  The reds and

pinks of petunias and impatiens

glow shades darker, the paper-white

multi-blossomed begonias more 

white than white on the green-enhanced 

background, as the glow deserts the 

sky so it glowers instead, influenced 

by ash-shaded clouds crowding the 

heavens, issuing due warning in ever

increasing decibels; a thunderstorm

on the march to relieve parched soil.

 

Of The Universe

Heat pulsates and radiates

piercing the cloudless atmosphere,

courtesy of Apollo driving his

golden chariot high above,

blinding our eyes with its glorious

radiance no mortal may look upon

without consequence.  We see the

golden orb of our galaxy's life-giving

sun spewing its hydrocarbons 

as far as solar winds can take

them in our little cosmos.  The

ancient Greeks saw one of a panoply

of elegant gods, an ancient Pharoah,

Akenaton, saw the monotheistic

evidence of a single god, Aton.

In our woodland ramble this day

of extreme heat we see evidence

in blazing colour and exquisite

sound of minute suns flitting the

branches of the forest as a flock of

delicate goldfinches evidence the

grand creation of nature, harnessing

the sun in her mysterious blueprint

of the unfathomable universe.

All The News

In the newsworthy quotidian habit of 

parsing the news from front to back

we read the most recent of the

country's intersection in time and

space with the concerns of a

civil society.  Moving on to

international news and world events.

Focus generally narrows to social 

failures of one magnitude or

another, natural disasters of great

consequence, or turbulent relations

between nations - not excluding

reactions and hoped-for solutions

to social declines, war and

oppression, earthquakes and

volcanic eruptions; celebrity antics

and Sweepstakes winnings, along with

local events, the sporting life and

finally the Lifestyles Section.

Where culture, art and society meet.

Where (hush!) on several crowded

pages a summation of the

vitality (and futility) of human

existence is placed in ordered

perspective.  Within the 'events'

pages divided into "welcoming", 

"celebrating", and finally "remembering".

Polite nomenclature for birth notices

(hatching), then self-congratulatory

newsprint hugs for graduations,

engagements and marriage photos.

And the last communal message 

announcing end-of-life events, 

'dispatches' for the dearly departed.

We know our society is in climax mode

when more news space is consumed 

by the departed notices, when dispatch

has successfully elbowed hatch and

celebrate to minor musings.

Through A Dark Fog

There are those among us
from whom goodness and decency
and the swell of optimism
radiates throughout life, these
people whose greetings and smiles
affect all those with whom they
share breath on this planet.  They
represent the marvel of witnessing
shooting stars lighting up the
heavens however briefly, casting
light and shared emotions of
faith in the future, theirs and ours.


As their luminous presence
illuminates ours in communicating 
a bond between souls, their more
numerous alternates in characteristic
gloom glower through endless days
of distrust, anger and rejection,
casting about them the dampening
soul-destroying pall of misery 
at their lot in life and life in general,
teetering on the abyss of the
subconscious malignancy of hatred.

We Are Unprepared

We have lovingly framed
many of our old photographs
of her and placed them around
the house in various places where
we are certain to cast upon them.
They are there for us to enjoy
her personality, her character,
as unlike any other as we are
ourselves unique.  We look and
recall events over the almost
twenty years she shared with us.
We see her precocious, excited
and engaged persona, doing what
she loved, entrancing us; her
life companions.  Our lives so 
much lengthier than hers,
however.  Seeing her is a comfort,
we mourn less.  It is only when
riffling through old photos
absent-mindedly that we come
abreast of our grief, when she
appears suddenly and we are
unprepared, our loss magnified.

 Gardening

There is no pleasure quite like

the deep transport of satisfaction, 

spade in hand, digging into the 

chocolate loam of fertile soil, 

absorbing the fragrance of its 

moist promise, inserting an 

immature tree, a shrub to flower 

in its time, vines to entangle 

themselves on fence and trellis, 

root clumps to be divided and 

annual blooms to take their place 

amongst stalwart perennial bloomers.

The season delightfully punctuated

by growth spurts reflecting the

transformation that sun and rain

accomplish, apprentices to nature.

A Bouquet of Caution

There is wisdom, grandeur and
comfort in nature's designs, her
countless formulas seldom deviate
from her perfect plans.  From the
breathtaking scope of her infinite
details to her delicacy in
embellishment and the fundamental
inter-relationship of all her creations,
we stand in awe and in fear of her
unpredictable dark moods.  The 
life force she imbues in all things
animate, her dominance over the
Universe, down to the very
microcosms of her playful dalliance
with the chemistry of existence
baffles, intrigues and endlessly
cautions.  Yet we, in confidence
of the familiar, confront and oppose
until patience worn, she dispatches

her elements in response, to remind.

Photos courtesy of J.S. Rosenfeld

RRRRing!?

There exists, I am now convinced,
a baffling mystery-presence that,
or who, aspires to my confidence;
at the very least perhaps a distant
acquaintanceship, some type of
relationship unknown to me,
just as this phantom presence is
puzzling to me.  Yet that ghostly
presence manifests existence in
an attention-compelling display of
presence, interrupting throughout
the day my thoughts and actions,
calling me to respond, and when I
do, overcome with bashfulness, a
sudden onslaught of delicacy,
becomes mute, failing any rejoinder.
Unless my telephone is itself the
source unaided by outside influence,
beckoning me in the only language
in which it is familiarly comfortable?

Wind Dervishes

Amiably pretty, sweetly inoffensive

the way the morning began its journey

toward completion of a summer's day.

Clear blue, the sky, sun seated on its

regal throne, in charge of all it

surveyed in the charged and heated

atmosphere, pitilessly broiling the

landscape below.  Lovely, withal.

Somewhere up there a protest was

brewing.  Solar winds dispersed not

only that orb's furnace-fierce radiating

heat, but pouting-damp clouds

lingering backstage; now they slowly

emerged, black-clad, bruised, to

engage and curtain the firmament.

Black embraced all that could be

seen.  And distant, warning rumbling

the grumbles of bad-tempered wind

dervishes whirling and whorling

the heavens with streaks of mean

tempered claps bringing notice to

the electric presence of their nasty

tantrums.  The searing, wicked gales

sling daggers of ice across the

landscape pinging shrilly on roofs

and windows; within, shielded

cowering, helpless creatures.

Howling derisively at the cowardly

sheltered, avalanches of rain

catapult from clouds densely crowding

out light, transforming day to night,

drenching, washing away the heat,

as cold fingers of dread ravage

trees and mountains, rattle birds

sheltering within thickets of ragged

leaves, relieving the world of

the concerns of enervating heat

and drying drought, leaving in their

wake a landscape devastated, broken

and deprived of collected calm.

On The Move, Again

Historically, human communities

were tribal, exclusive, bellicose 

and on the move in the jungles

of Africa and in the deserts of Arabia.

Seeking the advantage that would

allow them to persevere and endure

in the worlds of scarcity, they sought

to preserve themselves obeying the

primeval imperatives of existence.

How times have changed; their

geography plumbed now for rare

and sought-after mineral resources, 

and gushers of petrofuels enriching

their modern-day states. Plenty for all

to share.  Human nature has not

changed, malign tribal forces

exact their due in violent division.

Great masses of humanity continue

their migratory journeys fleeing

persecution, oppression, wars,

religious intolerance.  Mostly Muslims

make these pilgrimages of wild

desperation now, women and children

fleeing rape and slavery, men evading

slaughter, their righteous assassins

in hot, suicidal pursuit of martyrdom.

Iraqis streaming into Jordan and Syria

for haven.  Syrians fleeing in terror

to Turkey, Lebanon and Jordan.

Malians leaving ancient Timbuktu,

just as Syrians flee equally ancient

Damascus.  Libyans to Italy for succour,

and Somalis and Yemenites, Tunisians

and Egyptians, Iranians and Afghans in

full flight from their brethren.

During these most holy of crescent

moon-sighted days of quiet repose,

prayers, remorse and forgiveness,

the need to fast from sun up to sun

down presents few challenges to those

who have left possessions and food 

behind them during yet another series 

of jihad inspired soul-searching

found desperately, horribly wanting.

 Anthropogenic?

The garden sits simmering

in a haze of heat, the vivid

colours of its floral displays

wan and pallid, lacking the verve

so recently paraded before the

proud gardener's daily garden

prowl.  The verdance has

notably dimmed, the plants

restored after a heat-demented

squirrel's rampage have wilted

and expired.  This garden in

distress appeals listlessly to the

dismayed surveyor of a drought

induced disaster, to mount a

rescue, the life-giving balm of

water that nature has withheld in

her defiance of creatures

convinced their intervention

trumps natural order.  The plight

of the garden a mere unfortunate

symbol of the inevitable conflict

that nature is destined to use

to the advantage of neither.

Encounter

We are unknown to one

another, have never before met,

have no knowledge of one the

other's individuality, personal

history, values, yet we instantly,

on sight, become alert, pass

judgement.  It is visceral and

weighted by heritage and culture.

She is dark, swarthy, habituated

to scowling for her facial features

have long since settled thus.  She

recognizes my ethnic visage,

not that dissimilar to her own.

We face in a brief exchange,

lacking the barest civility

through a common act of

public commerce, the served

and the server.  The hostility is

not amenable to an easy solution, 

it is as deep and unbridgeable

in its acquired avalanche of 

boulders of assumption brittle

with suspicion, blame and 

hatred as though the insults

and assaults had sudden-occurred

rather than representing ageless

conflicts the passage of time has

never succeeded in cleansing

to admit passage and the

alternate of humane empathy.

Little Red ... Hen

There, now, didn't take all

that long, did it?  Incredulous

as you were, seeing me select

those plumply luscious red orbs

one by one, they're done now.

The kitchen sink is littered

with discarded stems and

cherry pits, the glistening

white countertop now steeped

in copious red juice, the bowl

brimful of destoned cherries.

Although I declined your

kind offer of help, ameliorating

your snort of amused derision,

you will help me eat the

cherry pie, of course?  Of

course you most certainly will!

 Misses Congeniality

The sumptuously generous

compound floral heads of the

hydrangeas gather atop the

shrub, whispering shyly

in the blessing of a breeze

on this fiercely hot summer

day, the golden orb above

cooking the atmosphere.

They resemble white, ivory,

cream, lacy-gowned

debutantes at their very own

society ball, a huge social

event, a coming-out party

for the young and the beautiful,

the privileged and the

oh, so very nubile nymphs.

 Thank You, No!

Kindly take heed and do not, I ask you 

courteously, (belying my aggravated state), 

interrupt my browsing through these 

bookshelves,as necessary for me as 

the pastoral scene of cattle quietly 

browsing; they for physical sustenance 

and me for the sublime pleasure of my 

reading soul, as necessary for my full 

enjoyment of life as feeding at the trough 

of knowledge and experience.

Thank you, no!  I have no interest

in your informed choices, I am 

perfectly capable of selecting

my own for who better than I

knows the categories of my

fascination with literature...?

The authors you choose are not

reflective of my idiosyncratic

library of taste.  Please continue

your vital occupation stocking

shelves.  Leave me to my reveries

and my fastidious ritual of selective

worship of the writing muse.  She

also, on my behalf, bids you

with no further ado, begone, depart,

vamoose, leave me kindly, in the

peace of my own devising.

 Idolatry

He recognizes a

veritable panoply of

gods, all of them

sacred to his faith

in living and in

forever.  His trust

in this assurance 

of plenty inspiring

him to the sacraments

of the blessed aromas

that tincture the air

he trustingly breathes,

the sounds of

preparation upon the

shrines of plenty, his

devotion to the sacred

rites of devouring what

is placed before him,

his acts of daily piety

and surrender to the

gods of the stove,

the refrigerator,

the pantry 

and the barbecue.

 Sparked By The Sun

A living, breathing jewel it is,

wearing its brilliance like a

faceted gem blazing in the

fierce light of a summer day.

From dawn's first light to

long past dusk, his scarlet body

arrows the sky, flits among

tree branches, his pitch-perfect

voice electrifies the atmosphere

with arabesques of captivating

song.  A prince of the church,

of nature's divine blueprint,

the cardinal presides over the

landscape of due providence .

The Near Horizon

Well, guess what?  It's a tight

little world we inhabit after all,

one comprised of a vast 

multitude of competing, often

very hostile interests and attitudes

reflective of the huge diversity

in human idiosyncrasies, 

tribal affiliations, religious

sects and their heresies,

political ideologies and, of

course, the heritage of geographical

cultural imperatives.  The world,

once so large, and its peoples

disconnected, now forms an

immense supertropolis with 

interconnected villages.

Complacency does not live here

any more for one cannot any

longer assume physical safety

through the separation of distance.

Threats and danger lurk wherever

we fail to suspect they exist.

The local has its international

flair, for the unstoppable tide of

human migration has brought

conflict to parts once foreign,

now infiltrated by stealth and

increasingly, my friends, at risk.

Nature's Nurturing

The greenwood landscape thrums
and throbs in the golden haze
of endless summer days. 
Through the stillness of the woods
the clarion-clear song of a
Cardinal, its voice as brilliant as
its plumage.  The syncopated
tapping of woodpeckers on the
worried trunks of ageless trees.  

The creatures of the forest, furred 
and feathered, favour these long 
daylight hours to rummage and 
scrounge their playground.


Latterly-nested juvenile crows
plaintively flop their midnight
wings harrying fatigued parents
to be fed, uncertain yet to fend
independently.  Amusing an owl,
looking down from above, head
cocked at the familial pantomime
on one side, the purposeful
scurrying of squirrels on the other.

Joyous Clique

Sandals slapping the pavement
in a staccato chorus of carefree
presence, they make their way
up the street, voices pitched
high on the ecstasy of a sunny
summer day, free to do as they
wish and what better way than
together, a small platoon of
smiley-face teens, hair lustrous
and loose in the calming breeze,
chatting, chattering, giggling and
so very much entertained and
enthralled with the vibrancy and
unknown potentials in life.

No, thanks...No Thanks

...NO THANKS!!

No, really, I do not wish to

have my house ducts cleaned,

sucked pristine clean through

your expert services.  Nor do I

wish to engage your extraordinarily

gifted computer technicians to

find, isolate and correct all those

faults in my cranky old computer,

on behalf of Microsoft.  Who even

knew they cared?  They don't know

themselves that they don't, not

having authorized your offer.

And thanks, but no thanks, I've

no use whatever for your so

very-professional lawn-care services

preferring to tend to it myself, with

great pleasure.  It affords me no

pleasure to seem rude, but, you see,

I respond in this very same vein

each time you call and it is

painfully often, so kindly prepare

henceforth to be summarily

and with vehemence, dismissed.

This Lovely Girl

She appears as bright and

fresh as an early morning

dew-kissed blossom, walking

her dog in the neighbourhood

woodland.  And we, briefly

familiar with her father and

her mother years before her

birth, see her father's features

in the smiling 15-year-old's 

face.  There was, back then,

another dog, a volubly

emotional comic who brought

warmth and hilarity to chance

encounters.  She recalls him

fondly, this lovely girl whom

we've come across at two-year

intervals, witnessed emerging

into her current form and 

persona, as potent an emissary

of the continuity of wholesome

goodness in humanity's constant

process of renewal as any we

have ever encountered.

Between Us Alone

How could they know

her absence is not a

casual subject of conversation

between us and others, only

between us alone.  A chance

encounter, an animated

conversation and then, 

a pall of silence, a brief,

terse explanation, a 

flurried expression of

condolence, and we part;

they wondering, we thrust

back to the raw emotions

of loss, for our wound is

not yet contained within the

healing properties of scar

tissues enabling endurance.

 The Summer Woods

Seated impassively on a branch

of a tree in decline, half-hidden

by the desiccated leaves, the owl

swivels his great head, peering

at a peripatetic squirrel below.

Beyond, at the ravine's creekbed,

a pair of second-nesting phoebes

flit about the humid, hot

atmosphere.

Already, Queen Anne's lace,

ragweed, yarrow and cowvetch

are in bloom, joining the daisies

and cornflowers, the floral

bounty of the woods,

alongside the bracken understory.

Crows, dark and sinister

as Hades, perch and call, then

leap into nervous flight.  High

above, hawks coast on the

hot wind, screeching.

Friday Thirteenth

A strange symbolism for those

who believe in their rational

view on life; then comes a

critical time, a climax when

nothing can forestall the

inevitable any longer, not the

passion of love, and affectionate

protection nor pleading with

Fortune can halt the progression

of life toward death.  The Grim

Reaper is an implacable, impatient

warden of his realm and nothing

deters him from the mission

entrusted him to gather the

quick breathing that last gasp

and the immortal spirit of the

creature that has expired, to the

mouldering confines of that

last rest.  We, left confused in

our loss, only understood much 

later that some mysterious fate

awaited when we least suspected

on Friday, the 13th day of April.

 Dominating The Conversation

Like any mother grown weary

of blame and complaints, Nature

too resorts to tricks masquerading

as treats, for one becomes the

other when timing is somehow

inappropriate.  Yes, she has given

us seasons and climate extremes,

those character-forming exposures

that teach patience, restraint,

forbearance and hope, but the

constant familiarity and irritation

of those extremes of heat and

alternately cold atmospheres leave

us disgruntled and peevish.  For her

part, Nature expostulates there is

simply no pleasing us; complain of 

Polar climatic seasons and she

relents, bringing us the searing

Sahara.  She is a devious tease.

 Nature's Offspring

Thick, grey plumes rise over

the treed mountain ridges,

from the slopes and from

the valleys shrouded in mist

shielding the mountains from

view, rising to meet the

bruised clouds hung out

like soiled laundry suspended

on the mountain peaks, unable

to glide on the invisible sky, 

skewered and stubbornly hanging

in place, complementing the 

rising curtain of mist as rain

prevails, lightning strikes

through the vapour and a militant

roll of drums thunder on, the

stage drama of geology and

weather meeting in a natural

and revisited difference of 

opinion, each hubristically

livid over the impudent and

unwarranted assumptions of the 

other - nature's offspring fume.

Mountain Storm

The frenzied swirls and eddies,
cool, clear languid pools, the
white-capped froth of mountain
streams pour relentlessly down
perpendicular rough slopes
whose elemental stunted trees
glitter with a storm's ravages,
so recently unloosed, a torrent
from the black glowering roof of
the world in a wildly furious night
of thunderous clamour.  As air
masses confronted one another,
the hot, dry challenging the force
of the cool moist, they unleashed
belligerent fury releasing pellets
of stinging ice, then shafts of
relentlessly pelting rain, washing
the atmosphere of volatile heat, 
battering trees, as wind plucked
deeply entrenched roots from the
slurried soil to slash the landscape
with the scars of forest corridors
cleared of green to lay bare the
slopes and urge an avalanche of
soil-loosed rock falls, creating
new passage for the crazed water
sluices gathering furious energy,
roaring down the mountain.

CA-NA-DA! We Love You!