Once Upon A Time

In her years of living abroad
in a densely exotic foreign land
fascinating for its mountainous 
landscape and ancient culture
she drew breezily accustomed
to the frequency and mildly
unnerving quakes that rocked
the island nation, assimilating
them into her psychic portfolio
of tolerable experiences.  Returning
to her own vast geology-solid
native home, she heard one day
a growing, growling clatter as
though the forces of Hell had 
freed themselves from the prison
of the Earth's core and were
gloatingly, furiously ascending
as all about her shook and
trembled in mortal fear.  Now,
each time she hears a sound not
immediately identifiable in its
roaring, growling menace, 
reason makes way to visceral
numbing panic of helpless fear.

 Revelatory Perspective

We're hemmed in by adults
resembling ourselves we think, 
and then think again.  To our right,
a couple invested in the magic of 
childhood expectations whom we
can count upon to glide happily in
emphasis on outdoor decor, slipping
from Halloween ghouls, goblins,
cemetery headstones and spine-chilling
screeches over to the more sedate,
no less colourful decorations of the
Christmas season, so devoted and
enthusiastic are they, that they
mix and match, skeletons dangling
from trees illuminated by bright
Christmas lights festooning their
splendidly shaped fir.  On the left 
is the apposite counterpart, a
couple on the verge of decoupling;
he dour and so sadly misfitted to be
married to a cheerful, garrulous woman
invested in genial chatter that he
forbids her all things and turns his
head deliberately from the
inconvenient approach of those 
he has had the acquaintance of for
decades.  We, on the other hand are 
quite sanely grounded in normalcy.

Wretched Little Blighters

Wicked little miseries they are,
truly they are the very personification
of nasty little ingrates, assaulting
the very hand that feeds them and 
their woodland brethren of the
goodness of a human heart - no?

Obviously, those that prowl the
urban landscape seldom commune
thoughtfully with those who choose
instead their home in nearby
forested areas of the urban woodlands.

There, daily are dispensed
bagsful of peanuts to delight the
forest denizens, clearly a superior
breed to their city cousins who choose
gardens over the cloisters of
the living green canopy.

In backyards the charms of these
self-entitled visitors are muted,
less obvious as they purloin seeds
of bird feeders, destroy kitchen-garden
crops in a frenzy of pure mischief.

The little devils uproot flowering
plants and diligently seek out
hopefully planted spring bulbs that
anxious gardeners toil to plant, count
on to survive winter strictures
and miserable squirrel predation.

The Fury of the Season

That ferociously icy wind blasted
through the woods and the trees
wept their cargo of foliage,
releasing them copiously to the 
fury of the season, spiralling them
through the transparency of the
atmosphere, making no secret of
fall.  A small, green-striped snake
snuggled into the leafy coverlet
as above a raven's black wings
spread wide below clouds bruising
the sky.  A grove of maples
defiantly allowed their yellow 
crowns to cling as though
separated from their host they
feared the wind's intent; yet
they too will fall victim to the
inevitable cleansing of the old
for their replacements.  Squalls
alternated from a rainy deluge to a
windfall of russet and gold leaves,
cushioning the forest floor,
preparing the woods for its
inexorable winter freeze.

Autumn Dazzle

It is as though a supernatural force
has enveloped us, saturating our
sensory perceptions, taking us to a
place of primeval longing, a place
both viscerally familiar and yet
bearing no resemblance to the
structures of our quotidian lives.
Here; it is a whirlwind world of
dazzling formation and colour,
taking away breath with its 
surreal abundance as memory
grapples with long forgotten
vestiges of a natural world, 
wind soughing high on a swaying
canopy on its deleafing mission
sending sprays of leafage spiralling
within the forest to cushion its
floor, diminishing crowns and
awarding the forest with 
subdued hues and acrid flavour.
Streams run clear as crystal,
coolly freshening brook trout.

Bruised Hearts

There are all those wise
old adages as proof there
really is nothing new
under the sun, or more
to the point, in the
peculiarity of the
human mind for
malice to one another,
a twisting of the
emotional knife, of
scorn, contempt and
rejection.  At times
it hardly seems to matter,
removed from intimacy
but then sometimes
dysfunction takes a
very personal route
proving that people will
still bite the hand that
feeds them, burn their
bridges, as no general
would do, commit
emotional patricide,
bury themselves under
a welcomed avalanche
of juvenile spite
whatever the cost.

 As A Puppy

She arrived silently, without
notice, not as the old, ailing
creature we are mourning, but
vibrantly active; small, black
and hairy, as she was many years 
ago when she first entered our
lives and changed us in ways
we might never have imagined
without her excited companionship.
Calm she was about her appearance,
and we happily disbelieving, hardly
prepared to understand the
mysterious ways of death and
how it burdens the grieving mind.
Happy that she returned however
briefly, to give us the gift of
recall, as she spread herself
in our arms, then upon the moist,
cool grass as she once so very
much loved to do, as a puppy.

The Kindness of Strangers

It is the little things that tend
to burden us, the realization that
time has passed and with that passage
our effortless response to situations
has been compromised because time
and aging are synonymous.  Sometimes
less a direct appeal, someone unknown -
not even noticed, approaches offering
young eyes to the aid of a pair well
used in their time.  Those simple acts
of stranger kindness, a confident and
robust youth wordlessly and gently
lifting a heavy object from the weary
arms of an elder, then awaiting
instructions where they may proceed
in aid, assure us we are not alone.

Exterior Design

Nature is indulging in a frenzy 
of inspired decor renewal, 
studiously re-arranging her 
furnishings, re-adjusting her
colour palette, urging her creatures 
to a varied cycle of habit to
reflect the altered scheme.

Useless to plead devotion
to the swiftly vanishing hues
of lively greens, piquant fragrances
of fruits and flowers for they
have been temporarily mislaid,
banished from the new look.

Suddenly, bees and bugs,
ants and caterpillars are on notice;
take shelter.  At night the hushed
and haunting cries of songbirds
calling softly as they negotiate
starlit skies to safer welcoming
climes echo departures.

The woods are quieter now, 
the small, furry creatures
furtively gathering and
securing shelter from nature's
renewed longing for change.

Living green has been transformed
to livid orange, gold, crimson
as tides of wind snap tree masts
to shed a shower of acrid
fragrance, a nuanced confetti of
foliage gathering on the forest floor.

All too soon the arras has
become other than what it has been.
A brazen yellow chenille coverlet
prepares the landscape for its
dazzling white downy comforter;
the decor reflecting assigned cycle.

My Hidden Garden

Those shutters that restrain
winter's icy blasts from penetrating
our snug home are our
Winter Garden, ablaze with
coloured glass fashioned
into bright floral display.
They remind us that snow
banked high behind those
shutters will in time depart.
Open wide in summer, the
window overlooking the garden
is the portal that admits our eyes
to the perfection of nature's
summer benevolence.

The Alchemy of Mood

We're a team, together making
the day work to our mutual advantage.
And it is a lovely day, Thanksgiving,
no less, for which we give thanks
to nature and good fortune for the
warmth of the sun despite cool fall,
for the bright and breezy day
championing garden clean-up
and feeling good about life.  For
the sounds of birds winging south,
me snug as he is, both sweatered
against the chill, he waiting patiently
while I cut back perennials and
harvest tomatoes for the table, bulbs
to overwinter indoors, anticipating
spring.  In the house he resorts to a
frenzy of inhaling the aroma of
roasting turkey, the spiced fragrance
of a pumpkin pie steaming fresh
from the oven.  This, a day of small
tasks of tradition, large heaps of
pleasure, leisure and companionship.
Thanks for being there, little fellow.

Wind Rules The Landscape

Wind ruled the landscape
conspiring with rain to
dispel the fog hanging like
dingy laundry over the landscape,
washing it off the lens of the day,
leaving wisp vapours to rise
lazily from woodland streams
as the sky's mantle turned from
furious dark purples of nature\s
apoplectic tizzies to a study
in resistance as the wind
hurried and harried the clouds
in favour of blue and gold.
The sun's brilliant orb drying
the cleansed atmosphere to reveal
a vibrant kaleidoscope of
light-shimmering colour;
 autumn leaves turning and twisting
on their loosed stems, then finally
spiralling free in a confetti
rainfall of descending foliage
as the wind barraged the forest
canopy, vacating its screen.

Heirloom

It is an exquisitely small
object, a silver, five-pointed
star set with brilliant marcasites
hanging on a fine silver chain.
She had coveted the ornament
as a child, persuading her
grandmother, who had it as
a gift from the girl's grandfather
when they were younger than
the granddaughter is now, to 
bequest it to her eager ownership.
It sits, forlorn, the silver star,
a treasured object in a
small jewel box, but not forgotten.
The girl cherishes her "shining
silver star", pensively regarding
it, wishing the world were a
vastly different place, where
someone like her could wear a
valued memento without fear
of spurning betrayal.

Fall's Peaceable Kingdom

Like sheep peacefully meandering
in a great blue pasture, the 
vast vault of the sky is crowded
with a host of scalloped, fluffed
herds of white clouds nibbling
the surrounding blue.  In this
peaceable kingdom, the 
benevolent lion of a sun reclines
in its lair beaming warmth and
content over the complacent world;
not even a hint of a solar wind to
impinge on the insular silence,
roaring below the discontent of
an agitated sovereign, king of all
it surveys; that scenario is best left
to the oncoming winter equinox.

Gone, Unforgotten

Nothing transforms the face of
an elderly person so much as the
sight of a small dog in the loving
care of its devoted person, knowing
the little creature's distress at
separation, taking it along everywhere
to allay its fears and loneliness.
Faces which age and gravity have
set firmly into stern grimness
light with the pleasure of observing
bright eyes, floppy ears and a
curious, moist snout.  Forgotten,
the burden of elder concerns as their
eyes devour the small animal's
presence and from their suddenly
garrulous lips spills memories
of their own small, furred companions,
long gone, but unforgotten.

Pentameter, Rhyme and Metre

Robert Browning, with his
archaic verse exalting language,
attachments and memory for
literary posterity becomes the
class-puzzling example, to be
studied, carefully parsed - and
class - emulate his poetic method.

An impossible, head-banging
assignment, but through her
despair comes the plot: a stone-hewn
castle, large, brooding, darkly impressive,
but outside, oh outside, its grounds
green and fresh and burgeoning with
aromatic shrubs, glorious floral displays,
trees in fruit, so beloved of birds.

Within the dark confines of a
chamber overlooking the splendid
garden, an old man sits, lost in
memory.  Each day he calls for the
gardener to report on the hale
beauty of the garden below, his
very especial treasured memory.

As motes of stardust dance in the
light that the disk of the afternoon sun
beams through the dusky aura of
the chamber, the gardener mutely nods,
listening attentively while the blind
old man speak of his pleasure as
he looks down upon the garden.

It is his beloved wife's special
place, though in life she never
once saw it.  Her grieving, bereaved
husband had it created to reflect
the plants and flowers she most
loved, and now her bright, pure
spirit wanders the garden, by day
and by night, viewed from above.

She speaks to her husband of the
changes she would like and he
duly informs the silently nodding
gardener.  Each day this drama
plays out till the old man lapses
finally into silence, turns his
sightless eyes again to the window.

The gardener departs, for he has
much to do.  He too recalls his
mother's love of flowers.  Gazing
through the humble cottage door,
he knows no garden exists.  His
father daily stirs the dregs of
haunting memory that never was.

Write that in rhyme, she sighs, where
to begin?  How to express the beauty
and the melancholy of it all, the nature
of nature that brings love, devotion and
flowers to humankind, then impulsively,
uncaring, makes it all vanish, removing
the beauty and the familiar comfort,
leaving us to recall in dour solitude?