Tranquil and Still

The fiery orb of the sun
burns its passage across
an ocean-blue sky, its
warmth concealed by the
ice-fire of a winter day,
wind whirling and whipping
feathery snow into every crevice.

Bright spears of sunlight
pierce the crowns of deciduous
trees, their limbs black and bare
against a landscape heavily
sifted with snow, stumps in
ghostly shapes haunting the
atmosphere, tranquil and still.

The snow, powdery-light, sits
fully on conifers transformed
into delicate white pagodas,
translucent in the blinding
light.  That transcendental
light of the sun paints a 
glow over the  canopy of
the forest, capturing magic.

That Mountain Air

Photographs courtesy of J.S. Rosenfeld

 

Mars, by Diego Velazquez

God of War

He rampaged bloodily through the

pantheon of Roman antiquity,

Mars bellicose and triumphant,

leading the never irenic battalions of

Rome's fearsome military might,

their phalanxes, their helmeted,

breast-plated, shielded centurions

and their raging chariots and swords

to lay waste to all those nations

defiant unto death against the might

of Rome. How could they possibly

know of a distant planet that 

served the Universe by experiment

through incomprehensible orders

of magnitude far surpassing in time

the era of our own ancient mould -

Mars unleashed a nuclear storm 

of absolute annihilation, destroying

all life in its dread demonstration

of the very nature of intelligence

coursing through an advanced

civilization ...  An eternal memory?

That Jewish Sage

Would he be amused, bemused,
troubled or, knowing the frailties
of humankind, simply shrug and
carry on with his ministry, this
Jewish son, this prophet, this
philosopher-king, this lover of
humankind, with his empathy and
his mission to make of us all 
better humans than we have been, 
paying homage to the tenets of his 
teaching while failing to personally 
practise what he preached, expecting 
others to conform to the ineffable 
message believing themselves exempt 
from doing unto others in justice,
preferring simply to do unto others.
Would he, returning, rebuke us
all or chide himself for ever
believing that more might be
expected of humankind?

Unforgotten

Don't fret, Grandma, you're not forgotten 
after all; hear that musical little ping? 
That's your email messaging you of another 
arrival made simple despite distance. It's your 
favourite - sorry - your only grandchild. All 
the more priceless and cherished, remembering 
you. A long, loving and detailed missive, 
grammar perfect, spelling also, filling in on 
the last memorable conversation: What's up 
with you guys?  She missed a few days of
classes; buses not running - severely inclement 
weather days the culprit. Finished reading 
The Book of Negroes you recommended, now 
eager to read others.  An "I told you so" moment, 
she cheerily admits. Best friend gave her
The Art of Racing in the Rain for Christmas.  
The book kind of teaches life lessons through 
the eyes of a dog, she explains, then goes on to 
elaborate on the plot, hoping the dog doesn't die
on the last page, a writing device she loathes
and anticipates.  The cover art is adorable -
see, she has photoed it as an attachment. She pored 
over clothing inventory online at American Eagle, 
chose what she wanted, went to the mall (crowded 
and gross) but they had only just the ugly plain crap
and clearance stuff no one wants any more.
Her longtime school chum Tyler, mentioned
his dad suggested taking him on a trip to look at 
universities during March break, and said he could 
invite a few friends, so she's thinking wouldn't 
it be fun! to map out the different schools 
they'd want to check out.  Love.

At one time, not all that long ago, they had two little dogs.  They are now reduced to one.  The little female dog was well advanced in years, closing in on 20 when she passed from this mortal coil.  The little male is a young 12 years of age, but stolid in temperament, unlike the liveliness of his companion.

They themselves are not young, having experienced three-quarters-of-a-century of life.  And they like to keep busy; life and doing things energizes them.  On cold winter days they dress their remaining little dog in protective gear.  He is very small and delicate to a degree, so when the snow is deeper than he is high, and the wind bellows icily and it is very cold, he wears a coat to insulate his little body against the cold.  If it is very, very cold, he also wears boots, which he would prefer not to.

On one such very cold day when the wind was blasting about new-falling snow in a forested ravine they gain easily from their home, it was felt necessary to gear him up against the very inclement weather, rather than remain home, without a daily recreational walk.  Even in the house in the winter he wears a light little jacket for he is sensitive to the cold.

On this occasion, over his little interior jacket went a down-filled zippered vest, and over that a sheepskin-type coat with a roll-up collar.  And on came the boots.  The boots work well when they work with the environment, not against it.  They become a problem, with their little leather pads sewn onto thick fleecy fabric, when there is ice underfoot, or dry snow, since they tend to slip and this tends to cause a problem in locomotion.

Perhaps the ghost of the other little dog, the one that outlived her lifespan, spurred him on.  Despite the difficulties the little tyke encountered, stuffed like a helpless sausage into a three-fold casing, and boots that allowed him no traction, he managed nonetheless to complete his daily perambulation in the woods close to the home where he lives.

Winter Masterpiece

The wind bellows its ferocious
breath through the forest frozen
in winter's white cloak.  Keening
through the trees lashed by its
pitiless force, a low moan breaks
the stillness of the snow-muffled
woods.  Despite its insistence the 
embroidered landscape of intricately 
bowered patterns resists the relief 
unburdening of wondrous tracery; 
limbs and branches delicately limned 
in layers of ice and snow as though 
the fevered genius of an authentic 
artistic expression jealously 
guarding a sublime masterwork.

Waiting...

With the limitless patience of the faithful,
they wait, imperturbably confident and 
assured, the seers and the shamans, the
yogis, the sufis and the swamis, near
Chichen Itza.  Their followers worldwide
besotted with the spiritual chill of the
unknowable void of being will settle for
alternates.  Awaiting the spirals of
heavenly light promised to invade the heads
of believers, from their vast galactic journey,
they weep in fear and joy.  A cosmic dawn
arrives to gift the worthy with telepathy and
they will loose themselves from the
niggardly magnetic bonds of Earth, to
levitate and flee its constricting confines
set to implode.  Electrical vortexes
arrived from the galaxy's centre bid them
hither and they will respond, leaving fear,
embracing love, bathed in the light of
transformative cleansing of the soul.  For
they have discovered true salvation, fleeing 
the stagnating brutal influence of life as
we think we know it.  That is the revelation,
the cataclysmic upheaval that engages 
humanity, one with the golden light
of divine forgiveness, an arcane alchemy 
of  life bypassing death, the final frontier
to incandescent longevity.  If not immortality
then why not?  Thirteen and counting.
Look...at us, at them, the pathetic ones -
quivering with the misery of unrequited life.

 

Farewell 2012

The sense of awe over the sheer 
immensity of the proposed prospect
of this profoundly complex and
busy world we have -- suddenly
running out of time and place to
continue its existence -- finally
after a plenitude of earlier
assumptions and dark, stark
guarantees of collapse through a
sinister agent not quite yet revealed,
has many seekers-after-truth
concerned and preparing themselves
for the final send-off.  Saying their
farewells and presumably their
prayers as well, through the rapture
of finally getting it right as some
rogue comet or asteroid collides,
or an undetected black hole sucks
us into dark oblivion and closure.
On the other hand, those who blink 
in incredulity at the asinine fervour
with which doomsayers cling to 
the finality of Doom may feel free
to select their own favoured scenario,
eschewing dystopian psychosis to
continue welcoming each fresh
new year as it arrives at the portal
of eternal time, fulfilling an
entirely other destiny, sans
the gloom, the yawning void.

Agents of Decay

The conclusion is obvious and
unmistakable; she is not a meticulous
and overly conscientious housekeeper
of her voluminous holdings.  Whether
attributable to disinterested collapse
of purposeful design or the ennui that
sets in over prolonged periods of
studious stewardship, she has chosen
to excuse herself from direct action
and opted instead to job out her
tedious tidying up tasks by
assigning unpleasant, time-consuming
cleanup through contracting out to a
main contractor, Time, who in turn
enlists the services of many subcontractors:
moulds, fungi, bacteria, feathered and furred
omnivores; entropy, morbid agents all - of
decay.  An elementary audit is sufficient
to observe how her forests present
in a state of climax and disintegration;
observe the fallen giants nursing saplings
while the agents of decay perform their
mission.  But, then, of course, Nature
has invested greatly in the braintrust
of her more advanced and capable
organisms designed to enjoy her
gracious invitation to manipulate her
kingdom.  And, like the others who
set about exploiting her generosity,
we do our very unwholesome best.

White Landscape

The lid of the world
is clamped firmly tight -
low, and aluminum-white
as though reflective of
what appears below, a
landscape of unremitting
white - as not a breath
of wind interrupts the
steadily descending snow
overwhelming all it falls
upon.  It is not the sky
emulating the earth's frozen
coverlet but nature's device
of cause and effect that
has drawn a scene of
monochromatic beauty.
But for the punctuated
presence of hornbeam and
beech refusing to surrender
their foliage, blanched to a
vibrant, dessicated umber,
hanging defiantly, delicately
but firmly ornamenting the
all-enveloping white.

Raw Nature

Migod it's cold and although
I'm adequately garbed in boots
and hooded warm jacket, fingers
secured in awkward mittens,
the wind gusts that snow
in icy bursts into my
unsheltered face, icy flakes
clinging to eyelids, my
fiercely burning cheeks,
slyly seeking out entry points
as the cold creeps its menacing
fingers through the jacket wall
chilling my chest, stirring the
marrow of my bones.  How
ill-suited we creatures are
for exposure to raw nature in its
blasted extremes.  How did we
ever manage to endure her
savagery from the primeval
to the present, when tiny tender
creatures like birds survive
unadorned and unprotected by
unnatural additions to their
genetic inheritance, while we
cower and just barely manage
our environment, manipulating
it for our survival never hesitating 
to tread on nature's prerogatives.

Winter

The day as briskly crisp
as a newly-picked apple,
an icy cold prevailed
on the winter arras of a
broad shoreline with leaf-bare
trees sending dark branches
appealing to the blue ceiling
void of clouds, the sun
burning a fiery river across
the glassy surface of a
frozen lake, wind howling
winter's inclement message.
At the narrows rapids
not yet set in seasonal ice
water yet foams in white foment.
There, upon the rocks
gulls have gathered, settled,
their shrill shrieks shattering
the fragile, brittle air.

Childhood Haven

Shannon Hicks, Newtown Bee / AP Photo

Childhood Haven

In a dreadful torment of anxiety
the parents arrive to seek
out and collect their young.
Children sent off only hours
earlier to their Kindergarten,
grade I and grade II classes
to be inducted through the
social and academic skills of 
their teachers into society's
broad contract.  Those parents
who return home empty-armed
with broken spirits are
those whose children were
oh so briefly exposed to a
fiercely vicious demonstration
of failure in the social contract.
Their deaths speak of the
unspeakable, a lethal crisis
of default, of a deranged mind
setting off on a psychotic spiral
defying rationality, denying
the basis of humanity,
destroying life and leaving
the future deprived of hope.

Life's Casual Rehearsal

Is it possible that
life, as we think
we know it is merely a
casual figment of 
some arcane source,
perhaps the creative
imagination of some
unknowable being
conducting an 
experiment in possibilities
and potentials, curious
to witness the actions
and reactions of
organisms of its design
feeling themselves
on their own voyages
of discovery while
entertaining their maker,
concluding this to be
an unfortunate failed
enterprise unsuitable for
a long-range project
of which it was to
represent a rehearsal.
Bored indifference
with an imperfect
experiment the result,
the creatures left
by their creator
to get on with
their paltry existence
as well they might.
Their throwaway planet
dismissively tossed
into the yawning
endless cavity of space
in a reckless universe.

Sun Lances On Ice

The sun lazing in the afternoon sky
creates daggers of light glancing
off branches sheathed in ice
sparking and sparkling on the
landscape of trees' bare branches
on a mid December day of 
brittle cold where nuthatches and
chickadees flit their tiny, nervous
presence in search of minuscule
evergreen seeds, Hawthorne haws,
cocoons.  The forest floor has
disappeared under a glistening
snow-and-ice-crystal carpet
coating fallen rotting trunks and
stumps veneered in sheer ice.  A
scarlet cardinal settles like a 
blaze of independent fire on
a darkly glittering limb.  Wind
has hastened the presence of a
fluffy white flock of clouds to
browse on the blue meadow until
those heavenly sheep become so
numerous they obscure the sun.

This Is Canada

Incomparable, Breathtaking Landscapes

Photos courtesy of J.S. Rosenfeld and his infallible camera

Nature's Faithful

Weighted by a crystalline layer
of ice, delicately frosted with
snow, the glittering burden,
delightful to the eye,
has brought pine boughs
sweeping the winter-gripped
landscape in a graceful swoon,
as though the trees were
distorted in an agony of
pietical adoration of their
omnipotent maker whose nature
it is to visit upon the patiently
suffering forest slumbering
through cold and icy blasts
existential challenges to the
very nature of their obeisance
to this divine authority.

Confessional Grief

Are we wise when we allow our
emotions to escape the tight
confines of our misery, to
unburden them to others
whose instinct is to give counsel?
Do we set out to draw counsel
or have we chosen that course
in preference to an unfeeling wall
absorbing our wails of hopeless
anguish when to confront another
may elicit sympathetic nods,
assurances that others too suffer.
Divulging to a special other the
details of regret, confusion,
rejection and pain may bring 
some element of comfort,
releasing the dam of hurt, in a
wash of confession, a fragmentary 
relief, short-lived.  It is not advice
we look for, but tender solicitude
and the trust that in our need we
have not revealed that much
that will make us pitied or 
distrusted, quietly criticized or
scorned, vulnerable, defeated.

Northern Exposure

The river is wide, dark and thick
as oil, harshly roiled in the wind
that whips the gathering clusters
of snow so fiercely that soon  the
river is completely lost to sight
in the opaquely dominant white
of a storm affirming winter's
final arrival.  The thousands of
geese complacently settled on the
frozen, grassy banks beside the
river to delicately harvest edible
fall detritus must surely now regret
their negligent tardiness to depart.

 Happy Returns

Oh my, another year gone.
I cannot recall what I 
spent it on, there have been
so many of them, straining
my credulity.  Lest I doubt
I have only to glance at him
for we have spent those years
together.  He is as impetuous
now as he was then.  Then?
Oh, back when dinosaurs
roamed the earth.  Our
youngest son once explained
how anxious he was
to take possession of a
dinosaur egg of his very own.
We have ourselves taken
possession of old age.
Though the year is not yet
upon us, he has pressed 
his gift upon me, for he cannot
wait out the time and I,
obliging, unwrap the gift
to suitable surprise and
absolute delight.  It shines back
at me, timeless, a veritable
clone of last year's gift,
an impressively matched pair.

 

Companions

They're a balm for the spirit,
an antidote to isolation
and loneliness, an
absolute spur to laughter
and sheer enjoyment of 
life's little pleasures. Their
warmth and trustfulness,
fidelity and sweet dependence;
love unconditional
in their puppy-antics,
ears aflop and legs
flying in hot pursuit
of anything, anything at all
that moves, inspiring attention
transforming them into
avid adventurers, elfin
whirlwinds of puffed fur,
sniffing snouts, eyes
detecting movement,
ears isolating sound no
mere human can identify.

Cretins Internationale

Though I pride myself in residing in
neither camp, I do realize the vast gulf
in apprehension between a nitwit and a
half-wit.  The former has all the grey matter
required for superior mental gymnastics
yet misses the mark, whereas the latter
will forever dwell in the grim netherworld
of surface conclusions trumping the
nuances of critical awareness simply
because of skimpy genetic endowment.
I was in the appropriate line on the
factory floor and I still cannot fathom
the chasm yawning between the cerebrally
disadvantaged and the stellar synaptic off
target.  Deeply pondering the aggregate.

Seasonal Theatre

There is nothing of an impish quality
in one so powerful, though bedevilment
is what she's up to in full tease mode.
Like a playful cat entertaining itself
with its helpless prey. Nature has decided
to withdraw winter and return us to spring,
idling her time with roguish pranks.
Admittedly, it is entrancing to experience
the inversion, the ground thawing, ice
and snow melting, the wind less cruel
and though the sun remains hidden, the
atmosphere is downright balmy, a gentle
mist steams over the landscape and our
fingers and toes not chilblain-threatened.
But the teasing interregnum is too brief -
we no sooner become grumpily accustomed
to winter's excesses than we are reprieved
then rapidly plunged back into its icy grip.  
Nature gripped with indecision or
within the grip of malice aforethought.

Sincerely Regretful

Sincerely Regretful

We enjoy our home, my husband and me.  It has been carefully crafted, in a very real sense, to reflect our aesthetic values.  We have had some experience in that arena.  This is the fourth house we have owned.  The first was in our possession for about fourteen years, the second a mere two years, though we had a great affection for it.  The second was ours for eighteen years, and the final house that is currently our home has been lived in by us for almost twenty-two years.

Each of our homes reflected how we wanted our close intimate environment to look.  An achievement in each case that was a function both of our evolving and growing appreciation for fine objects and our need for practical ones, along with a very tight budget, for in the first forty years of our marriage we balanced our income as best we could with the acknowledgement that it was not a generous one, but one that fit our values closely enough.

Which brings us to the current house.  The culmination, as it were, of our evolution from still-teen householders merging into parenthood, managing to raise three children and make the most of what life has to offer in every sphere, introducing those children to both the pedestrian in life and the sublime, which latter would include exposure to nature and natural surroundings, music, performance, artistic endeavours, and above all, a love of literature.

That's not the main thesis of this little story.  To explain what is, I should linger on the episode of my craftsman-husband transforming the powder room of our current home from attractive to abundantly so.  He ripped out the counter top that was built into the room, replacing it with one of his own design, topping it with dark blue tiles, and interspersed within the dense blue were a number of decorative tiles which held colourful tropical fish and seahorses.

He then built a door to replace the existing one, and this door was framed with wood, but the entire door was constructed otherwise of stained glass, and the design that my husband came up with was an expanded reflection of the decorative tiles, replete with exotic fish and aquatic plants.  The stained glass window he designed reflected some of those same colours but that window was a snippet of our garden with bright and beautiful irises and lilies within a micro-landscape.

Amazingly we found a liquid soap dispenser and matching toothbrush holder a lighter version of that same dark electric blue, and within the blue was encased yellow-and-purple, striped, golden-orange fish, and elfin seahorses, very similar to those of the tiles and the stained-glass door.

One day, while we were shopping at a thrift shop, my attention turned to two women one of whom held a wastebasket standing behind us at the check-out counter.  It was the wastebasket that held my attention, for it had a brilliantly coloured depiction of the very same exotic fish that existed in our powder room.  I spontaneously burst out with that information and the woman holding the basket looked intrigued, then just as spontaneously held the basket out to me.

I hadn't wanted the basket.  I merely found it fascinating that it coincidentally reflected the fish in our powder room, and mentioned it as a point of conversation between strangers.  It isn't at all unusual for me to chat with people I don't know, when we happen to be casually thrown together in some forum or other.  I felt consternation; how to react?  I explained that I hadn't meant that I wanted the wastebasket, I was just remarking on its resemblance to our decor.  Obviously, the woman thought I was being evasive from embarrassment and urged the object on me again, saying "here, take it, it will fit in perfectly with your powder room".

As she handed it off to me, I thanked her profusely, expressing my appreciation for her generosity.  I had, in fact, only meant to be conversational and friendly.  I hadn't wanted the wastebasket.  It wasn't a solid, well-made thing; the sides were comprised of plastic stretched taut over a square frame; the plastic fabric was thin and easy to puncture; the images of the fish were its only saving grace.  And it was mine.  We paid for it, and left the shop.  Arriving home, I set it on the floor of the powder room.

And there it sits to this day.  It's attractive and it fits in very well with the general decor.  And I dislike it heartily.  Each time I empty it, each time I wash the floor and move it, I am dismayed at the fragility of the material of which it is constructed; it is functional and it is a veneer, a facade of something substantial, which it is not.

So why do I keep it?  Beats me.  If I were to shed it, it would represent, I imagine, a discourtesy to the woman who had so generously sacrificed something she obviously thought had value, to a stranger who had expressed admiration and an affinity for it, even if she didn't quite mean what she said to the extent that the woman holding the wastebasket felt she did. 

Irreconcilable

Ours is no relationship of equals.
I am quite clearly her subordinate.
Not that she always goes out of her way
to emphasize her power over me, but
her every mood affects my every mood.
I cannot find emotional independence
while she, for her part, is loftily
oblivious, moreover has no interest
whatever in how her imperious,
impervious decisions transform me.
Today, take today, when she chose to
monopolize the day with symptoms of
Her foul temper.  I had no thought that
she would disrupt events to the extent
she so spontaneously did, I was not
forewarned and in my innocent
vulnerability I brought anticipation
of a bright day with a glad smile on my
face, greeting her.  Her response?
Unequivocally denying, she called upon
her atmosphere, her rain-laden clouds,
her winds, to mount a mean offensive
against my presumption, greeting me
with the bleak scowl of a darkly dismal day,
cutting wind, bitter cold and most inclement 
of all, an unstoppable freezing rain.