The Puissant

 

An angel prevents the sacrifice of Isaac, Abraham and Isaac, Rembrandt, 1634

The Puissant

We have our admired role models whom 
it is our undeniable fate to attempt to 
understand and to emulate in striving to 
come to vexing terms with the meaning  of life. 
For scientists, it is Nature in her glorious
splendour and awesome power throughout the 
Universe. Omnipresent, indifferent, timeless, 
capricious. For the faithful who willingly 
suspend the realities of proof, it is a sublime, 
supreme deity, omniscient, forbidding, demanding 
and equally capricious, though not indifferent. 
That Spirit halted Abraham from the proof of 
faithful devotion in the sacrifice of his genetic
survival, urging upon the father of Isaac a ram,
much to the consternation of that poor beast, 
demonstrating God's selective compassion. 
Yet He also planned and executed the sacrifice 
of His only begotten son to prove his own faith 
in the devotion of the mass of humankind. Then 
again, did the Lord assume to offer an even more
puzzling sacrifice, of Abraham's heirs, in their 
incalculable numbers, the flock especially selected 
to represent God's Chosen unto the craven world 
of worshippers, trembling before a world overtaken 
by Satan's spawn. The God of goodness, hope 
and charity setting before humankind an object 
lesson in hubris, puissance and majesty before
whom all must quiver and quaver, as upon 
confronting a massive clash of ill-fated heavenly 
bodies, erupting in the flux and fiery ending of 
absolute destruction, an atomic Holocaust.

 

The Mirage of Ice-Fog

In the near distance, a mist of 
white gauze demarcates the road 
from the inner confines of the deeply 
wooded ravine we approach. The 
ravine absorbs our descent into its 
depths, envelopes us in its mystique; 
guests within its white  interior, the 
monochrome of snow and fog 
interrupted by the dark standards of 
tree trunks coated with glare ice, 
descended from the sky through the 
night hours transforming the winter 
wonderland to a glittering ice palace.

Deep In Winter

Within the renewed splendour of a 
woodland landscape generously sifted 
deep in the down of lighter-than-feathery
snow, we trudge along trails barely to
be detected, kicking up and plowing
through its densely unobliging passage.
Like running at snails pace through a
sandy beach, panted an exhausted man
attempting to keep pace with his two
rapturous dogs. His youth and vigour 
have found their demoralized match in
this frozen landscape of conifers sculpted
of snow and ice, a frozen vista of white
magnificence, overlaid with ephemeral
veils of fine silvery-white skeins as a
sharp wind blasts the heaped and humped
spires and boughs of their groaning burdens.
We clump our way to slow-motion ascents,
the dry snow underfoot cascading into
micro avalanches returning us to the
slope's base to try again. The cold that
seeps its deadly malice into the layers
we have swaddled ourselves within
retreats on the laboured ascent, returns
with a debilitating frigidity on the
wind-blasted heights as we take the full
measure of deep winter's squatting presence.

Accerima Proximorum Odia

Because you have always claimed
I have never earned your respect, you
don't have to believe me, go and study 
Sun Tzu, look up Transactional Analysis,
dig for a definition of spite, intransigence,
vindictiveness; these are not benign
characteristics, my dear. They will all
come back to haunt you all your life.
Not for nothing has it been observed that 
those who cut off their nose to spite
their face are sadly diminished by the
effort. There are glances of hatred that
stab and raise no cry of murder, observed
George Eliot. The dissonance of your
friable, frenetic emotions are not unique,
you see, but they are appalling. Your
amazing vitriol, does it not discomfort
even you, with the frenzied depth of
its acid reflux? Those who go heedlessly
through life burning bridges will find
themselves marooned on a bleak,
deserted island companionless, embittered
and all expertly accomplished with that
stinging malevolent reproach designed
to alienate and distance. The reward of
a hateful mind is a cursedly forlorn abyss.

Hatred - ah yes, but what are little hates
But little deaths that wander on and on.
Walter Greenough, The Vision

Reflection

We fondle our past
with fingers
of fond memory
echoing regret
at time's  
swift passing.

You recall me
soft and round
waiting and eager
that element of danger
of quick discovery
and swift withdrawal
but always there
waiting

    and you
see in me still
that other
    the one who
lingers back there
dark-haired and nubile
and you smile

     here

I am, Love
don't you see me?
This pale reflection
refracting the
purity of youth
is only time
wrinkling the present.

1980 published in Origins

The Perfectionist

The craftsman is that most viscerally
puzzled of creatures, humble before
his craft, given to the construct and
devotion of his creations to focus
entirely on perfection achieved in
his dreams, but never quite fulfilled.
The goal eludes his fecund, creative
mind, his exquisitely nimble fingers
despite his intimacy with a muse
that never leaves his side, tantalizing
with her sweet goading promises,
urging his meticulously laid designs
to fulfillment. Each agonizingly
completed project appears to him
an insipid reflection of the gem
whose brilliance he took such care 
in fashioning. It seems to him as
though his past is littered with the
detritus of promise gone awry. He
despairs that his errant art will ever
reach a pinnacle of achievement. It
is as though he prides himself as
the meticulous creator of all he observes,
witnessing birth, decay and death.

Αιολος

Clearly, primeval Aeolus is
in the foulest of his many
irascible moods. It is his
ill-tempered winds that bode
no good for man nor beast
exposed to their powerfully
malicious black moods. From
the frozen, snow-swept wastes
of scintillating and deadly
Antarctica whose ice and
frozen depths make common
cause with wretched winds,
to the boreal forests, wide prairies
and cities of Canada, winter's
grip has been clamped tight.
Fierce winds creeping deadly
daggers of death upon the
unprepared and so very
profoundly unfortunate.

The Picturesque Glory of Mountains

Photographs: Courtesy of J.S. Rosenfeld

Frostbite Advisory Issued

We are in a cold snap,
have returned from our walk
in the woods feeling quite
frozen - that was a wicked wind
hurling darts of icy air at our
faces. Our toy poodle now in 
his carry bag over my shoulder,
I sit on the stool while the
photographer snaps my 
passport photo. My cheeks red,
my hair awry, a veritable 
squirrel's-nest of hapless
disarray, until my husband
steps decisively forward to
gently smooth it so it clings
docilely beside my face - the
photograph fine, after all.

Overnight

The humped ghosts
of yesterday
peer through the
dim gloom
of night
edging into day
snow falling
thick as a
lover's promises
an incandescent halo
glimmering from
light standards
a refraction
stippling
the snow
reflecting the
barely-limned moon
moving serenely
through overcast
as deep
as a rejected lover's
thoughts.

Languishing

When I was young, reading became 
an enchanting, endless source of mind 
recreation. Then I became older, with
greater responsibilities claiming time
and attention and reading narrowed to
its more educational role in shaping
minds. A truce was called in the
struggling competition where books 
both entertaining and informative held
equal measures of esteem and utility.
Like an absorbed pack-rat, once a book
laid its wordy heft in my hands, it
became a prized possession; my library
of stolen thoughts grew incrementally
and joyfully I appraised my kingdom
and its treasures. Now I am old, my
books are those read and set aside, and
those not yet entered my thoughts but
awaiting entry. It is presumed by
common wisdom that the elderly have
far fewer necessities of life vying for
scarce time and attention, yet I begin
to despair I will ever conquer my majestic,
towering Everest of unread books.

Comforting The Day

The silent, dark hours of the
long winter night yet gleamed
and glittered as though mocking
the endless unseen stars above
in their infinite constellations
frozen in space, by a constant,
delicate embroidery of snow 
cast by uncountably graceful fingers
of atmosphere from the dome of
the world to the winter landscape
below. Not the merest whisper of
wind greeted the dawn looking 
in awe upon the wonderful
whiteness comforting the day.
Yet the deep, light burden of
tree boughs heaped to excess,
loosed great curtains of snow
from their evergreen masts, an
ephemeral veil of scintillating snow
dancing in the cool air, reflecting
the star-crowded space of the 
universe in minuscule mimicry.

To Know About Ourselves

What a marvel is the 21st Century
in its miraculous communication modes,
ensuring that no one truly must be 
isolated through they may inhabit a
remote island of their own. Live, real-time
chats seamlessly conducted as fingers
fly over a keyboard or words breathed
into a receiver. Through design and
innovation thousands of miles of
geography have drawn close, the world
become a chummy place even as
alienated conflict arises, onlookers
gawping to their hearts' content. Advice
to accompany compassion for a
stranger suddenly an intimate
irrespective of distance. Estrangement
binds minds in a spirited dance of
communion. We need never again
emerge from the sweet haven of home
to experience the pleasure of leisure
in exotic parts. A few keyboard strokes
suffice to order goods and services. We
extend our hands by proxy and welcome
friends so latterly strangers. Roam the
Ethernet for world news, entertain by
gaming our bored minds. Which may, in
due course, become all that is left of our 
modern corporeal essence, come the future.

Winter's Ghosts

The carefully calibrated measure
of winter's passage these months
has layered itself seamlessly on 
the frozen landscape, like growth
rings on forest trees. Making note
of the various degrees of frigid
temperatures overlaid with the snow
events, minor and major, freezing rain,
snow fog and the overlaid artistic
effects of the erratic, autocratic wind.
Compressed crystals of snow
sandwiched neatly between smoothly
glimmering slides of ice have built
their seasonal highway on the land.
Today's light snow is relentlessly
harassed and bullied by an icy gale
lifting veils of sheer ectoplasm,
like the tenderly delicate
ghosts of winters past.

Yesterday's Questions

When did that face I cherish
above all others develop those
scars of a life long lived, with both
reward and pain, albeit not in 
equal measure? Why does the pain
outweigh, if the evidence before my
eyes is not to be denied, the lovely,
lilting moments that crowded our
lives? Why does the vision of those
deeply etched furrows present as a
self-acknowledged rebuke, causing
me such exquisite anguish? Might it
be related directly to the recent
memory, just yesterday in fact,
of my angry face and shrill voice
confronting yours, puzzled and
defenceless by the onslaught
when the sudden impact of
revelation occurred?

January Thaw

The brutal chill winds and
brittle cold have decided to
temporarily withdraw to nooks
and crannies of the atmosphere
awaiting the cessation of this lull
in winter's advance. Temperatures
risen briskly to moderation, the
landscape basks in snow melt, 
rivulets rush down the snowpack
to welcoming river banks as
below the turmoil of the swollen,
ice-liberated river exults in its
return to liberty. Tree trunks, so
recently sheathed in a smooth,
glassy veneer, now stand 
drenched-black, bark free to
breathe. Episodes of freezing rain
herald ice fog enveloping the
landscape, burning off in the
fierce rays of the winter sun.  
That brief tryst with luminous sun 
soon eclipsed by clouds as silvery
bright as the snow, delicately
hovering between resistance and
melt, loathe to surrender winter 
to the brevity of a thaw.

The Hounding/The Hunted

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Can I confirm your family name?
Thank you. I have some distressing
news, your uncle has passed away, and
with no natural issue has named you
the sole beneficiary in his will. To speed
matters along, we ask that you be so
good as to immediately wire $$$ to this
precise Nigerian address...

That implausibly, ever-ringing cell
and land line, no one at the other end - 
establishing routine in plans for a
criminal forced entry? My, you have
become wryly uncivil, hasty to judge,
committing emails to junk status,
terminating phone calls, ripping
up unknown-sender mail envelopes.

A Word To The Wise

Listen carefully and become
wiser than you feel yourself to be.
Repeat these words and remember them:
Silence is Golden - for indeed, it is.
Relieve yourself of the flattering
impression that you have been turned
to as a source of comfort and advice.
Comfort, yes; advice, no. You have
been chosen in lieu of a blank wall,
to listen without response. Unlike
the wall you may murmur utterings
identifiable as non-neutral understanding
and unqualified support, nothing more.
Advice is forbidden, lest you peer
beyond the singular artifice of the
complaint to find yourself in
judgement - so then - abstain.

Life's Adventures

Good grief, that prodigious energy, the
unabating curiosity, the enthusiasm
for probing every crevice and corner, 
the bouncing greeting for every new
creature, be it human or otherwise,
of a puppy newly introduced to the
puzzling, intriguing world around him
is both exhilarating and exhausting.
From the moment the first bark
is emitted and the small animal
steadily growing into itself,
learns to interpret and to respond
a new joy is found, to be teased
and treasured, impishly compelling
while understanding dawns and the
vocabulary of communication
steadily mounts until that time, both
all too soon, and not quite soon
enough, when the confident placidity of
maturity sets inevitably in and a
adventurous life-companion presents.

Family Heirlooms

It is a garment, useful and
attractive, but a garment, withal.
Nothing particularly outstanding
but for its nostalgic value and
that it remains a perfect fit.  So
old it is, that the shop from which
it was purchased has long been
out of business. But the business
of wearing the coat for its
utilitarian value remains yet
relevant. Full length leather with
fox collar, it is comfortable and
suited to winter weather.
Drawing the attention of the
supermarket cashier who admired it.
How could the wearer be aware
when it had been given as a
gift for her fortieth birthday
milestone that she would still
value its use forty years later?
Both amicably in elder years.

Exhibition Pictures

Picture this, old friends and acquaintances 
meeting and stopping to review the social 
contract among civil and engaged 
communities; exhaust the rude speaking 
points of weather, local politics, then news 
of the world, exploring one another's state 
of consciously curious elaboration on the 
simplicity of solutions to intractable problems
eluding world leaders' capabilities to solve. 
Having done which, more pleasant, ego-rich 
topics arise from those who once bored one 
another by endlessly extolling the preternatural 
genius of their numerous talented offspring, 
now lovingly graduated to renewing the
past through the present, triumphing
in the budding brilliance of grandchildren.

January Thaw

Rooftops lofted under three-foot
snow comforters, snuggled in for
the duration; ice and snow-slush
gilding silvery winter roadways steeped 
in winter's frozen depths.  A raging 
wind lifts sheets of light crystals, veiling
the atmosphere in a diaphanous sheet 
of ectoplasm as frigid air grudgingly 
surrenders to milder intrusions and a 
temperature inversion transforms the 
pristine gleam of white to meltwater 
trickling steadily off roofs, awaiting night 
to freeze again, a brittle layer of ice.
In the woods, trees nod under the
weight of layers of snow glued to
boughs and trunks, ghostly apparitions
bearing no resemblance to the green
articulation of the growing season.  
Soon, great clods of snow thump off those
towering limbs, splaying onto the
forest floor, creating an artist's version
of the frozen Arctic in melt mode.
Boughs and branches, supple still,
spring free from prostate grovelling
before the weight of winter's 
imposition, in this brief thaw.

The Inconvenience of Pain

There was Max this morning,
hoofing it through the ravine,
ski pole in either hand, looking 
as elfish as ever, in his lightweight 
cotton bright red jacket, open necked 
white shirt collar beneath, blue eyes
twinkling his usual effusive greeting.
No, he's heard nothing yet about
scheduling surgery for his knee
replacements, still on the waiting list
and waiting. What else is new is that
he's exploring the installation
of mechanical lifts to assist with
the care of his wheelchair-bound
wife whose immobility has advanced
along with the severity of her medical
condition beyond a point where
scheduling surgical joint replacement
is feasible. Not for Max to surrender 
to the inconvenience of pain.

Riley

He was, it now seems so
glaringly obvious, born a
solemn little creature.  Yes,
he had a brief fling as a
rapturously rambunctious
puppy, delighting in discovery
and mischief, melting into the
protective arms of those
enchanted by his minuscule
presence, his appealing eyes,
but this aberrant behaviour
very soon surrendered to the
greater appeal of stolid
neutrality, disinterest in
novelty, and penchant toward
drowsy immobility - strolls
superfluous to a life of
leisure where only the
eagerness to cuddle survives.

Windows of Colour, Luminous Light and Grace

Stained Glass windows courtesy of I.W. Rosenfeld

On My Birthday

Well, fancy that now,
another year has disappeared
into the past, distant and near
alike. There are those distinct
and intimate memories
that in their totality of
reference and personal
reverence comprise the
events of my life. It has been,
I am grateful to acknowledge,
an experience I would not 
have wished to be absent
from, a long and lovely
adventure through life's
fortunes and events
favouring me with a long
and lively expedition into
an unknown journey.  Quite
the trip and quite the
companion by my side
guiding and sharing and 
even catching up with
me now and again.