Teasing The Forest

Scant heat in the rays of the winter sun,
but ample warmth in the brilliant gold glow
cast upon the landscape dappled with the
snow of last night's blustery squalls.
Evergreens daintily sifted with light
patterns of snow, inviting a flock of
chickadees, a nuthatch companion to
delight in chirruping pleasure.

Nature, dissatisfied with the quiet breeze
on this chill day, the encompassing blue sky
soon skims over with billowing, migrating
clouds, their looped edges limned with a
post-view of the sun's receding brilliance.
The light that cascaded down upon the
landscape transforms to a darkly brooding
presence reflecting the deep gloom of a
forest tight with trees reluctant to admit
stray vestiges of winter-sleep-disturbing light.

And, again, snow squalls resume, determined
clouds claiming possession of the atmosphere.
These are no spiralling, feathery flakes of snow
resulting, but a fierce hail of minuscule orbs
of rain frozen in the lower atmosphere to ice
verging on snow. Or should that be snow
compacted relentlessly to ice, transformed to
other than what it was? Nature, playing with
her mischievous elements, teasing the forest.

Winter's Roar

Great white clusters of
cold-bunded snow crowd
the sky, the air, each
cringing surface they meet
in this end-of-winter storm
as the grumpy old lion
trudges the atmosphere
spreading ill-will signalling
its refusal to depart with
the dignity of an element
knowing it has transcended
the boundaries of goodwill
and patience that even nature's
dependent house guests
manage to muster, not wishing
to offend the powerful,
given to episodic piques
of temper, while lesser
beings anxiously await spring.

Dreams and Fantasies

Neatly arrayed on a shelf
for pre-auction viewing
strangers assessed, vetted
admired or walked
disinterestedly by the
collection of porcelain
slippers, someone's fond
obsession with such trivia
finding within them
fables so beloved of girls
and women anxiously
awaiting the discovery
of their uniquely irresistible
attributes, to captivate a
princely suitor eager to cherish
the very ground their slippered feet
lightly grazed. Did their owner
depart this mortal coil
an undiscovered Cinderella?
Do those slippers, exquisitely
detailed and lovingly regarded
represent her broken, unrealized
dreams; up for auction to the
highest bidder, anxious to 
confront destiny on their own?

Awarding Acolytes

Comes that time for a gathering
of cosmic-influenced heavenly bodies
shimmering in an otherworldly display
of grandeur, assembling their elite
chemistry; the divine music of the
spheres heralding their presence.
These are the faces capable of
launching an industry into the
stratosphere of golden profit,
the screen personae of whom
millions are smitten preferring
those on-screen portrayals and
silvered lives lacking fidelity to
realism to their own dismally empty
shells of betrayed expectations.
Awarding accolades to brilliant
acting to those become skilled in
emoting and posing and displaying
life as a dream elusive in reality in
an endless child's play of wistful
longing. Adulation given to those
sequencing life in agreeable acts 
of human desire with fortune well-
mooded, yet the resemblance to the
human condition rarely accessible,
barely recognizable, barren, bereft.

His Cross To Bear

A frail old man imbued
with the wisdom to know
his time, steps back from
his regal heavenly seat
of power magnified by
trust betrayed and pleads 
for the forgiveness of rest,
a retreat from Byzantine
intrigue and conquests.
His shepherd's role cast
gently aside, failure to
restrain the ravening wolves
from the sheeps' pastorage,
stepping painfully where
another passed before him
the original victim of grand
worship and human venality.

Linking The Distaff Side

Surely, the lifeline of
femininity and shared experience
should serve to bridge gaps in
emotional need sundered by
critical misunderstandings
between mother and daughter.
But no, not necessarily does
simmering resentment and
wildly imaginative pique
surrender to rational practicality
of a truce rather than settle
into the corrosive destruction
of unappeasable ire. On the
other hand, skip a generation
and the granddaughter
grandmother link binds the
chain of emotional succession.

Welcome....

Spring is on the cusp of
inviting winter to exit.
Milder days tentatively emerging
slipping in now and again
between the relentless cold,
and icy winds blasting 
sheets of snow onto the
landscape surfeit with its
inclement generosity.

Frozen forest streambeds
breaking free, skies turning
more often blue than
silver-grey. And above the
frozen masts of pine, spruce, fir
and hemlock a flighty
murder of crows flecking
the sky in their jubilant
discordant cacophony.

 

Rescuing Dignity

Crabby old people sometimes
do that; rear up in indignation
that they have, yet again, been
slighted and the irritatingly
thoughtless lack of respect has
raised their ire. All it takes is one
among many whose genuine
push-back first raises the collective
eyebrow of those alert to poor public
relations when the elderly succumb to
'behaving poorly' - until a sudden
transformation of mutual
events-recognition changes
the critics' view of a cranky old misfit
to someone owning the lens of
experienced injustice for which
he will no longer agree quietly
to allow his dignity to be assailed.
All hail grumpy old champions.

True To Himself

It was not Pictures at an Exhibition
but rather used-book browsing
and there he was, an old
familiar face locked into
memory, with old being the
operative designation here,
recognition recalling his name,
tentatively piped by an
uncertain enquiry and yes, the
pale reflection of the man once
known, starting at the query,
recognition reciprocated.
Physical presentation wan and
dessicated but the voice
expressing the mind mired in
youth not so; quips and cracks,
pithy observations and impish wit
poured forth, reassuringly
corroborating that while the parts
do age, the basic element remains.

Blueberry Hill

It's what we danced to,
On Blueberry Hill, slow and
dreamy, melted into one
another's juvenile arms,
feeling mature and oh so
ready for love. Those dance
songs of that faraway era, 
with their promise and
premise of young love
conquering time and
adversity fuelled our young
and uncertain passion, our
dreams of the future - ours,
together. The future has
long since come and gone.
We took our children to pick
berries on blueberry hill
and now, sixty years later, 
you wait patiently for me to
top those hills we climb
together in the sun and the
wind, summer and winter.
And, in the evening of our lives 
enfold me again in your arms
to dance to Blueberry Hill.

Dining Succulently

Dinner, my dear, was sumptuously
pleasing. Thank you. The soup was
hot and fragrant, the rice nestled
softly within. The chicken breasts
delectable, enlivened by those flavour-bursts
of ginger, tomato, and mushrooms baked,
my dear, to perfection. As was the potato
pudding, crisp and toothsome; the
cauliflower sensational in its understated
clarity. Dessert presented as a splendid
diversion, delicate cups of chocolate 
cake, lofty and moist with their 
pecan-topped coffee icing, concluding
this spectacular meal. The entire
production, my dear, a divine symphony
of exquisite sensual taste. May I be so
bold as to suggest: Same time, same
place tomorrow? Is the menu set?

 A Bird's Desire

The perfect orb of the sun gleams
wanly silver through the pewter
haze of the winter sky, reflecting
the silver-white carapace of the
landscape below, on a truly lovely day,
beloved of all nature's creatures. A
gentle breeze moves on the still,
chill air swirling and twisting a
delicate feather, finally resting on
the frozen forest floor. Its tender
fragility sits as light as a bird's wish
to see spring, an exquisite ornament
on the snow pack. Another, and another
float sweetly from heights above. And
there, indeed high above, a small
raptor sits in the crotch of a bough.
On this blissfully lovely day under
a late-winter sun sailing in a silver sky
over a white landscape stippled
with dark tree trunks and their
bare, lofty spires is a kestrel. Its prey
a hapless chickadee firmly grasped
in pitiless talons, downy feathers
plucked, to float below. Expiring
in an agony of nature's infallible 
existential design, this perfect winter 
day the scene of the serene crime.

Companions

Scarce larger than a mote,
than the tear gathering in my
eye at the chill of this 
languidly snowy afternoon,
the tiny creature is everywhere
at once, frantic, exhilarated
on the loose; in fact its Toy
self surrounding me - here, no
there, as it charges and leaps,
moves in, on, around and out
in the blissful joy of being -
contagious in its exquisite
love of life. I would, if I could
bend low to grasp that 
caramel-ivory tyke, and clasp
it close, warming it with my
affectionate admiration. But
the old yellow Labrador
glowers suspiciously, protective
of his dynamic companion.

The Passion of Language

Words can so easily define our emotions.
Just as readily are we able to secure
ourselves behind those emotions and use
language to colour reality in shades of
abusive venom. Throw in consanguinity
and logic should have it that affection
prevails. For there is shared history there,
a half-century of love and nurturance of
that relationship. All for nothing? 
Communication is the tool to convey
how we think and feel and react, on
occasion bumping clumsily against a
confusion of language and context. And 
that hallowed memory whose recall brings
to one scenarios not shared by the other.
Speaking a common language, within
the presumed bond of intimacy one could
be forgiven for assuming emotions can be
excused in the greater interests of harmony.
But no; one proffers apology while the
other prefers vituperation; searing blame
trumps forgiveness and every effort to
genuinely surmount the intractability
of grievance held more dear than a bond
being severed. If it takes a brace to quarrel, 
it takes a like number to embrace.

Hosanna!

Nature's moody truculence has
dissipated, she has powdered the
face of the world in a whirling 
blizzard of peevishness and now
presents with the blush of a winter
day of surpassingly benign beauty.
This day dawned as peacefully
forgiving as yesterday's polar rage
scathed an unprepared world. Now,
the sky is an artist's delight, blissfully
washed in watercolour blue, the
beaming sun sparking the splendour
 of flakes loosened by its warmth and a
friendly breeze to tumble in lazy
freefall from trees heaped and 
humped with the lofty snow that 
the day before obscured the
landscape, swallowing all in the
maw of a glowering, threatening
storm of wretched malediction.

The Poetry of Life

It is those primary rituals
that give purpose and meaning
to our lives, the need to know and
to give love, the need to be together
with the loved, to forge a scaffold of
examined truths and in this manner
we are true to ourselves, to the
need to love and be loved, for
sacrificing individuality to a 
joined communion of trust and
belonging, fiercer than bonds
of blood and clan. We ritualize
shared moments of sublime devotion
and pedestrian daily rites to the
passage of time on scales large
and small. We look back with
fondness at who we were, raw and
new to life, contemplating now the 
near future through the lens of the
learned and ripened present.

Thank You

Thank you, for responding to me
when we were young. Thank you
for those long, slow, night-time walks.
Thank you for the conversation. Thank
you for inviting me to dance. Thank you
for teaching me: how to ride a bicycle,
how to ice-skate, how to snowshoe,
how to paddle a canoe. And thank you
for attempting to teach me how to 
drive a car. Thank you for diapering
our children. Thank you for sharing
my bed and my home, and for having
me share yours. Thank you for each
day's first kiss and evening's last. And
the smiles and the hugs that draw away
my frowns, thank you for these, too.
Thank you for your thoughts and
concerns, and for those spirited political
discussions, honouring mine that don't
accord with yours. Thank you for your
time and your patience, and above all,
your humour, your gentleness with me.
Thank you, my dear, for every one of
those birthday cards you made for me.
Thank you for setting the table, and
wiping the dishes, for sharing your
sense of adventure and curiosity with
me. Thank you for all those shared
quiet times, for sharing also my passion
for reading. Thank you for the compliments,
the encouragement. Thank you for growing
older right alongside me, my dear.

Klutz-Afflicted

Everyone knows those poor
unfortunates who cannot seem 
to walk a straight line. If there is
a protrusion, a sharp corner, their 
soft body parts seem to signal
collision-time. Their sharp intake
of breathy disbelief, their briefly
shrieked agony of pain, transfix us
with pity. They are not careless, but
somehow heedless, bruised and
battered by haste and inattention.
Their ruinous stumble through life
takes its toll on their bodies, but
as well on whatever they touch,
be it an antique vase of irreplaceable
beauty or a rude everyday dinner
plate, each shatters beyond repair.
These hapless creatures simply
forge their way, stumbling and
fumbling infuriatingly. I have closely
observed, though I cannot foretell
when they will next commit a
self-abuse, for I am on intimately
familiar terms with such a one
myself being sorely afflicted.

An Untimely Cautionary Fable

Celebrated, feted, bemedalled and 
Laureated, theirs the brilliant minds 
that prised open the mysteries of the
Universe, Nature's close-held secrets
of primitive and elemental synergies,
energy and superabundant power
withheld from the prying curiosity of
science and probing research; given to
gifted minds those intuitive superlatives
surpassing those of non-theorizing mortals.
And so, unlocked the terrifying power of
human destructive capabilities. The
paradoxes abundant, that the genius
fascism spurned when it embarked on
its mission of world domination, 
initiating annihilation of the 'race' that
produced these peerless minds of
discovery and invention has been the 
catalyst for the imminent threat of
nuclear night to complete the journey
begun through the Holocaust, to launch
another, more satisfyingly complete,
to erase all vestiges of original theory
and the final solution to unpardonable
hubris of intractable Judaic existence.

Your Kind, Forgiving Heart

Your suffering, my child
moves me to empty tears. I have
too long been silent witness
to the acid crucible of your
raging anger, undiluted by time.
To receive what you claim you
yearn toward, your human right
to be loved and cherished, requires
a willingness to give what you
wish to take. You excel at
denigration, not companionship,
your vitriolic biting tongue
leaves wounds that will not heal.
Even those who have wished
to love you stagger away, stunned
and bludgeoned in disbelief at
the unstinting vehemence of
your sour, castigating offence
none can defend against. In
this backdrop of felled souls
you curse a fate that leaves you
unfriended and unloved by
those you claim to violate your
trust, exploit the goodness of
your kind, forgiving heart.

Cash-strapped Spanish towns are looking to raise revenue by re-examining land use by the Catholic Church for potentially taxable non-charitable activity. Source: bigthink.com

Photographs courtesy of J.S. Rosenfeld

In Nature's Thrall

We are, like most of nature, so 
chronologically predictable. Time 
and the tides impel us to display and
scrupulously obey our biological 
imperatives--as creatures of stardust
and puzzling ancestry--those genetic
endowments Nature has, with great
deliberation--or is it casual abandon--
gifted us with, in accord with her plans
great and small. The great is the
mechanical wheel of the Universe,
spinning its ineluctable passage 
through the dark space of limitless
unknown. The small is gendered
creatures obeying their penchant for
procreation in their formative and
fecund years. In the fullness of time
and physical decrepitude, the libido
fails and flirtation ebbs toward a
fascination with existence, just as the 
aging Universe itself moves farther in 
distance separating galaxies and star clusters, 
the primeval fire of energy sapped amid
bright bursts of explosive collapses,
leaving the dense pull of gravitation
like a body's downward spiral to
that great, final act of extinction.