The Bee
If a general manager for
a beehive rugby team
had dispatched an agent
to scout prospects
trust me, he would have
tapped this burly fellow
already sporting gold-black
striped team colours and
likely distracted him from
hovering, scoring, winning
pollen from an abundance
of woodland dogwood
blooming saucer-sized
flower panicles despite
blustery wind hot as the Sahara
under a thunder-headed sky.
Maladroit Youth
I have no need to search
a doubting memory -
the rhythms of youth
yet remain, pulsing through me
spontaneous and acute as
action and reaction remain
intact. My mind follows suit
and language and recall
firmly lodged within a
productive mind limned with
humour. Before me stands the
genuine article, so young there
is yet down on his cheeks; an illusion.
He towers over me, blisteringly
vital, vanishingly slender,
a tall groomed puff of platinum
curls coiffed on his skull,
gold loop glinting from an earlobe.
Suddenly my youth is challenged
by a quality refused entry by
my adamant younger self.
Even as he blithely assures me
that eight years is a long time
and much can happen as time
races me toward the
chronology of my mother's end.
Haven
We speak softly together
in a conspiracy of pleasure
still disbelievingly grateful of
the first time we came to this place
of earthly delights, this
delicately robust space of
uninterrupted nature with its
verdant invitation to enter,
welcoming our presence, its
living essence discovering in our
delight the presence of dazzled
worship. The fervently delivered
daily sermon from full-throated
birds, the gentle appeal of
running streams, the flora and fauna
appearing then dissolving into the
plush green interior. Humid
landscape, rich in architecture,
ephemeral in filmy mist, we cling
to it all, as nourished souls must,
bewitched beyond recall.
Betrayed!
Laugh if you must, but discretion
is advised -- in yet another instance
of that unfortunate Mars/Venus syndrome.
For she is in the throes of an epic state of
febrile high dudgeon and he within a
depressed state of conflicted confusion.
So proud of his new state-of-the-art
camera, he experimented with
meaningful photos; the splendid
munificence of a home carefully furnished
to reflect a classical-inspired gentility;
one of their lovingly manicured gardens
in full colour bloom; and another of
their delightfully ill-humoured,
pampered little dog with its
Napoleonic complex. Ah, and then
swiftly, silently capturing images of
his beloved wife domesticating the
kitchen with her capably knowledgeable
functionality, so absorbed, not a thought
given to the noiseless click and her
dishevelment. Proudly he exhibited for her
the panoramic scope possible with his
new device. Appalled, she beheld her
visage and drooping form. Casual, yes,
unstaged, certainly: gruesome, you bet.
How could you!?! she demanded, weeping
as he stuttered his entirely innocent dismay.
A Match Made in Heaven
We don't often indulge
in this manner
but we did on this occasion
introduce them to one another.
One, tall and robust,
the other slight, even
frail in appearance
but both happy in spring.
And it was springtime
in our garden when we
played matchmaker. They
will not, alas, live together
happily ever after, however.
We know their relationship
will be short-lived, a mere dalliance
quite unlike our own. For the
moment, though, their twinning
is blissful and their complementary
fragrance a divine delight.
As lilac and lily-of-the-valley
together occupy a vase seated
on our dining room table.
Love's Fearsomeness
We comfort ourselves in quiet
remembrance, fond memories
of our silly conceit when we thought
she was there with us for our
entertainment. Little realizing till
much, much later that she in her
stead understood our relationship
differently; one where we existed to
entertain her, though we found both
amusement and satisfaction in so
doing. Now fully invested in both
experience and grief, we entirely
appreciate how vitally important
her presence in our lives had been
in sharing happiness. We miss her
keen cleverness, her sense of plot
and adventure, her curiosity and her
dauntless courage, insistent on life's
purpose explored even while it
slowly drained from her the means
to pursue that promise. Someone
once declared it is a fearsome thing
to love what death will take, but
sometimes there are no other options.
Teachable Moments
Some people learn easily while
for others learning takes time,
even while some never learn at all.
I learned to love gardening, to
cherish the art of planting, primping
and pruning, rapt in the magical
beauty that results. Nature generously
accepts the studious efforts of her pupils
to advance her own gardening agenda,
but she detests hubris; therefore indulges
in lessons inspired to awe as well as
humble her apprentices. Knowing
how much nature abhors a vacuum I
tend to plant exuberantly, crowding
spaces to foil nature's penchant for
planting her beloved weeds. My
springtime planting orgy concluded, I
heave a satisfied sigh at the splendid
garden of tender annuals, lovely in
their fresh appeal and summer-long
promise of never-ending blooms.
Mild, sunny weather beckoned and I
responded with an unwary gardener's
zeal. Knowing full well of treacherous
betrayals. Best not to gamble on
outsmarting the weather, one of nature's
many executive assistants, alert to her
call. She is the master planter, after all,
from whom the alert and clever learn,
bowing to her infallible wisdom. She
has the last word, always, forever.
Among gardeners that last word is
dreaded, far more powerful in its
evil intent than mere naughty four-letter
words. That word is nature's profound
reproof to the arrogance of those
spurning the knowledge to be gleaned
completing the gardener's learning curve
and matriculating the course with honours
as a bona-fide gardener in recognition of
and patience with the curse of frost.
Whatever Happened...?
Introspection sometimes can
converge with random memories
and you wonder as you passage
into those late stages, whatever
did happen to that old neighbour
of so long ago, that co-worker
with whom you lost touch and
haven't given a thought to in so
many years as life took separating
journeys. You know, that couple
with the three mischievous boys
and the fluffy big Samoyed; how
did she manage when he left her?
You've a neighbour now, just down
the street, same sordid, sad story.
The woman you liked so much despite
wincing every time she called her
infant daughter a bitch? The ethnic
couple next door with four young boys,
the baby diagnosed at birth with
Down Syndrome, and her ineffectual
despair? The elderly couple who
treated your own as they did their
grandchildren? Above all, as a couple
so young the neighbours thought you
were siblings, wondering where the
parents were, and your fast and firm
friendship with a former British
soldier, father of four, with whom
you two, then as yet childless, spent
so much time until the day his
wife burst into your modest home,
throwing herself sobbing on your
marital bed, her limbs covered in
bruises -- your disbelief when she
shouted hysterically that this was
what that cherished friend was really
like, and a yawning pit opened within
your aching abdomen. And now,
so long after, you recall and then
utterly without curiosity, wonder.
Life, Never Simple
School is out for the day in
the living-assisted, rent-adjusted
neighbourhood and the teens
in various shades of dark complexions
glorious in their lithe and lively
beauty, giggle, holding up garments
for display in the thrift shop
aware yet unaware that they
present as a ravishing force of
nature, the world their promise.
Nearby sits a coeval, plump and
homely, hair neatly braided
unlike the others' amazing cornrows.
Sliding over her lap, a petulant child
whom she lovingly prods to a
smile, a spark of humour. An
elderly woman, observing the pair
thinks how nice it is to see a
young girl minding her little brother.
All too often things are never
quite what they appear. One of the
thrift shop clerks calls out genially
'he's not a happy boy today'
as the girl who is no longer merely
a girl, rocks the boy, too big for
her lap, but a beautiful child,
as he emits a continual low-pitched
grunt of helpless irritation.
Small Blessings
Ah, a public holiday... That
equates to a blessed long
week-end, resulting in a
short work-week, a transitory,
ephemeral state of thankfulness.
For some it will be the first
summer weekend trip to the
family cottage. More prosaically
for others an opportunity to
spring sweep the apartment,
the attic, basement, garage,
ridding themselves of the
redundant unwanted, the
barely worn, slightly soiled,
operationally wonky items
that clutter lives, but yet
deemed useful for someone
other than themselves. Serving a
second hand charity's need for
resale to the working poor
and the middle class alike,
seeking 'funky' items spurned
by those on welfare, not gainfully
employed who prefer the
tried-and-true method of Sunday
furtive appraisals and Monday
night-raids on the goods left
out for thrift shop staff to discover
come the opening morn.
At Last!
Yes, it is raining, the
sky is coloured an
unrelenting pewter-grey
and showers keep damping
the atmosphere but not
my enthusiasm as I
putter in the garden
quite oblivious to rain
but conscious that not
much will deter me
from the pleasures that
beckon in the unadorned
garden soil and expectant
garden pots, as anxious to
boast their summer finery
as I am to aid their
ambition after the
intolerably long hiatus
of winter drear.
Nature's Voice
Beneath a sky breathing
the dark presence of clouds
shifted by high winds
our world still has the
appearance of a softly glowing
invitation to a dance,
perhaps of the happy spirits
of springtime forests. The
sound that suddenly descends
however, bursting close and
threatening, resembles that
of a plane disastrously off-course
losing height, preparing for
calamity. But no, it is merely
one of nature's powerful voices
and we shuffle off hurriedly
to avoid the drenching downpour.
Sitting at breakfast quietly
content, then wondering if
a locomotive has left its
tracks to rumble beside our
house, the walls sympathetically
shuddering with vibration in
the shadow of an earthquake.
Ask not to whom nature calls,
she calls, perforce, for thee.
Woodland Life
Dark scudding clouds
bruise the sky
where a moment in time
earlier the sun illuminated
trees in an ethereal green of
tender spring foliage
and spring peepers
chorused below in
the vale where
water flows and
beaver make their home.
Above, on the wooded hills,
naturalized dark cherry
and apple and hawthorn
thrive among the
native pines and spruce.
The fruit trees bloom
in bright white
and pink blossoms.
Beneath, on the forest
floor, bracken unfurl
and between them
the shy yellow faces of
trout lilies, purple violets
and secretive
Jacks-in-the-pulpit.
The Brief Intimacy Of Time
The intimately encouraging
hand of the sun
on my back,
my own hands
moving feverishly
with anticipation into
the warm dark moisture
of my garden's soil
I recall these yearly rituals
affirming the endless cycle
of life sustaining itself
with a little help
from friends. I have a
trusted compact with
nature, allowing me the
conceit of aiding her design
inviting colour, fragrance
texture and sublime beauty
to arise with stately
aplomb in my very own
Eden, where birds rest
and sing and I am permitted
this illusion of the
transitory mirage of time.
Lèse-majesté
Suddenly, mysteriously
that amazingly unexpected
onset of early summer
so swift a transition
while spring was aborning
where we grumpily felt
vexed over humid heat
and hungry mosquitoes
has all disappeared. Was
it a mirage, shimmering
before our senses to
tease and bewilder? Or
a lesson learned that
as much as nature
is feisty and fickle, given
to weather histrionics,
our own failings of
dissatisfied entitlements
confuse the issue of supreme
command and the ruled.
You're Responsible
It drives me to distraction
when you fall silent;
you, so ordinarily voluble
always ready to voice
an opinion on anything,
everything, anytime. Yet
confronted with a rare display
of verbal pique from me,
you have nothing whatever
to say. Don't you know
you are responsible
for everything? Without
you happiness, contentment,
excitement and satisfaction
in all of life's potential
would be starkly absent.
So, my dear, say as much!
Pastorale
The setting sun
is like an Amondisc
throwing its waning light
in searching fingers
on oblique mountains
fencing the lake
where purple martens
swoop lazily
and robins offer a paeon
to another day.
The honeyed air
casts an amber glow
over your flesh
mystically
as of some ancient rite
etching the features
of your face
and defining
the slow undulations
of your body.
I cup this image
in memory
now and then peruse it
turn it like a
fabled treasure
to catch the light
of another day.
Early Harvest
The sun edges past clouds
gleaming like a silver dollar
and we dip our paddles
the lake reflecting
darkness of oncoming rain.
There looses a kingfisher's
mad taunt from pinetops
circling the lake.
Water pearls in our wake
the wind gusts and
our canoe darts sleek as an otter
to a rock-littered inlet
where we beach.
As we thrust sharp sticks
the dark soil yields garlic
blossoming the air
with its heavy headiness.
Strawberries hide
their insufficiency under weeds.
We carefully pick what's there
for late afternoon jam.
Gulls scream overhead
and whitecaps scatter on
the lake. The clean feather-edge
of swallows slice the turgid air.
Bitter Regret
Nature may be the supreme
commander of all that is,
yet she accedes on occasion
to her minor assistants. Take,
for example, Dame Fortune,
whose favour or withholding
appear outside Nature's pattern
though they are each placidly
indifferent to the entreaties
they are subjected to, by those
appealing their endowments
or their fate. Pity the woman,
in the fading quadrant of her life,
bitterly considering the waste
of her free choice. Choosing to
tenderly nurse her husband
through the long, morbid agony
of the dread disease that succeeded
in ravishing his body, his mind
and his will to endure, until he
welcomed the Angel of Death,
another of Nature's helpers. While
she, spurned in death as she was
in life, resents and regrets her
wasted life with a vile, balefully
abusive man leaving her destitute
of years, of fond memory.
My Self
I am many where
I would be one
fearing forced explication
or the face
turned away from mine
so I become malleable
as clay
responding to others' biases
tamping down
my inside self
forcing up those double images
parroting words
to evoke pleasant acceptance
prevent awkwardness
yet disliking this stranger
making her uncomfortable
sojourn
nestling among my
sinews my bones
where that one and that one
is all things
to all men
and that too-quiet
lonely voice calls out
yet unheard
hear me!
let me out...
I cannot.
Liberated Passion
It is yet early spring
but the day is enveloped
in an atmosphere of
sun-crackling heat as
warm, bright rays burst
through the near-bare branches
of deciduous trees, warming
the forest floor, coaxing
trout lilies, trilliums and
woodland violets to
reveal themselves, unpack
their tiny, perfect flowers
as iridescent green flies
and husky bees awake to
the season of pollen
when morning cloaks mate
and song sparrows warble
their trill of liberated passion.
An Authentic
She is different,
quite different,
her smile a genuinely
disarming tool, her
mind sharpened to a
discerning level. Her
social anthropology classes
at school have aided
her immeasurably in
understanding human
nature from a purely
clinical base, the rest
came easily, through an
osmosis of discriminating
judgement. No adoration of
celebrity figures for her, no
Facebook or Twitter accounts.
No animal flesh on her plate,
no simpering gossip. She
can spell avaricious, it is
how she feels about books,
treasuring them for they are
her jewel collection. She has
girlfriends and boy friends
but no boyfriends. A
law degree is in her near
future. The best day of her
school life? Today, when
the grades 11s and 12s
were assembled in the
small gymnasium with the
stage to hear a brief
speech by the young leader
of a political party
exhorting on his audience
the personal commitment to
civic duty. She got there
long before he spoke, was
enthused enormously, regardless.
Introduction
Do they know something
we do not, or do
they set the standard
to which our perception
will align toward when
one neighbour welcomes
another to the street
in an open and friendly
manner, both smiling,
introducing themselves,
taking brief and casual
measure by first impressions
only to have the episode
concluded by one
household pet waging
instant attack on the other,
as both sides withdraw,
smiles intact and
attitudes forever hardened.
The 'Thrift' Gene
How predictable it is
that inclination some people
harbour deep within to
consistently pledge themselves
to favour their best interests.
As though nestled deep
within rests a thrift gene
auditing their every
social response. To unerringly
be present when the
generosity of others favours
them with gifts, but never
to succumb to charitable
blandishments of their own accord.
To gather to themselves
redundant objects and mount
a neighbourhood sale,
yet never consider giving to
others without charge.
Complacent and assured
they reflect a common enough
societal compact; to take
unstintingly what they may,
yet feel empowered to give
nothing of pecuniary value away.
Perfect examples of a time
debased survival instinct.
The Steep Ascent
The ascent to Noon Peak
rose sharper than
our expectations
moss cushioning the granite
white/pink mountain clover
stippling the rising swell
tree roots writhing in agony
gripping our climbing feet
as we emulate mountain goats
then finally stop to rest
lungs sharing the thin air
energy radiating from us
as though we are
heavenly bodies
heat coursing palpably off
wracked limbs
as though they would
kindle the windfallen trees
cluttering the mountain sides
catching fire to wooded slopes
ourselves the centre
of a glorious blaze.
Originally published in Early Harvest, 1980
Night
Dark pulses warm and moist
on the springtime air
this night. There hangs
a voluptuous moon
luminous and heavy
as woman with child
casting a diluted coruscation
limning leaves
rustling in the silent breeze.
Birds shift in the trees
somnolently ease feathers
beak comforting birdtalk
to one another
their sounds near lost
in the concert of crickets
the creak of the frogs
beating the night
so it shifts and breathes
croaks and trills
like some giant
unknowable beast
like some well-greased
programmed machine
a perpetual motion job
turning out generation
after generation of
night revellers
nocturnal emissions
fleeting the darkness
spiralling treetops
the hunted, the hunters
silent in pursuit or flight
the crickets and frogs
in a rising crescendo
of purpose
drowning the silence
of the chase.
Originally published in Early Harvest, Gusto Press, 1980
