That Youth Imp

Oh, he's a sly and crafty one,
he is. Three-score-years-and-ten
need not necessarily always lead
to the assumption of gloomy sobriety
and his occasional casually spontaneous
and oh dear, advanced-thought-out
sorties to the nearby bulk food store
in an enthusiasm of independent thought
represents a lapse back in time, shedding
three-score of those burdensome years.
Memories of old-fashioned candy
shops resurrected in those irresistible
"bulk bins" of candies, nuts, dried fruits
whose aromatic allure, bright colours
and inviting shapes so accessible,
though a ten-cent piece no longer goes
as far as once it did. Ah, though,
the deep satisfaction in bringing home
the productive haul; plump, juicy raisins,
roasted assorted nuts, red licorice and
mouth-watering black redolent of
greedy youth. The clever artifice of
naming that emporium a food store
not lost in the irony of welcome it
raises within the emotional consciousness
of the elderly youth of the day.

Reverence for Nature

It is not difficult to harness within
an awe of nature and her countless
creatures. To watch, fascinated,
as colourful dragonflies, night-flying
bats swoop in capture of mosquitoes
and blackflies ridding us of their
biting, pestiferous presence. How
captivating it is to witness pale moths
flitting about, their caterpillar-larvae
transitions another wonder of
nature's complex plan of existence.
The bait-and-trap consuming formula
of spiders, the busy pollen-harvesting
of bees and wasps, the prodigious
work ethic of ants fix our attention
and admiration. And then, the awry
presence of a housefly, daddy long-legs,
worker ant or wasp indoors sends us in
reeling panic to the utilitarian
functionality of an insect-deadly swatter.

Cycle of Life

The night was a deep
purple backdrop of velvet
humidity, sequined with stars
soon pale and unblinking
as below soft and gentle
shadows lingered, humped
grey forms nothing like
the fears of children's dreams.
Dawn sent her pink shafts
to illuminate the world 
to waken. As shadows
receded to hide till tomorrow
a vibration of trills
floated notes welcoming day
as robins and cardinals
acted their woodland crier
roles impelling creatures
of the forest to resume rituals
critical to life. That primal
urge to repeat original
survival instruction into
distant eternity and beyond.

Skagit River, British Columbia

Botany Bay, Juan de Fuca Trail, British Columbia

 

Sacrificial Lambs

My, how we tend to plague ourselves,
though love is not always associated with pain.
Consider this: when children abandon the
cozy nest parents devise to shelter their
brood, nature abhorring a vacuum urges
pet adoption and our lonely homes are
once again enlivened with the patter of
little feet. The anxieties spent caring for
children transformed, we lovingly care for
the welfare of our furred-and-tailed companions.
Pleasure intermixed with responsibilities,
and when our adorable charges become ill
or old and decrepit, occasionally corrective
surgery extends their too-short years with us.
They return to the comfort of home, from
the cold sterility of an operating room, to
recover good health while we administer
pain-prescribed opioids and urge nutrition
upon them, our surgery-disfigured darlings,
whimpering with bewildered pain until
health and equanimity are restored. Their
operation-ready shaved hides hideous and
raw as we balefully regard the multiple-
thousands-cost for clearly imperfect grooming.

 

Truce

Peace has descended, calming the 
atmosphere. A pale, pastel crescent 
of luminous shades now divides the 
combatants whose furious struggle had 
roiled the heavens, sending thunderous 
claps of their deadly conflict echoing and
rolling around the dark night, violent daggers 
and lances slashing the sky, illuminated 
by deadly thrusts. The battered sky 
offered dense grey clouds to shield from
sight those mighty armies marching to 
meet their destined primal need
to conquer, one to prevail, the other to
languish in miserable defeat. Who the
winner and who the loser never known
by the curious, cowering mortals below.
Fearful but inspired withal to emulate
those unseen higher powers and in
honour of their imperial strut they embark
on their own unending grounded wars,
attacking, destroying, pillaging, murdering
betraying the souls and the spirits within
crying for salvation. Substituting a
white flag for that noble rainbow, peace
settles nervously over the land until
the next irridentist tyrant becomes
restively bored, raising war's banner.

The Unspoiled Heart

No more than a chance encounter,
it turned into a prolonged
discussion of a myriad of issues
ripe for small talk among people
whom mere moments before were
perfect strangers suddenly
discovering shared interests. 
Mother and daughter resembling
sisters, arrested in mid-ramble
greeting an elderly pair walking
their own small dog coming
abreast of their three tiny pets. A
divulging of experiences in
friendly chat made until the
young woman claimed herself
prepared to "settle down", and the
elderly man cautioning that she
first find a profession, not become
reliant on "some man", but free and
independent, capable of supporting
herself within or without the
sacred vows of marriage as his
wife of 60 years looking on
astonished, supplemented her
husband's admonishment with a 
beatific smile at the startled young
woman and the parting words that
she aim herself at the urging of
her very own unspoiled heart.

Portrait

Utterly fetching: a flowered shirt
and brightly plaided trousers
draped his tall, slight frame to
defray the swift impression of
facing a wraith whom a sharply spoken
word might topple like a tornado
uprooting a shallow-rooted tree.
The generous mouth that nature
had planted within his lean and
handsome features curved readily
in pleasure. Some other creative
genius was clearly responsible for
the young hairdresser's own garish
yellow Sioux-cut hair. A massive
gold-linked neck chain completing the
theatrical conceit that almost broke
the grandmotherly heart of the client
whose hair he was primping to
kindly withdraw the weight of
recent years. While informing her
how pleasantly surprising he found
Chicago, how his parents' concerns
for his well-being simply stifled him
at times with their love ... lucky boy.

A Longitudinal Study

The boy I knew became a man
who knew me. I witnessed his
journey as we approached maturity
together and settled into a shared
future. His progression and mine
bore the responsibilities of
parenthood as equally shared
as gender might permit. Alone again
side by side we have revisited
the past, as young now as we were 
then, though others see only what
appears obvious grey frailty.
In him I see the boy, in me he
recognizes the girl sharing the
curiosity and spirit of life adventure
that drew us together as destiny.

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 emulated mountain goats
then finally stopped to rest
lungs shearing the thin air
energy radiating from us
as though we were
heavenly bodies
heat coursing palpably off
wracked limbs
as though they would
kindle the windfallen trees
cluttering the mountainsides
catching fire to wooded slopes
ourselves the centre
of a glorious blaze.

In Their Element

The great blue vault of the sky
yawns wide and deep over the
living green canopy stretched below.
The caretaking sun sends
probing rays of warm light
through that broad green reach
to illuminate the noonday gloom
within. Water striders delicately
ripple a stream in the forested
ravine as Damselflies lift their
exquisite bodies gleaming
iridescent rays of colour back
at the sun. A crimson streak shoots
from tree to tree and the cardinal
roosts to peal its superb trill.
Close by, juvenile finches
studiously and avidly search out
tidbits on leafy branches. A
cluster of flowering yarrow,
Queen Anne's lace and perky asters
tease aerially meandering bees
under the clatter of an old tree
trunk where a Pileated woodpecker
has come knocking to introduce
its appetite to the localized residents.

 

The Tiny Perfect Form

I almost stepped on it
the tiny perfect form
quiet on the forest path
unlike its normal state
a perpetual motion machine
with voracious appetite
to assuage metabolic hunger
this, nature's dynamo.

Dead. A peace in its
unaccustomed quietude.
The grey fur sleeking its
fat little body, not yet
cold and hard
tiny legs and paws
upsticking, comically.

But there is no cause
for humour in this cessation.
Sharp snout pointing
to the dense forest
siding the path
and predator's teeth visible
in its frozen mouth.

Sad to look on it
glad not to have stepped
on it and wonder why no
sexton beetle or carrion-eating
bird has not yet carried it away.
Wonder whether it was
merely old age that did.

He Leads Me

His face a smiling gift, he beckons
and I respond for there is nothing
to take precedence over the urge
to clasp each other closely and
recall words to the music from an
early life we began together
transforming in this life our
kitchen into a dance floor as
compelling as those our partnered feet
patterned and our single-bodied
shadows in the dimmed interior
swayed to, responding to the
sweet call of shared love and longing.
Now as then as I feel his arms
about me, warmth flooding from
his chest to mine, that magic
transforming us from two singles
to one double returns as to the past
before restoring the present. My
eyes closed, his wide open, leading
on the dance floor into the future.

 Precious Intimacy

There are moments in life silently
shared in the pleasure of our time
together, precious in the intimacy
of close links of caring love. Outdoors
of a summer morning feeling the
early day's sun splash the garden
with the warmth of its light, a
goldfinch rising from the cool
clear water of the birdbath, tiny
white moths flustering about, and
bees dipping into the sweet pollen
of bright red Monarda, lilies and
Echinacea, stippling the verdant
backdrop with their vibrant colour.

Peace envelopes us in the soft touch
of a gentle breeze, seated side by side,
content to be together, issues and
concerns that trouble set firmly
aside in favour of marvelling at the
acrobatic antics of a pair of tiny red
squirrels disporting themselves
on the back fence, seemingly as
steeped in the spontaneous joy of
life as we are at this very moment.

Human Conditioning

Wrong; it is not necessarily the
elderly who are cranky, but youth as
well perchance, who once were patiently
nurtured by their elders to enable them
to gently acquire life skills. Those
skills sometimes fall short of kind
consideration toward their mentors
now with fading eyesight and failing
hearing -- but not the recall of memory.
Deficient in empathy for the slower
uptake requiring clear enunciation,
youthful contempt cuts to the quick,
not oblivious of the sunken opinion,
still possessed of cerebral acuity and
more than capable of divining the lack 
of esteem they must now accommodate
themselves to. Alas, the way of succession.

Beware, Take Care...

Beware nature-incentivized monsters
of deceit, skilled at devouring the
spirit of others, spitting out the hollow,
wasted shell devoid of its original
essence, leaving the gift to oneself of
a de-spirited persona, the toy of its owner.

A pause for pity extended toward those
entrapped in the oblivion of vacuity
where free will has been abandoned
to the inexorable will of the commander
of souls - whose controlling need to
entirely possess, control, instruct,


demand, coerce - leaves a barren landscape
of broken spirits behind to mourn and
grieve their lost lives. Because the
stalker whose gentle persona wears a
disarming smile and voices tender assurances.

If she relentlessly cajoles and pouts,
and if he unceasingly threatens and shouts
examine the unlived life carefully for
nature's aberrant errors and consider
with care the option of returning that
insatiable devourer to its sender.

The Song, The Dance

The music, the innocent songs, 
the performance of that gentle era
when we were young, when the
words were of happiness, love,
stars, heaven, destiny, hope and
the notes swung smoothly into
waltzes, fox trots and swaying, 
simple dance steps, arms entwined,
heads together, feet sweeping the
dance floor in the big band era,
that clearly voiced yearning for
youthful companionship. Little
could we know how vital those
memories would remain as now
still together and aged, we sing
those recalled words moving
smoothly together to those old
recordings, nostalgic and grateful 
for that long-distant time in our past, 
never realizing in the flush of youth 
how infused in symbolism and depth
of meaning it would all appear at 
some unimaginable future time.

The Future Past

It's hard to imagine where your
body ends and mine begins, we
move together as though there is
only one, our bodies merging,
mine melting into yours. Warmth
suffusing and melding us into a
whole, to match our thoughts
back in another era of our lives,
so long ago yet so clearly recalled
though over a half-century has
passed, leaving us two-in-one
living antiques, memories dusted
off by the magic of memory, music
and dance. You may have this one
and all future others, my love.

On Meeting

Well ... it's true
I know you
your insides
speak to me
through words
    ...uncareful
and trusting
yet it is only through
these words exulting hallelujah!
I've found you
that I see you.

      ... Is
that really you
is that who you are
sitting there
calmly dissecting ideas
becoming engorged on fact
face ... a stranger's?

Is that familiar mind
hiding behind that
sphinx-like head
those pale grey eyes
    ... careful now
unlike the exuberance
of your written word?

     ...TELL me
what does that strange
smile mean? and what
does the calmness
of those eyes envisage?
Can you see me
here behind this face?
Do my eyes refuse
to reflect
familiar words?

Covert Kindness

So obviously an individual of
distinction, of rare good sense,
bold and decisive, taking the
initiative to embark on a mission
of civil disobedience in one of
those irritating instances when
just such a defiant response, once
patience has sufficiently ebbed,
to take needed action. Favouring
the area's countless recreational
hikers, runners, bicyclists, dog
walkers by taking along a wrench
and using it wisely to dismantle
the many impediments officiously
closing off those forested hiking
trails, lest hapless residents
come to litigious harm.

Please be aware that the City has temporarily closed four pedestrian bridges along the Queenswood Heights Nature Trails in Bilberry Park. The location of the pedestrian bridges are identified on the map shown below (SN891460, SN891560, SN891510 and SN891470).  The trails are posted with signs at the beginning of the trails with "Bridge Closed Ahead" and at the bridges with "Bridge Closed" signs.

Haven

Alienated as a child by her
mother's harsh judgemental
criticism, the never-ending
demands and complaints, 
spurred by resentful memories
of her miserable childhood, she
took especially sensitive care
to instill a sense of entitled
confidence in her own offspring,
loving them unrestrainedly,
offering constant encouragement
and admiration for their many
and varied accomplishments,
proud of her part in their
successful transition to maturity
and self-responsibility. Lately,
she has withdrawn into herself,
sought refuge within her mind,
finding there shelter from the
reality of isolation, spurned by
her grown children. Their
disinterest in her too disturbingly
evident and real. Her struggle for
resilience and self-respect
impacted by neglect and alienation.
Leaving her so confused and alone
that the kindness of strangers in
whom she confides in her dreams
and who respond with the warmth
she so yearns for threaten to leave
her in a permanent paralysis of
self-induced slumber from which
that poor soul refuses to wake.

 Emily!

Emily doesn't seem to mind her
masculine breed-nomenclature. She
is small, brown-and-white, minuscule
patches of black, almost a typical 
Jack Russell. She does, actually, exhibit 
masculine traits; adventurous, suspicious 
of strangers, adept at foiling instructions, 
utterly mad for tromping about in muck. 
Oh, and she's abundantly overweight.
Perhaps that's why she adores launching
herself recklessly into any body of
water daily rambles take her to, the
bliss of weightlessness, no longer 
is she clumsy, her tiny girth buoyed
by the running stream, no matter how
deep, swift and muck-filled. She is
thrilled lolling about in it all, even
when it seems she'll never be able to
gather the energy to haul herself out.
But she does, dank, reeking and overjoyed
that life is such a monumental play station.

Briefly Visiting

He came, wholly unsought, the
last person not of this world I
would expect to see, as though he had
explicit permission to casually drop by
as would a fondly recalled friend, a
family member, a dear companion.
Yet there he was, as though he had a
right. His sallow sour mouth that
curled disparagingly in speaking of
others whose values did not mirror his.
How could they, for his concerns were 
solely for self. Kindness was a stranger
to him whose presence he spurned. His
children feared his torments, his parents,
grey and frail, despaired at his predations
upon them. Exulting at the life-trials
of others, a most unsavoury human.
Standing before me as I saw him last
many decades ago, he appeared robust, 
not spectral. His bony face hosting
that same grimace of malice, but his
brow so oddly furrowed. Could it be
regret at disowning humanity during
his life when opportunity allowed?