Haze

Surrounded by an extended
wreath of stony mountaintops
partially dressed in festive
autumn colours where the
deciduous trees stand on the
double brink hovering below
the tree line, faltering on denuding
themselves with each incremental
breath of fall, a ragged range
of clouds impale themselves
upon the summits, dark and
brooding, biding time
before unleashing the
threatened storm. The mountain
slopes are hushed with delicate
grey draping across the arras
of burnt orange, burnished gold,
gleaming copper, as fog settles in
to meet the lowering clouds
shrouding the mountain scene
in tenuous darkness meeting dusk
with night's final curtain on the day.

He's never daunted by the prospect of a long drive to arrive at an area he's interested in. But then, in fall setting out later than intended can have its consequences. He'd meant to leave earlier, but didn't manage to depart until ten on Saturday morning. He never packs his gear in advance of one of his outings. But since he has everything down pat, it takes him no time at all to get things set up. So he figures, in any event.

Leaving Vancouver at ten in the morning, he arrived at the place where he'd leave his little truck at four in the afternoon. Which meant, after getting his canoe into the water and geared up, it would be another hour before he reached his destination. But it was a beautiful day, not too cool, with a wide open blue sky. Others felt the same way he did, he could see, paddling along and having to knock a warning on the side of his canoe to fly-fishermen along the way.

They were there for the same love of nature's environs as he was. As a biologist he was curious about everything; as fishermen they loved the landscape, and the challenge of sending out their invitation to trout. Knowing they cannot keep what they catch, and must return them to the river. Which is why hooks aren't used, but the challenge is still there.

One of the men fishing hadn't noticed him at first, and sent his fly over in a long graceful arc. Later, when he arrived at his destination he would discover the hand-tied fly lying at the bottom of his canoe, when he pulled it up onto shore to chain it around a tree. He recalled how both the fisherman and he had laughed together at the sheer pleasure of their situation.

By the time he arrived, dusk was already fallen, and he put his little tent up through familiar rote, not having to depend on daylight to perform the familiar. The river glistened darkly beside him, lapping at the shore in gentle hushed tones he was familiar with. It wouldn't be until morning came that he would discover, looking around him, a net that he'd forgotten months ago when he visited in the early summer. Not far from where he discovered it, there was that lock that he hadn't been able to find, and which he recovered with great amusement.

The pleasant but cool day had turned into a cold evening. He'd anticipated that there would be frosty conditions that night, but felt his down sleeping bag was equal to the challenge. Rummaging in his backpack he withdrew a headlamp and adjusted it over his forehead. Plunging a little further into the pack he took out his camp stove and its fuel. He positioned the stove on the canoe's underside, now upright and lit the burner in preparation for cooking dinner and tea.

Just then, he felt a terrific whomp! at his back. A wind percussion of some force, enough so that he was completely startled, and turned instantly to try to determine what had hit him. The air concussion could only have resulted from an explosion of some type, his mind immediately concluded. He turned to look upsteam and could see in the wanly lit near-distance made partially visible by the beam of his lamp, that the river was calm. He turned downstream and the same conditions prevailed, the water quiescent, gently lapping the shore.

Then a sudden movement was caught at the corner of his eye and he raised his head in time to identify the departing, widely-flapping wings of a great bird. An owl, likely; a raptor unchallenged in its predations of wildlife, obviously vetting him as a potential meal, ultimately realizing on closer inspection, perched on a nearby branch, after swooping down to his back, that it was not to be.

 

Endless Time

Far down as far as
the eye can reach,
lies the valley floor.
From one peak the eye
sees a distance of
green meadow, while
nearer the granite
tumbles its presence
down the mountain slope,
and crevices where
summer-melt of
winter summit snowpack
has worked its skill in
forging mountain streams
and boulder-strewn
raceways bubbling and spuming,
thrusting and gurgling
down the mountain side
toward the river below,
where great erratics testify
to the terrifying power of
nature's design and the
implacability of endless time.

The Sullen Woods

The dense silence of the
sullen woods is suddenly sliced
asunder by the piercing call
of a bluejay, its flight made
visible through the wind's
plucking of fall foliage from
their stubborn perch on branches
unprepared to surrender their
coloured burden in a frantic
shower hurling toward the 
forest floor. The canopy above
increasingly bare, dark branches 
limned against the sky,
where a pair of vultures
swoop and circle, the
wide dihedral of their wings
a matter of elemental grace.

Some Things

Some things are
never forgotten
become recalled
triggering response
and childhood flashes
before unready eyes.

The child terrified
of the sterile
unsmiling unknown
of the hospital
is drugged to oblivion
yet still hears
voices as from the
watery depths of an
endless ocean.

Recalled
an adult
pressed on all sides
by moist hurried bodies
becomes anaesthetised
tunes in to herself
hears voices
thin   strained
from that vast distance
of unquiet
alienation.

Disengagement

Nature has delivered her notice.
All too often oblivious of her presence
suddenly days are shorter, colder,
cloudier, windier, rainier. Urbanites
shrug, accommodate the inconvenience,
take little note of the natural world
while gardeners mourn the desolation
of their change-sensitive dying gardens.
Those attuned to Nature listen at night
for the haunting sounds of migrating
birds navigating dark skies, wistfully
observe the swiftness of dusk,
early morning fog and frosted rooflines.
When Autumn's long weekends arrive
highways are flooded with hysterics
travelling on primitive impulse to
woodland trails, whimsically wandering
among the trees releasing foliage to
the forest floor, hearing above the call
of geese flying in ordered formation
escaping northern routes for southern
migration. The wonder of a creature
as minuscule as a hummingbird, a
butterfly, responding to Nature's existential
survival compulsion facing the elements;
their valiant struggle to prolong life.

Paul Hamburger

He was diagnosed
a slow learner
took forever to learn
          simple words
even then couldn't
state his name.

One day he
overheard someone say
his father's name
which was Ronald MacDonnell
and the child brightened
fondly tripped
'Papa Hamburger!'
off faltering tongue.

Now, whenever
some interested person
asks
       as adults are wont to
            bending vertically
over the child...
'what's your name, Son?'
he proudly proclaims
'Paul Hamburger!'

Although Paul is
          ecstatic
his mother still
wrings her hands.

Eleven From Four

In the fullness of a casual encounter
can be revealed the vital details
and sum total of someone's life.
She pointed out to her two young
charges the presence of my
toy poodle in his carry-bag
ensconced within the supermarket
shopping cart and I remarked how
fortunate she was with two
grandchildren, resulting in a
cascade of revelation. For these
were only the most recent of the
offspring of her own four children.
She was blessed by fortune, she
smiled, with nine others. Working
one full-time and two part-time 
jobs she ensured, with scant
formal education of her own and
as a single mother abandoned by
her children's father, that her
children completed their education.
College-educated, all, she smiled 
beneficently in the amplitude of her 
very own satisfaction with life. Her 
reward amply returned in no fewer 
than eleven from the four; quite an 
enviable return on investment.

The Incidental Confidante

Far from home, a temporary
sojourn through a foreign land,
exposed to hordes of others
for whom the space is tamely
familiar and others from elsewhere
finding their way about, like us.
As cordially friendly are the locals,
it is in chance encounters with 
those others among whom true
empathy and interest we arouse
in one another, we become familiar.
So that in a brief, the very briefest
space of time and place together
we live a life's acquaintanceship,
awarding one another the most
intimate of sketches of our lives 
and discoveries, bonding in an
affectionate web of friendship
casually extended, heartfully gained.

 

The Unseen Presence

They are shy and therefore
unseen, yet their distinct
voices inform us of their presence
on this superb fall day; deep
within the forest glowing green
with needled conifers contrasting
bare-branched deciduous trees
denuded, their lushly-coloured
foliage not yet desiccated
generously foliating the forest floor.
The bluejays' calls piercing
the cold, crisp air of autumn, the
punctuated blips of chickadees
and nuthatches teasing from the
deeply needled interiors. And
we, our boots disarraying the crisp
layers of foliage plumping the
trails, note the colour palette
of nature's transition still
evident on large, heart-shaped
dogwood leafage, in sumptuous
patterns and hues of gold, copper,
scarlet and pink. Above, dark
clouds conspire to invade the
ocean of blue, stubbornly
anchoring on the peaks of
the mountains, beyond.

Ephemera

The landscape familiar at intervals
from year to year, one spring
to another, the revelations
brought by autumn exposure
transforms the familiar as though
a gifted artist had suddenly 
brushed an underlay on
an original canvas. For the
green screen absents itself,
frost, wind and shorter daylight hours
mounding the forest floor
with colourful, crisp foliage 
nestling pearls of morning dew
electrically lit by the generosity of
the sun illuminating areas
previously impenetrable, courtesy
of the forest's lush canopy, depleted.
Revealed, a hitherto unsuspected
landscape of mountain rockfalls
fuzzed with rich carpetings of moss
and undulating ferns among
the tenderest saplings of fir,
hemlock and spruce, a miniature
forest within a forest, minuscule ponds
and rivulets, irrigating the
divine mystery of it all.

 

Mountain Stream

The bellowing downstream rush
of the sparkling, frothing
mountain stream fills the air
with sound and fury,
the delicate spray permeating
the landscape of stunted oak
and hemlock whose roots
desperately grip tight upon
the shallow soil deposited aeons ago
on the granite shield of the mountain.
The bleached corpse of an ancient
pine once towering proudly on
the mountain slope, now bridges
the sides of the stream,
slowly decaying, amid the
huge erratics tossed down the 
mountain side straddling the
rocky depression, host to the
frantic watery rush, the
afternoon sun sliding between
frothy dark clouds 
crowding the dome of the sky
sets the stream ablaze like a
ribbon of dissolved diamonds.

Harvest's Bounty

The northern forests of
deciduous trees are fast 
losing their brilliant
autumnal-hued foliage of
lime green, burnt orange, scarlet, 
bronze and blazing yellows
as windbursts under a
dirty-linen sky defoliate
oak and maple, birch and beech
in the rain of a depleting canopy.
Beyond the woods other
symbols of the season abound
where thousands of wayfaring
geese pause their migration
to settle in casual exhausted
formation in newly harvested
cornfields, pecking avidly among
the stubble, discovering ample
reward in kernels of corn
fallen from harvesting machines
provisioning the weary flocks
to sustain them for the morning
flight after overnight rest
on these fields serendipity and
the generosity of nature linked
to human enterprise have provided.

Sanctuary (1)

The trees bare as straw brooms
bleed bright yellow blazes
sharp counterpoint on grey beech
dark needles of conifers
comb the winter air
shoved by a bitter wind.
The snow is loosely sifted
glaringly bright under the winter sun
as we cross-tuft a pattern
striding snowshoed. The
silence echoes as we whisper
in the cathedral stillness of the wood
watch two deer panic
red rumps flicking white flags
dark droppings steaming in the snow.
They're still spooked by vague
ghosts of hunting incursions
in this game sanctuary.

     (We'd watched helplessly
     as scaups frantically
               beat the air
     rising from a quiet autumn lake
     air thick with shot. Later
     looked down from protected heights
     as a deer veed another lake
     trying to escape the hunters
          finally standing
                frozen in fear
     on the cusp of the lake
           a perfect target.)

They're forgetful in the summer
memory of terror dimmed
let us watch them browsing.
Yet it was just last summer
we discovered this same forest pathway
plush with fawn-coloured hair
yawning with the chalk-white
skull of an unwary deer.

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.

The Days in Careful Measure

Although her skin hangs
like crepe and her eyes hover
    lost in the canyon of her face
she speaks of the future and I
turn my ear to her conceits. She
would soon be back in her place
that no one could plump like her.
This is the woman who dwarfed my

slight frame. Now her flighting
hands are vague shadows on
   perilous sticks and her hair
no longer dyed, springs distant
on her skull.  Chemicals budded

her taste to ashes leaving no pleasure
in fueling. She moves these days
     in careful measure, one boneleg
then another; laying fond memory
on acquisitions no longer hosting

pleasure. Satisfying now a meagre
patience, drawing mind across a
     printed page. Inhaling drags while
drawing notice to her new non-smoking
habit. Frustrations ebb and flow
       unrelieved by friendly voices.

Her life has paced the decay of her
flesh and she follows the corruption
of her cells hypnotically.  Finally
     slips skinny shanks between
hospital sheets, her world becomes
a white attendance punctuated by

ampules of powdered highs. Even her
family now come to visit this
           vanishing member, sending
daffodils to lighten the landscape
of her room. Their bright insouciance
pricks her, drawing as they do hopes

of waking while she is looking for
        comfort in thoughts of sleep.

After Freud

There's great therapeutic value
in unloading
                     disappointments
unhappiness of others
not rising to expectations
which is why psychiatrists
have it made; they've learned
the wonderful attribute
of listening, gently probing
as though another's discontent
matters, personally.

                        Themselves
close-mouthed as a matter of
professional self-preservation;
who's ever to discover that they
aren't, after all, wizards
of the arcane cult of living?

Who'll ever know about their
predilection for coke
(I mean the real thing)
obsession with dainty extremities
infantile fear of the dark
proclivity to premature ejaculation

                       UND ZO ON?

Vision

All the length of our days
you charged my air
with the passion of life
and our time was a
sharing of experience.

Only lately I've noticed
at night beside me
you lie subdued,
not yourself.

Dynamo, where are you?
You lie here,
clutching sleep,
electric presence absent.

I see that you and I
now practise nightly solitude
for the command 
performance.

The Cosmic Nature 

of Termagants

Three fur balls of
ferocious imperative
madly winding a trap.
Metabolizing instanter
the matter they've eaten
then tailing each other
in ravening passion.

Two fur balls of
gluttonous hunger
whirling a trap in
lunatic frenzy. Sapping
the glucose from the fur
ball they've gnawed
and tailing each other
with furious intent.

One lightning virago
a cyclone of terror
whipping its tail around
the confines of hell;
nipping its backend
with determined devotion;
gnawing acrobatic jaws.

Soon all is still in the
empiricist's trap. He
peers in the deathjar
with curious detachment;
fingers a skeleton half
inside itself and busily
writes in his diary:

Scenario toward
this depleting Earth.

Voyage To Strange Latitudes

In the strange latitudes
of that hemisphere
animals wear shifting eyes
wind blows a hollow song
through aeolian strings
set on a razor's edge.

                  There
the newborn adorn
dark furniture like a
ship captain's parlous
displaying mementos
of exotic voyages;
mewling objects d'art

                   and
love is played at feelingly,
coevals plucking sole eyes
doing the rounds
in collegial fashion
so all can see through
future's mists.

                  There
mountains blossom
bright thorn flowers
earth opens welcome
chasms for escape from
terrifying sameness.

In that country
trespasses are welcome
in boiling cauldrons
spitting primal brew

                     and
heat brings saline dew
to unsuspecting brows.

Enlivened

It stands, rigid and gauntly forlorn 
on the fall landscape
black, knotted arms raised bleakly
to the clear blue sky as though to
reclaim its place as the elder
whose sentry-vision
secured the arras stretched
before it, unsentimentally forgetful
of its once-august presence,
wise in years and the history of
its observation. Yet some empathy
for lost glory is in evidence
by the warm embrace of a vine
which crept steadily over the years
to embrace dead limbs and
kiss the skeleton with the love
of its seasonal crimson leafage,
life's spiral even in death.

 

Intentions

I truly meant to return
to the young woman playing
the Japanese Shamisen in the
public square of the
market whose exotic
colourful presence plucking the
instrument of her homeland the
pretentiously cosmopolitan
crowd of busy shoppers
appeared oblivious to.

Instead it was another
young woman who approached,
boldly, baldly beseeching "loose change"
in a manner starkly at odds
with her neatly well-appointed
wardrobe. While others pushed past
I fumbled for change, finding little
and she observing bills
offered to take one off my hands

giving me change to the value
of six dollars for a ten, to enable her,
she said dolorously, to buy food
for her dinner. Impulsively
thrusting a ten into her outstretched hand,
spurning her change, she smiled,
pronounced a blessing from god
upon me, then briskly
walked on to continue her trade.