The Storm
The sky
grey as antique pewter
greasy with dark clouds
the air heavy
with wet promise
and nearby a robin
lilts a paean
to the joys of
drowned worms.
The wind
chugging through
the trees in the park
like a runaway locomotive.
The trees
scattering their seeds
upon the ground
defying biblical injunction.
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| Photo: J.S.R.Rosenfeld - Skajit River, B.C. |
Canoeing
Our paddles sluice
the dusk-dark water
as night draws
the evening sky
close overhead.
Cedars and spruce
hang tipsily over the bank
leaning their dark reflections
over the lichen-glad granite.
A fish lunges
the taut skin of the lake
and overhead a kingfisher soars
beaking his lunatic call.
We drift the lazy water
clap echoes off
the tree-line
watch dragonflies etch the air.
Mist rises from
the edge of this day
and the humped hills
finally swallow the sun.
The Ascent
The ascent to Noon Peak
rose sharper than
our expectations,
moss cushioning the granite
white pink clover
stippling the rising swell,
tree roots writhing
gripping our climbing feet
we clambering like
mountain goats
to finally stop
lungs sharing the searing air
tearing through
the heat radiating
from us as though we
were heavenly bodies;
the center of a
universal blaze.
Winter Life
Crystal clear and
diamond pure, the
cardinal's song peals,
piercing the gathering
dawn with its exquisite
melody, challenging
robins to contest
its musical mastery.
The dark shadows
of departing night
surrender to crystalline
light and a riot of
tiny pawprints
from prowling
furry beasts
embroider the
fresh-fallen snow.
The Contest
It was an unequal contest,
beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Although they were friends,
age- and (almost) size-matched
and both given to mischief
and an excess of enthusiasm
as the young in the bliss of
energy to spare are wont to
display, things got somewhat
out of hand. Teasing and bullying,
size and agility differentials
and character all playing their
inevitable part to disillusion one
and validate to the other that
aggression really does the trick.
That lesson played out as the
game of possession of a prized
object passed from one to the
other. With a sense of somewhat
outraged reluctance on the part
of the small Lab, to a countering
aura of victory on the acute
consciousness of the Malamute.
Her Wondrously
Dismal Design
I lay claim to a mind bent
with curiosity that compelled
me always to find those answers
to the questions that never
ceased their increase as I matured
to discover that answers were as
elusive as the questions were
numerous and I had to settle for
the observation that human nature
remains as little understood now
as it has been since time immemorial
when even then fine brains by far
eclipsing mine turned those same
puzzles into a search that has never
ended. The variations on human
ignorance and the vile menace of
mankind's behaviour as complex and
perplexing as stars in the night sky,
the canvas of our endless lifetimes
of hostility, ineptitude and evil a
vast demonic diorama that even one
as skilled as Hieronymus Bosch
was incapable of adequately
capturing to demonstrate over the
ages our supreme mendacity in
naming ourselves on the record of
posterity, "man the wise", a cruel
canard that nature herself found no
humour within, as she equipped
all her living creatures with the
helpful imperative of survival,
sighing with resigned regret at
her imperfect, fraught blueprint.
What Was That?
Blink your eye and you
wonder, 'What was that?'.
'That' was a tiny spark of
red fur wearing a gloriously
lush tail, an enigmatic,
energetic imp moving faster
than the speed of an eye-blink.
An acrobat of exemplary skill,
he is also the master of all
he surveys from his imperious
height. None of the other
squirrels are as scrappily
endowed with self-assurance
and it is his task to forever
remind them as they skittishly
skirt his immediate presence,
monopolizing the seeds and
nuts set out for the birds. Oh,
indeed, for the squirrels of
colour, the neighbourhood hares,
and foremost that small red
perpetual-motion machine
whom nature endowed with
dignity, grace and command.
This Street
Every street should have a
rascal, and this one did. Oh,
not the large shambling dog
down the street whose owners
had the unmitigated gall to
formally name Rascal, a dog
meek to his very marrow. No,
our rascal was a neat and very
small dog whose aristocratic
lineage earned him the rather
pathetically pompous name of
Bentley, which he obviously
swore to himself he would
never live up to. This little rascal
was a blithe soul who would not
be put in his place simply because
everywhere was his place. Even
while a pup his caregivers
hadn't a clue where he might be.
He might and would be impulsively
poking about in the neighbourhood
gardens, provoking the domesticated
ire of the street's lap dogs, one of
which he was not. The only time
he was confined was when his
humans would set off on a trip
leaving him securely penned in
their house, allowed to go no further
than the mud room, food and drink
set out in abundance and sanitation
be damned. But that rascal was
the talk of the street, an impudent
imp, a furry ball of impetuous
carnival antics. He could leap great
heights in a single bound, scramble
quicker than a chipmunk to whom
he meant no harm, and hold his
own in any dog scrapes. His
friendships on his terms, no one
else's. He gave the street character
with his excitability and enthusiasm.
Seemed he was forever around.
Until, one day, he excited himself
into a heart attack and then the street
became the poorer and its pride
plunged with that rascally Bentley
no longer around to astonish.
Winter Windsport
Loping along
snowshoes leaving
a lazily tufted trail
the sky like curdled milk
wind cradling clouds
water crystals
shimmer rainbow colours
on our frozen eyelids.
We slide the slope
of a hill
stippled with cedar seedlings
parent trees nearby
tall and symmetrical
aromatic fragrance
heating the chill air.
No birds this
Arctic day yet
the unmistakable sign
of an apocryphal bird.
Foursquare in the
centre of a naked Hawthorn
a birdsnest
shaped of the same
dark thorny branches.
peering inside
we see the glowing perfect
ellipsoid of a white snowegg
the wind has whipped within.
It's Autumn
And nature's
palette
spills the
landscape.
In fields,
pumpkins glow
the colour of sun
and birds are
winging
past this place.
We pace the time
spring forward
fall backward
In my summer time
my footsteps lilted;
now, steps falter.
And it was
in summer that my
colour glowed.
Now, colour fades
and my fruit
that once swelled
has grown slack
and another nest
has been abandoned.
The Storm
Sky begins its slow ascent
to meet the earth
and hangs a moist expectancy
over barely perceived thought
and soon the world is whitely wombed
things moving in muffed silence.
It's happened before
and will happen again
but only in dreams
of glittering ice-ages
of dim memory wanly recalled.
A stillness encompasses
like webbed flour
tasteless and crystallized
promising neverland to children
and bringing childhood
to unbelievers.
Yet death moves also
on padded puffs
in such soft tenderness
calling ready and unready alike
through the crystalline softness
of the pristine close.
The storm is come
It's gone.
Recalcitrant Winter
There's grumpy winter expressing
the usual adamant insistence that
it alone owns the landscape, with
its frigid beauty of delicate lacy
ice crystals adorning frozen trees,
thick layers of snow nestling the
forest undergrowth, incredulous
that ingrates such as humanity
grumble over prolonged presence
of inclement weather disguised
in the grace of alpine white purity.
That there is a preference for the
snow abundance to melt, revealing
dark, gritty forest spoilage defies
logic, and aesthetic grace, winter
asserts, loosing yet another avalanche
of softly gentle snow to tempt opinion
otherwise than with the irritating
anticipation of spring's tardy entrance.
The Mystery
Loving nature as she does and
mindful of her obligations to
her beloved family dog, she never
misses their daily rambles in the
urban forest treasured by the
neighbourhood of avid dog-walkers.
And mindful too of her obligation
to the social contract of good
citizenship, she never fails in
her duty to pick up her pet's daily
offerings to the gods of the forest
deposited on the trails. Its mistress
scoops the reeking mess into a
bag, then aiming high, flings
every day's treasure in a wild
trajectory where each lands where
it may. Most hanging like ornaments
on the forest branches of oak
and poplar, pine and spruce.
Doomsday
Have we really, truly done all of
that? And more, grimly assure
environmental scientists, those
who have scrutinized the evidence
and found us wanting in respect,
duty and gratitude to the very Earth
that sustains us in the corner of
our galaxy, in a minute portion of
the Universe, that is our home.
We have closed the door on our
own evolutionary pathway in
the most extraordinarily cavalier
manner, as though it hardly matters
whether we are reliant on water,
air, food supply, shelter and energy
of such a quality as to sustain us
and propel us into a future we
have sadly forfeited. For it is we
who have burdened ourselves with
a home that cannot support its
living organisms, chiefly ourselves.
Damming and diverting rivers,
wasting natural water runoff,
hacking down our forests,
poisoning our atmosphere,
acidifying and warming the oceans.
Making life impossibly hostile for
both man or beast. Our foully forlorn
gift to the universal world of Nature.
Wishing It
As much as I do adore Nature
there are manifest vestiges
of her otherwise splendid design
of existence and survival that
I would summarily dispense with,
if I could, but my wish is not
her command. And as much as
I can find it within myself to
tolerate the presence of the cat
of the neighbour who lives
beside me, that of the one living
across the street, down the street,
up the street, with their stealthy,
stalking instinct for mauling and
bloodlust, I simply so much more
value songbirds for the exquisite
thrill of their song, their colour
and delicate presence, and even
the impish, quarrelsome squirrels
and wild rabbits who also feast
on the seeds and nuts set out for
the birds; so much so that if
Nature changed her impetuous
unknowable mind, I would never
miss the cats, as I would the
wildlife they wretchedly prey upon.
Selfies 'R Them
The Wonder Of It All!
Here's a challenge to Immaculate
Conception, the immaculate
conception that the young,
fecund and self-absorbed have
embarked on their own brave
new frontier upstaging in their
pride of conception-and-creation
of a new generation unlike any
other before them, and for Mama
goddess-worship! In their arms
newborns and infants nestle,
at their bosoms, newborns and
rugrats nuzzle suckling in full
public display. Entitled; the public
cowering lest they be named
unprogressive, condemning of
mother-and-child. And they,
those sacred Madonnas, pose
for the admiring, adoring public
incited to gaze fondly on the
vision of a dreamy-eyed mother
achieving celebrity through the
heroics of defying the etiquette of
a social contract they disdain. Any
who object to becoming unwitting
witness to public displays of
naked mother-child nurturing
rather than worshipping the
eternal image given new life by
these self-adoring thespians are
nothing short of joy-killers, despite
that they have themselves borne
the ritual as mothers, capable of
providing for their infants' intimate
needs eschewing public display.
A More Tolerant Vision
When she was young
and in good health
she shrank from worms
while digging in her garden.
Now age has gifted her
a more tolerant vision.
Daily she drops drugs to
keep Glaucoma at bay.
Her pupils pinprick
she looks like an aged junkie.
She still likes the sun
warming her back
though it's harder to rise,
and worms no longer upset her.
She has discovered
snakes between the bricks
of her house; they like
the feel of the sun,
wrap themselves possessively
around bushes in her garden.
Once, while trimming an
ornamental shrub she
snipped a red-bellied snake
in half. She sat down and cried.
Biological Imperative
Stricken at the thought of foraging
difficulties for overwintering birds
in our harsh winter landscape, loving
the presence of cardinals, redpolls, juncos
and chickadees, we thought to provide
them with a food source during this
cruelly frigid winter with its endless
ice and snowstorms ... and that is how
the feeding station on our porch was born.
Deriving pleasure from their daily visits,
we watch enthralled as they take their
turns, in pairs and singly, flocking to
share nuts and seeds and not only they
but black, grey and red squirrels that
others scorn, in their turn entertaining
us with constant mini-dramas on our
very doorstep. They bring us joy in
exchange for quotidian meals. The
dearest of these visits, however, are
the lonely night-time appearances of a
small grey hare, silently hunched against
the cold, appetite sated, seated on our
porch floor. Yet it is the image of that
very small, defenceless beast, alone in its
creature-solitude in an otherwise
gregarious world that fills us with
wonder and sadness. The wonder that,
alone, it makes its way in its lonely
world; the sadness, that it does so
unaccompanied by a companion.
Not Her Wisdom
Well, then, that's a grandmother's
comfort ... to know she will not
be forgotten, satisfaction to be
had in the certain knowledge that
when she is gone her memory
will live on, fed by fond recollection
of those left behind for not merely
her love for family but the skills
and experience put to good use
over the kitchen stove, those many
years of tickling the gustatory fancy
of those who believe that no one
could cook up a storm of edible
delights as she ever did with
diffident ease, nor satisfy their
hungry souls with the blessings
of her love-seasoned dishes whose
aroma and taste sensations will
follow them longingly throughout
their own well-lived experiences.
Everyman
(Oh Death, thou comest when I
had thee least in mind!)
God Adonai called His servant
Death and made him Supreme
Messenger to unready man.
Everyman lived his life in order,
spoke of truth and justice, wrote
in a notebook of all his good deeds
prided himself on intelligence and
great sensitivity; shrugged off his
blind impatience.
Everyman surrounded himself with
the Good Things that commerce affords
its precise practitioners, enjoyed a
large circle of friends, sent cards
on Special Occasions to Family.
Rendered his children to approved
Seats of Learning. Everyman read his
bible, considered it a runaway best
seller; liked the bit about an eye
for an eye - he supported Capital
Punishment. Everyman mailed cheques
weekly to his sons and daughters
to ease their way in this Vale of
Tribulations. Facing the Dread Angel
he said: Why me? I'm not Godhelpme
ready yet - I need time - to settle
affairs, compose my final goodbyes ...
Obliging Death granted him a
lingering shade that gaunted his flesh,
sunk his eyes. Everyman fondled his
deedbook, ran loving hands over bankbook
and new car. Said goodbye to his
friends' turned backs, wearily slit
open envelopes to read get-well cards.
Wondered if this was God's punishment
for hanging murderers. Sent off the
last cheques to his grieving sons and
daughters.
The Red Gnome
He is the merest wisp of a man,
frail, elderly yet sufficiently
determined and energetic to daily
perambulate a landscape holding
little allure for urbanites, save for
a distinct few whose life values
remain enmeshed with meeting
nature on her own terrain. He has
been absent from the forest trails
for months, now suddenly reappeared.
In red toque, thin red jacket, white
shirt and an apple on each cheek
he wields his two walking sticks
with an agility and speed missing
in the autumn months. Surgery
since then has replaced a hip and
now he propels himself on the
snow-laden woodland trails with
his old enthusiasm, pain evaporated.
His red attire, unchanging regardless
of the month and climatic conditions,
flares brightly on the background
of pure white. When he left
Switzerland for Canada, those
signal colours, red and white
transposed from a cross to a
Maple leaf, all else remains the
same comforting hue of home.
Dearest of the Dear
No doubt about it, he is
adorably dear. And, as well,
deeply entitled, all his
expectations to be fulfilled
and, truth to tell, we do our
best to accommodate the
little beast. I do miss the
energetic, vital puppy we
once enjoyed living with
witnessing his antics, his
all-consuming curiosity run
amok, his enthusiasm for life,
a tiny non-stop creature full
of astonishment with life,
forever amazing us with his
lively demonstrations. Now,
we are left with his caprices
and his occasional grumpiness.
Oh, and of course, his entitlements.
Dinner served a tad late? Oh
dear, I'm right at it! Moved too
close to your 'side' of the bed?
Sorrree! The fascinating elfin
dear has become a reticent old
dog. But no complaints for now
we resemble one another right
across the species line.
Under the Sun and Brother Mars
Still at it, those tired old hacks.
Groping words of warning to shape
the world; gloom prophets. And Mars
down from his bloody planet laughs
striding killer boots over the
shrinking Earth. Lame-minded prophets,
like hobblefoot Hephaestus, pleading
peace. Tired platitudes. What
mindless destruction? Civilization
has reached its zenith. In scientific
technology in detachedness.
Innocuous, that word, neutron. From
neutral? Undecided?
at taking sides. Impartial
Switzerland was once a nation of
mercenaries. Hephaestus, remember, was
a blacksmith, himself clanged weapons
of war. Too lame to fight but provided
the means. It all seems so damn
familiar. We are grateful for mass
anonymity and sanity prevails. We've
leaped forward to a time of great
understanding. Understanding as we
do that the dead are only television
images.
Her Troubled Soul
Melancholy and rage have
been her intimate and
valued companions for the
half-century of life
she strode through with
resentment and spite
following desperately in the
thundering footsteps warning
all who would approach
to beware. Those who did
not heed, bewitched by her
beauty, overlooking the
viper's sting of her tongue
soon experienced their own
spirit shrivelling in the heat
of contempt she showered
with gratuitous abandon
upon all who might dare
to challenge her treasured
suffering throughout a life
sadly not worth the trouble.
Cycle
The sun hangs hot and heavy
scorching the kind blue bowl of sky
the restless lake below.
On the forest floor ferns uncurl
forget-me-nots stipple grasses
the leg-awkward crease of a heron
throws shade across
a staircase of vertebrae
linked to the horn-heavy skull
of a buck cavities still matted
with hair gaping with death.
Fresh enough not to deny
familiarity with life
it shines chalk-white
glancing sunrays hosting death
wriggling with larvae
the grimness of a struggle with winter.
Canoes sluice the water nearby
that ending. Fish lunge the surface
of the lake soupy with tadpoles
turtles and panfish.
A killdeer breaks the elegaic silence
rising on a startled note
hiking its cries
through the silence of new life.
Stage Left
Nature's theatre is busily featuring
another of those hysterical disputes
among its major actors, prima
donnas both. Each claiming
pre-eminence, the sun and the
sky have had a wardrobe falling-out
the sun insisting the sky shed
occluding garments, the sky
huffily responding that no
upstart sun will tell it what to
wear. Wind, clouds and snow
have declared their allegiance
to the sky. Obliging the sky,
wind bellows clouds into a
wardrobe altercation, as clouds
release a confetti of dense snow
squalls, obscuring the sun's vision
from the playhouse below. In a
fury of thespian rage fire blazes
from the sun's gaseous heat,
burning through the clouds,
melting the ambient snow as the
sun takes entitled centre stage.
