On Voting Day

Dressed to the nines, she was,
quite fashionably layered
in colours bright as sunshine.
Jewel-bedecked, hair nicely
styled and immaculately coloured,
study in her overweight appearance,
lipsticked mouth insisting her
determination to cast her vote
in this provincial election's
advance poll, because she will
be absent, unfortunately, on
election day. A funeral, her
brother-in-law died last night,
she sighed heavily. Taking strangers
into her confidence, she murmured
how difficult it was for her to
stand, waiting in line, and we
exhorted her to rest herself,
sliding a chair toward her, and
kept her place in line. I inclined
my head the better to hear her
lamenting confessional, the last 
of her generational line, for her
brother and her sisters had also
gone lately and she thought that
she too, would. But she struggles on
toward her 95th year, her deeply
rutted face creased in a smile,
inclined to vote yet in many an
election, her duty to life clear 
enough, to throw those bastards out.

Guilty As Charged

Might it perhaps be so, for all we
know, that to achieve happiness
it helps to be modest in one's
yearning to reach an accomplished
goal? Could bitterness and envy
betray a lack of creative imagination?
I recall, when young, hoping for
a committed tandem of shared love,
an emotional covenant between
me and mine that would be
unbreakable, invulnerable and
timeless. Time and life have been
kindly indulgent and though I
might once have been restlessly
impatient, I have since known
contentment and happiness
throughout each day of my life.
I trusted to chance and fate and
both responded. This sublime state
of emotional fulfillment I share
while others covet it resenting what
I have and they, with their more
demanding aspirations in the
devilish details, have been deprived.
While I am surfeit, they starve, and
guilt mars my content, a constant
spectre of furtive, ghostly backward
glances to stifle my joy in the presence 
of those who tragically have not.

Words Wound

The pain of hard words
disparaging the very notion
that between two people
reasonable discourse is
guaranteed when adults
fully respecting of one
another's sensibilities and
autonomy will always prevail
preserving trust and emotions
intact is predicated upon a
conceit which makes the 
affront so shocking that
sadness and pangs of regret
overwhelm both the one
who uttered the unforgiving
and thus unforgivable slurs
and the recipient alike. How
to find consolation from
sinking into the desolation of
despairing abandonment? The
repair of that breach of love,
trust and respect becomes a
goal whose purpose is deep
but attainment beyond difficult.
Anger is best defused before
it descends headlong into
relentless rage. Nowhere is it
written that forgiveness will
raise a gentle hand to deflect
the harshness of a terminally
verbal blow that strikes at the
very essence of tolerance.

The Dark Stranger

The dark stranger appears
to have spent considerable
time and effort surreptitiously
studying my schedule and the
habits I have formed, and
obviously for the reason of
exploitation. His presence is
seen as sinister by some, his
reputation as dark as his
appearance, viewed with 
suspicion and antipathy by his
numerous detractors. I've noted
how he tends to discreetly
hover about near my residence,
as though maintaining a vigil,
monitoring my coming and going.
No shudder of fear or mildly
apprehensive of his intentions,
however, for I respect his right
to reconnoitre his environment
to his advantage. He, and those
of his dark clan whom he notifies 
assemble when they discern my
intent to wander the woods,
scattering in long-established caches
nuts to treat the forest's furred
wildlife. They too are cordially
welcome to avail themselves, and
they do, for they anticipate precisely
where I leave the edible treasures,
not cavalierly, but fully respecting
the prior advantage of other
creatures, taking for themselves
what is left, adeptly breaking 
shells to release their nuts, 
entertaining me with their clever
efficiency and alert deference.

The Host, The Hosted

They're hideously annoying,
those voracious minuscule hunters
that seek out warm-blooded
creatures to perpetuate their own
species, burdening us with
vigilant awareness of their
predatory focus lest we also be
infected with dread pathogens
threatening our own existence,
while furthering that of the
world's malevolent species of
mosquitoes generously offering
us Yellow Fever, Dengue, Malaria,
West Nile and a nasty horde
of miseries impacting our lives.
In the great master plan of existence
we can be forgiven for questioning
the relevance of such creatures
in the greater and finer scheme of
life on our planet. As a major
stakeholder, should our opinion
not have been sought, the courtesy
of consultation to have been
undertaken, as per grand mistress
of existence-and-service provider to 
generally survival-grateful clients?

Whose Convenience?

Of all Nature's many and
varied creatures, we alone merit
recognition as the masters of all
we survey, exploiting and
manipulating our surroundings
to our comfort and security
and the lesser creatures to servitude
and sacrifice toward our well-being.
For we are creatively imaginative,
capable of achieving insights and
goals to perpetuate our survival
and pleasure in life. We dominate
the agenda which all creatures
of the Earth that is our home must
accept. Lacking the attributes of
intelligence and capabilities that
we monopolize, we are satisfied 
with no less than the complete
surrender to our needs of lesser
species. Our domestic pets, for
example for whom we cannot do
enough to satisfy their every whims
entitled through the emotional
devotion they so effortlessly exert
upon our consciousness. The crows
and squirrels that recognize us and
follow in our wake, anticipating the
daily tributes we deposit for them.
The nasty little mosquito hordes 
that feast at every opportunity upon
our tender, helpless hides.

The Humble Passion

It is a humbling passion, to
be sure, this visceral call to
challenge Nature in her very own
unchallengeable speciality, giving
life, nurturing growth, enabling
her creatures to survive. But 
the captivating fascination with 
the process and the immense 
satisfaction gained by striving to
emulate our supreme benefactress, 
holds us in thrall, the legions 
who consider themselves helpless 
to do other than submit to the 
trials, tribulations and pleasures 
inherent in our relatively puny
little gardening enterprises, 
coaxing and cajoling flowering
plants to please us with their
sublime, ephemeral and 
timeless beauty and scent, and
the fruits of the Earth to bless us
with their life-enhancing
properties, feeding the world.

 

Run For Cover!

The Titan that lives high in the
sky shuffled his furniture about
up there. We know this, as the
meek downstairs tenants, by
the harsh rumblings above,
overtaking the day's earlier
idyll of birdsong, sunshine and
gentle breezes. Those breezes
swiftly grew to a robust wind,
down here swaying trees and
silencing the birds, while up there
clouds darkened the sun with
their bruised, menacing screen,
and below where there once was
light, darkness and fury prevailed
unleashing a fierce tsunami of
wild, penetrating rain, whose
rampage was soon aided by ice
formed into balls of formidable
will as they pounded surfaces
and hapless living things, as those
that could, scrambled for shelter.


 

Supermarket Cornucopia

The conveyor belt is neatly arranged 
with the food items I have selected 
over the hour it takes me to progress 
from the fresh produce to the bakery
aisle, the canned goods to the dried 
foodstuffs, the baking constituents,
the frozen and fresh fish and meat cases, 
and the refrigerated dairy products. A 
bag holds most of the tinned food, meant
not for my pantry, but to be placed into 
the lobby receptacle collecting for the 
area food bank to aid those unable 
to make that leisurely shopping stroll 
that is my weekly habit, themselves.
Once, such abundance and variety
did not exist. Once, people consumed
what they grew and themselves managed 
to raise, augmented by the occasional hunt. 
Now, the world's produce is at my
fingertips, my curiosity sated over exotic 
choices enlivening my dinner table and 
our palates. Now, cuisine of variety 
challenges my talents as a cook. I never 
fail to view that abundance with a
sense of awe, amazement also that, 
week to week it fuels us. The cashier, 
this week, someone long known, whose 
chatty remarks lean toward confidences 
of a personal nature, expresses her own
opinion garnered by long familiarity
that I obviously like to cook; that I
also like to eat merits no comment.

Midnight Visitor

Surface appearance can be oh,
so deceiving. What we think
we perceive is not necessarily so.
He is old and he is large, his back
hunched, as he progresses slowly
on our walkway, slightly swaying
from side to side, secure in
revealing his presence at this
dark, midnight hour. He prowls
with the confidence of one who 
owns the dark mysterious, his
clever opposable thumbs given
mastery over rudimentary tasks
we pride ourselves upon. In awe
of his venerable presence, I am
also taken with sadness, for his
visit has its distinct purpose and
far be it for us to deprive wildlife
from accessing treats to complement
their foraging diet. But the time
has come to wean them from these
expectations with the passing of
winter and I watch, pensive and
regretful, as he swings his body
with unexpected grace, lightness
and speed to attain a higher perch
in search of what is no longer there.

An Exhibitionist's Tale

Really! It's great to see you, feels
good to greet an old familiar face, 
like Samuel Goldenberg and Schmuÿle,
bringing up old times, refreshing
our acquaintance with the latest
news, so the comfortable old of
memory transitions to the realities
of today. So, old friend, I'm glad
you've weathered the years and
prospered so well. Glad to hear
you've spent your retirement years
so wisely, in mind-broadening travel.
Oh ... ! Overrated, is it? Glad to
hear your children now have their
own. Oh ... you feel as though they're
anxious, all, for their coming
inheritance? Sad to hear your health
has suffered. Sadder still your wife
has re-married. When did she leave? 
You left her? Good domestic help
is hard to find? You get these dizzy
spells but refuse to surrender your
independence? Your son is scheming
to take away your car keys? Sorry ...
there's this very important appointment
I must keep. Nice talking with you.
Best of luck and adieu ... old friend.

Friend of My Youth

Friend of my youth, his own
youthful world view as an
inner-city child far transcended
my own cloistered and
parochial exposure, as we 
shared a mutual love of nature
and the wild out-of-doors I
read of, scarce opportunity to
observe, save as a bewildered
selection for the welfare of a
fresh-air camp for the urban
underprivileged. The while he
worked summers on his uncle's
farm, storing up knowledge and
exposure to later impress and
entertain me. This, the boy
who became the man who
invited me to join him in his
ongoing world-wide adventures
at maturity of reason and
opportunity as we together
faced the world allowing it full
entrance to our consciousness
and very long, shared future.

Authentically You

Gregariously driven, people
old and young congregate in
their diversity and numbers
to crowd and cramp areas
of a city where presence
is rated on a scale of
social desirability, to see
and be seen. Great skill
is carefully employed in
manner of dress and carriage,
casual and disingenuously
nonchalant, given to the
moment, the pantomime of
leisure and undefined class,
there to be admired for one's
distinctive ennui, a clear and
object credit to personality,
choice, value and cool, 
all testament to one's oh so
very obvious individuality.

A Spirit of Renewal

The reverse migration is a
joyous perennial vision of
welcome to another season of life
returning to its winter-yearned-for
months of a kindlier atmosphere
when Nature and her multifarious
creatures have managed a truce
in the struggle on our part, 
to survive the onslaught
of the cruel conflicts that develop
between bitter cold and the 
menace of exposure to wicked
winds armed with icy daggers.
Nature remorseless and we
nostalgic for release from winter
bondage. The sights and sounds
of geese creasing the landscape
of the sky with their precise
proportions of triumphant 
northern destinations a healing
salve for our mournful farewells
as they equally determinedly
make their way south in Fall. 
The return of warblers, the
songbirds of spring and summer
awaken a spirit of renewal
and expectation as close to the
ecstasy of being, as possible.

Another Dimension

Our mysterious minds
lead us, sometimes gently
sometimes not, to another
life on another plane of being, 
though we doubt that plane exists, 
leaving us on awakening with a 
dim recall of fascinating places,
a persona we barely recognize
and the wan understanding
that the rationale that advances
our understanding of self
and being is far more complex
than we know. That other self
to whom we are guided and
introduced sometimes shares
our fears and on occasion
manages them better than we do,
with the attributes of time 
and space we may think of
but will not, in this life,
experience that other dimension.

The Midnight Guest

In the mysterious dark
of midnight I thought
the shadowy figure
was that of a cat
that had been stalking
the birds and local squirrels 
we had been feeding;
just stopped myself on
the very cusp of opening
the door to hiss it away
when I was able to detect
its ringed tail and
hunched back, delicately
selecting with its
clever hands choice nuts
to nibble and I watched,
fascinated, as my welcome
guest sat in the dark in
steadily pounding rain
enjoying the comforts of
my proffered hospitality.

Random Thoughts

Just a random thought of
why it is in the feverish midnight
action of our sleeping brain
when surely the mind it guides is
more than capable of imagining
on the screen of sleep, 
adventures and exotic pleasures
to leave us on waking with the
impression a good night of
entertainment just passed,
instead of ill-naturedly leading
us to the belief of a sleep-interrupted
night not of restful distraction
in a serial adventure of dreams,
but being fretfully awake 
all night trying to reason with a
sleep-deprived mind that our 
artistic muse requires a tranquil
state of dream reception, not
the irritated certainty that we
dream we are unable to sleep.

Near To Eden

Surely, this is as near to Eden's
gate as anyone aspiring to
find contentment can possibly
achieve? A blue sky on a warm
spring day with a sweet breeze
whispering through tender lime-green
foliage on the leafing-out trees in
my garden. There, I contemplate
my choices in an array of
brilliantly-hued garden plants
and flowers, nursery-bred, that
had their origins in exotic far-flung
places of Nature's varied habitat.
Above me, as I make my planting
selections, the angelic melodies of
birds gathered in the trees and
shrubs awaiting their moment
at the seeds we scatter for them.
As I plant those colourful vessels
of pleasure, a tiny red squirrel
mindless of the presence of my
very small dog, changes place with
another equally unconcerned with
my presence themselves busy
scooping the nuts we have given
them. One tiny creature among them
scampers up a tree to assail me
with a volume of rebuking twitters;
simply reminding me who has 
precedence of authenticity in this
garden they permit me to share.

Gardening

Once a year we have seen her
for over a decade, and in
that time she has aged, become
wan, lost her two little
companion dogs, her marriage
and the smiles that once
creased her weathered face.
Her gardening business remains
intact continuing to thrive
and bring her satisfied clients.
During the planting season
she is occupied and remunerated
allowing her the luxury of
winter travel to warmer climes.
She bedecks herself with
jewellery, an indulgence of
vanity most women can relate
to; its brightness a contrast to
anyone's sober countenance, a
trifle too well-aged for pleasure.
Still, a smile breaks through
her stolid composure when after
she compliments me on the 
sparkling beauty of a bauble I
wear, I unclasp it from around
my neck and present it, as a gift
to her, the radiance of her
disbelieving face more than
adequate compensation for the
gesture. Then, I focus on the
floral selections to render my
garden a challenge of summer
beauty, form and fragrance, more
precious than what I surrendered.

Intimate Moments

Just as well -- is it not?
That there is no one about
but those two frozen in an
intimate frame of time and
mind. The little old lady
lovingly murmuring terms 
of endearment in the most
cloying of phrases and tones
to the little old dog, her
companion of many fond
years together. Just as its
shiny coat lost its lustre 
with age, so did her hair --
her eyes and ears keeping
pace with the little dog's
waning faculties. Just the
love and devotion have
sharpened with the years. 
Just as well then, no one else
hovers near to overhear the 
softly voiced baby talk. But she 
would hardly be mortified
and nor would her baby.

The Spirit In The House

Surely it must rank within the
panoply of life's little mysteries
that household dwellings over time
appear to assume a spirit of
their very own? How else to
quantify the strangeness of some
homes rarely changing ownership
and those within them assume a
bright and contented outlook on
life, becoming actively engaged
in the community's social contract.
A darker covenant seems to hover
like a shadowy miasma over
those houses that oddly frequently
change hands where the owners
become, or bring with them, a
morose social distance and sharp
dissatisfaction, taking care to remain
aloof in their dysfunction. Perhaps
the greater mystery is whether the
malign spirit of the house beckons
those whose sociopathy it recognizes
or that prospective owners tend to
feel comfort within the dark spirit
found there, enabling a tradition of human
miserableness to thrive and endure 
beyond any reasonable explanation.

Sun Obscured By Dark Clouds

They're a lovely young couple, devoted to one another. They added a beagle to their family soon after moving into the house about seven doors up from where our house stands. For several years the beagle acted as surrogate child. It is a dog with a personality to match those of its humans; sweet-natured, friendly to a fault and responsive to being appreciated.

Their house, whose previous owners were also fairly young but childless, now rings with the boisterous laughter of young children; a little boy of six, and a younger girl of four. Both of those children are possessed with the graciousness of nature's protocol of gene-selection, with Gallic/Mediterranean physical appearances of surpassing grace and beauty. They are the joy of their parents' hearts; quick to learn and loving children.

Their mother is a schoolteacher. She teaches Grade 3 classes. And as much as she adores her own children she has room in her concerned intelligence for the welfare of the children whom she sees on a daily basis, year after year, helping them form social connections and exposing them to learning situations, guiding them in those early years of intellectual exploration and social intermingling.

There is one child in particular who has drawn her concern in her current class. A little boy so unlike the other children that it grabs at her sympathy for him, fearing that something is fundamentally wrong in the child's life. He will sit at his desk with his head in his hands, or lower his head to the level of the desk and sometimes fall asleep. It is as though he is fixated on deliberately obliterating from his mind the presence of others. If she says something that offends him he will rise and wordlessly, with a thunderously dark brow, exit the classroom and refuse to return.

When she attempts to draw him out, hoping to discover something that he has an interest in, something that may create a bond of trust between them, something that energizes him, enthuses him, she finds nothing she can grasp at. She scheduled an interview with his mother and sat there with the woman, roughly her age equivalent, for three hours, trying to persuade her that her son may be suffering from clinical depression, that it might be a good idea to schedule an appointment for him at the Children's Hospital to find out what motivates him to deep depressive moods so evident in his daily life.

The little boy's mother unleashed a torrent of woes of her own, that her mother, when she was twenty and discovered her daughter to be pregnant, tried to persuade her to have an abortion as an unwed mother, but she refused and had the child, the result of which represented the topic of discussion between them. And then, with another man, she became pregnant again, and had another child. The while, she lived with her mother in her mother's house.

And then, several years ago she became attached to another man, a man whose marriage had failed and who had custody of his own two young children. They became a melded family, living with her mother in her mother's house. No one disciplined the children; they ran amok, heeding no one. Her contempt for her mother was so blatant the children mimicked it, causing the grandmother no end of grief as she tried herself to give some order to the children's lives and to discipline them but no respect was forthcoming and no one listened to her. The grandmother was on the verge of mental and physical collapse.

And the young schoolteacher, the unwilling but fascinated recipient of this story of family dysfunction, understood that for all her concerns and all her attempts to pacify something within the little boy's psyche, her efforts were destined to fail. And so, she fretted and despite knowing how futile it was, continued to focus on the little boy's well-being, and continued to become frustrated with the abysmally negative results of her efforts.

The condition of the child, and with the newfound knowledge of the family background bedevilled and frightened the teacher. She tried to imagine what would happen to those four children as they grew older, in particular the little boy whom she personally felt she was obligated to help, however she could. Yet she could do nothing; that became abundantly clear to her, and she despaired.

She spoke of the child constantly, to her husband, to her own mother, her aunts, whoever would listen and everyone commiserated but no one held, through the years of their own experience, the merest inkling of a solution. She was urged to look upon the situation as one where she has tried her best to make a difference, but the situation she was looking in on was complex, of long-standing and seemingly intractable.

At night she feels particularly vulnerable, her sleeping mind haunted by nightmares of children reaching out to her for help, and she sees herself tangled in a skein of societal indifference, leaving the children to fend for themselves, their blank eyes and gaunt faces like horrible masks thrown over the sweet trusting faces of her own children.

Definitely Not A Mentsh

The strains on life and self-respect that some women seem prepared to endure, even now, in the age of so-called women's liberation, is a never-ending source of wonder to me. It shouldn't be, in the sense that our biology guides us toward child-bearing and through a social covenant whereby males in our age pledge to remain with and support a woman and their shared progeny, the transition from primitive society to the socially-civil one we live in today has done little to mitigate what nature has bestowed upon us.

And so, we have the phenomenon of some women desperately searching for a male companion prepared to love and cherish them as they are prepared to love and cherish right back, with many of those young women becoming progressively older and more disillusioned through failed relationships, some burdened with children they must raise on their own, others yearning for a life of heterosexual companionship to take them from their child-bearing -rearing days into a contented old age.

We have a neighbour who, though blessed with exuberance, a good nature, fairly attractive physically, was so utterly consumed with fear she would remain unattached as she reached into her mid-30s that she ended up marrying a man who is pathologically emotionally void, a man whose stark anti-social outlook on life would have otherwise geared him to a hermitage existence. Utterly mismatched -- where he will go to any length to avoid social contact with others, and she so gregarious that she bubbles with life and laughter, finding common cause with anyone who might befriend her -- they've managed to keep their marriage intact.

None of the emotional-psychic-physical adjustments in accommodation have emanated from him; the efforts are entirely hers, and at great cost to her personality which dims in his presence and glows in his absence. But he has always been a good provider and now in his retirement from working life his pension maintains their comfortable way of life, with their two children attending university. When those children were infants he would bellow at her if his nose detected one of them required a diaper change; any effort in helping in the child-rearing on his part was simply unthinkable.

Though they live in a large house with ample room, when her parents come to visit despite a 7-hour driving distance, they must stay at a nearby motel. She may drive one of the two family vehicles only within a prescribed distance, no further. She may not venture out into the nearby neighbourhood ravine to take a leisurely walk through a close natural environment. She may at long last have an Internet connection, but may not use a credit card for any online purchases. She is obedient to his orders. She is permitted on occasion to visit with a friend. Friends who might on occasion drop by, no longer do; his churlish presence chills them.

The neighbour we formerly knew who bustled with activity in her garden and always bristled with news and gossip, whose smile was wide and deep enough to sink a ship in, is rarely now seen. Her garden has returned to a state more consonant with nature's artless palette, and her smile is forced when she is seen. Before his retirement she had expressed an anticipated exasperation over how her life would change, but it is entirely possible that with his retirement his life changed more than she had anticipated.

On the other hand, she has always been an enabler, never insisting that he seek remedial help for his pathology where he looked straight through people, making every effort possible to avoid contact with neighbours, confining himself to the inner sanctum of his home, avoiding any manner of household tasks, spurning any friendly initiatives from others, and exhibiting an utter disinterest in life outside the confines of his stony skull.

But then, she could always be assured that if she obeyed his dictates she had financial stability, never having to go outside the house to earn a living, able to live a very nice middle-class life, the trade-off being surrendering the dignity of her independent thought and action. Obviously a trade-off that she felt was well worth the effort of appeasement.

Their daughter has adopted from her mother a huge interest in the stage. Their son demonstrates all the hallmarks of his father's profoundly disturbing social constraints. Pity, that.

Genius of Creation

Generations of dessicated
fall foliage, the winter wreckage 
of sturdy summertime bracken, 
litters the forest floor
where in early spring a
faded monochrome of 
barely discernible shades
of dull ivory, beige, and 
tired taupe present as a
tapestry of Nature's waste
slowly transformed into 
compost enriching the soil
inviting succession and green
renewal of robust new life.
Coltsfoot and trout lily emerge
and flower, their sunny heads
bashfully following the sun
until the forest canopy
matures and the landscape
presents in the full glory of 
its creator's boldly imaginative 
genius of creation.

Disillusion

Not so very long ago
I was convinced 
that people, when
confronted by the reality
of a social need impacting
other people's lives
would respond with
instinctive compassion
generous to a fault.
I have since discovered
that outside the world
of fanciful delusion
lives the reality of
emotional distance
and stark disinterest
in the welfare of
others sharing a
universal social covenant.

Early Harvest

The sun edges through
clouds gleaming like
a silver dollar
as we dip our paddles
fluming runnels in the lake
rippling pearl sounds
and all around the water
reflects dark clouds.

There looses a crow's
dark taunt and a pair
rise like sooty rags
off the tops of the pines
circling this lake.

The lake silvers
in our wake on this
wind-blathering day
shoving our backs
so the canoe darts 
sleek as an otter
to a rock-littered inlet

where we beach. As
we poke slanted branches
the soil yields garlic
and the air blossoms
with its garish fragrance.
Wild strawberries hide

their insufficiency under
weeds as we greedily pick
for late afternoon jam.
Gulls screech riding crests
and updrafts as whitecaps
scatter the lake.

The clean feather-edge
of swallows slice
the storm-filled air
picking off insects
that skip our
unresisting skin.