Hey, She's Here!
I've become a celebrity
with my very own personal
following of black-clad PR
agents always on the alert
for my presence. When sighted
calls go out to others of my
admirers to gather and bask
in my very special presence.
When I exit my home the
black-uniformed sentries
spring into action sending
the alert and closely following
me. Several at first, then
a gathering dark storm steadily
arrive, haunting my footsteps,
watching carefully for sight
of the treasure they seek and
for which I am acclaimed.
The forest nearby my house
the venue where peanuts are
daily dispersed, the cache
spots known as well to the
furred wildlife, as to the
dense-feathered honour guard
seeking their daily fair fare.
Incompatibility
Their special covenant
obviates the species barrier
for them, not even the
slightest inconvenience
to communication mars
their symbiotic relationship.
Theirs is a tight little
family compact, which none
without leave may intrude
upon without penalty. She
believes he is the sole living
creature that fully comprehends
her needs. And he, obligingly
does his utmost to provide
her with the calm reassurance
she depends upon to face
life. But the realities of
existence mitigate against
their relationship surviving
the long, lonely years that
yawn ahead toward the
inevitable, looming future.
Existence
Timeless Nature turns her
attention frequently to
examining and appraising
her handiwork. Her peerless
creations provide ample
incentive to incite her
creative impulse to ever
more mysterious manipulations
of the elements her fertile
imagination has brought
into being, like a supreme
chemist mixing together
elements of unknown values
to determine viability of
results. From the sublime
to the ridiculous she created
the vast and expanding universe,
a prodigious effort of monumental
will, then briefly rested as
she experimented with carbon
creations to vault into being
the complex mechanism that
is humankind, from among her
animal collection of curiosities.
Assessing the utility of that
creation she understands the
emergence of an unintended
consequence, the phenomenon
of the creator challenged by
the puny, yet irritating hubris
of a creature determined to
alter the major elemental
environment in the agency of
its very own mentoring creator.
At Her Pleasure
Even the powerful must
answer to a greater agency
with dominion over its
existence. And so it is with
the heavenly disk charged
with sustaining life on this
planet Earth. Where the sun
may do its duty at such times
when its own creator gives
it leave, denying on occasion
its passion to provide light
and warmth to the creatures
huddling below on the planet
destined to orbit it through
eternity but providing that life
sustenance only when Nature
deigns to order her clouds to
disperse from heaven's dome.
My Very Soul
I did now know him when
he was seven and so was I, but
seven years later fate introduced
us and our lives became
irretrievably intertwined.
Dame Fortune smiled her
irresistible invitation to the
future. In that year he was seven
a photo was taken of a grinning
young boy. That time-capsule
resides as a treasured memory
in our first album of memories
alongside those of us together
at age fourteen followed by
many others including we two
at twenty-six parents of three
infants, embracing our
duality in the bonds of love.
It is now seventy years since
that snap was taken of the
grinning boy, who now and
again treats me to an older
but still-vibrant version of
the original, gladdening
my heart and very soul.
How Personal It Is
He spoke with the subdued
passion of loss, this genial man
whose former robust presence
had been as a formidably friendly
hovering presence, those rare
occasions when mutual interests
intersected between a German and
a Jew. Now, he looks spectral,
inverted within himself, his smile
wan as he recounted his
92-year-old mother's death vigil.
Expected, he sighs, and so glad
he is now that he took both his
now-departed parents to visit
places, while he could, they would
otherwise never see, from nearby
Austria to far-off Canada. A good
and loving son, and the listener's
heart could not but heave for him.
He spoke wryly of his mother's
feeble but still commanding
manipulations compelling him to
do what he would prefer not.
Not a dozen years younger than
his mother, I wonder idly her
role during her generation's
best-forgotten Holocaust years.
The Waterfall
The radiant sun was clearly out
illuminating what remained
of the still-vibrant fall foliage
mass, yet to litter the ground
below maples and birch,
oak and poplars being divested
of their seasonal surrender
to inexorably impending winter
but look there, on the near
horizon, a steadily approaching
tsunami of watery steel-grey
purposeful and powerful
to drench this day in the
vast fishbowl of deeply
unsettled atmospheric conditions
that make short shrift of hope.
The Wildlife Enthusiast
And the Gardener
They're blighted little ingrates
little doubt about that.
Ingratiating themselves so
we have compassion for their
well-being, feeling it incumbent
upon ourselves to aid our
local wildlife to survive
harsh winter by doling out
the seeds and nuts no longer
available to their foraging habit.
So now, garden fall chores
completed with the final
planting of spring-flowering
bulbs, signs present they've
all been dug up, nibbled to death,
despite having been generously
sprinkled with hot pepper flakes,
that effort and expectation all
for naught. Scold those impish
little scoundrels? Do they care?
In Your Mirror
How odd it seems as
you suddenly find yourself
peering closely at those
so familiar as family, friends
neighbours, to see them
as they really are; faces
lined and grey, unkempt
hair and bloated body,
quite hugely disturbing as
you wonder what's gone
wrong. But it is a welcome
diversion, you realize,
making note of how very
demoralizing it has become
to recognize those blights
of late, in your mirror.
Designed By Her
The consummate relic represents
a true masterpiece whose
provenance might belong to the
atelier of a famed artist
celebrated for his divine skills
as a master carver. But this gem
was carved not from wood
as Grinling Gibbons would
have fashioned it, but rather
from wood long perished and its
delicate presence like an ancient
Asian carving from ivory or jadeite
is as supremely delightful as any
carved replica of nature's beauty
layered exquisitely, like the
ravishing petals of a blooming
peony. It is, however part of
nature's classical oeuvre much
predating antiquity, a matchless
primordial treasure courtesy of Her.
Kind Condolences
Planted lovingly with high
expectations in the spring,
begonias and geraniums,
marigolds and dahlias all
enjoyed their share of sun kisses
and rain blessings, tickling
their roots to delve deep within
the rich soil of the garden,
to tickle our gardener's fancy
when their luscious blooms
in petalled freshness blushed
in a rainbow of colours,
gladdening our hearts. Now,
diminished and cowering in
the frosts of autumn, they're
plucked and composted
returned to the soil that nurtured
them, the garden bleak and
forlorn, bereaved and in
sad mourning once again.
Him and His
Take no mind of the cane
his heavy body leans against,
nor his careful gait,
for though his body is no
longer what once it was,
his love of nature compels
him now as ever it did
and with his robust little
companion who between
chasing cheeky squirrels
amongst the woodland
trees stopping to raise
its keen eyes now and
again in worship of the man
who never neglects its
well-being, he forges
through the leaf-strewn trails,
recalling other times, but
never so good as these,
the years have left
to him and his.
Seasonal Wind
A fiercely tasked wind
sweeps through the
mosaic of colour that
has become the autumn
forest, scattering foliage
from trees to an already
heavily confettied forest
floor. This is Nature
harnessing the often
unruly element whose
service like all others
is within her agency.
Arcane forces indifferent
to good or ill as perceived
by her creatures unable
to persuade that
perennially favoured guest,
summer, to linger yet
awhile lest the impatient
winds of fall outrun their
authority to usher to this
hemisphere unbidden but
by Nature, the appearance
of ill-winded winter.
Narrow Horizons
No need to travel, to look
beyond the comfort of the
familiar, the urge to discover
unknown things about the
greater world suppressed by
grim disinterest of those fully
infused with the unspoken belief
that beyond intimate borders
of everyday life there are no
revelations of experience
whose beckoning call might
be tempting enough to halt
resistance to exploring the
unknown. Rural parochialism
Permeates every facet of the
residents' lives, simple facts
of the world beyond of no
conceivable use, extraneous
to their quiet satisfaction in life
that refuses to cross invisible
borders until, inevitably, the
headstones in the cemetery
over countless generations,
hold numbers of residents far
exceeding the living who cling
to their narrow, fulfilling
lives replete with material
poverty, supported by a
deliberate dearth of curiosity
and knowledge, clearly
redundant in communities
committed to existence that
knows nothing whatever of
beyond the great beyond.
Got You, Twice
Look here, be reasonable. No
need to treat me to an ill-natured
rant. You're no novice, there was ample
warning through the day when my
sun played peekaboo with my
angry clouds. Remember yesterday
when you were all primed to pursue
fall garden clean-up and vowed a
little shower wouldn't hold you back
and when the shower turned serious
you dug in your muddy heels and
said so what, then finally called
it a rainy day unfit for any kind of
gardening, drenched and miserable?
Hey, that was your feckless choice.
Today? Just downright reckless.
I saw you peruse the sky, half sunny,
the other half darkly overcast moving
steadily your way but you plunged
into the forest trails regardless, sans
raingear, to tough it out. Well, tough.
It's autumn after all, and as a fellow
gardener you should know well
enough I've got my own agenda
that overrides your puny gardening
calendar. So October equals
uncompromising rain. Struggled
to secure a dry spot under a tree
canopy didn't you? Didn't work
because rain and hail were pounding
the atmosphere. Well, it's Nature's
way, I tell you. Get over your fuming,
steaming misery. No harm done.
None, you silly cretin, intended.
The Observer's Eye
In any crowd this man would
stand alone, stand out, his
presence noted - how might it
not be? Impossible not to take
note, if only to experience
revulsion, pity, for how could
anyone allow themselves the
freedom to become a grotesque,
as he had? Colossus, an original,
his immense size, his girth, his
lumbering gait, his ponderous
presence at once pitiful yet
intimidating as though daring
the crowd to gape. And to their
credit the indifferent crowd
moved on, parting around him
as he laboriously moved his
gross immensity uphill after
them. Not quite after, but among
for he struggled to attain without
ease of movement what others
easily gained without gravity
gravely denying ease. A daintier
version preceded him, struggling
as he did, as determined to gain
a height to enable observation
of a regional tourism draw,
one of nature's geological wonders
in a mountainside cleft over which
roared a waterfall. Convinced
at first swift glance that rural
ignorance strides before us,
we hear between them the
cultured speech and perfect
diction of academic distinction
in the rich, plummy tenor and
responding alto in a courtly
exchange of intimate concern.
Nature's Gems
The mountain lake, its
exquisite aqua lustre
gleaming crystalline
like the sky visiting
another dimension
hides its presence
behind the thick
and verdant screen
of pine and hemlock.
Wind gusts gently
ripple the lake's
surface, scattering
light like diamonds
carelessly sprinkled
on ice, until stillness
returns, the diamonds
disappear and the
mirror surface of the
lake reflects its
usual peaceful solitude.
The Crystal Stream
Streaming, feverishly racing
down the mountain slope
the steady crystal stream
thunders through primordial
crevices its might had long
ago etched within the granite
surface creating the runway
that the imperious runoff
everlastingly travels in an
ancient rote of replenishment
for the landscape below the
mountains where the summits
rear their peaks to snag
passing clouds, to arrest them
and puncture them, releasing
their immeasurable bounty
of rain to wash the mountain
and irrigate the soil below, in
an endless stream of timeless
renewal, the ineffable symbiosis
of elemental existence.
Nature's Imagination
In all directions radiating
from the mountain pass
the summits fold into one
another, an endless series
of broad-shouldered, tree-strewn
mountains with dense rockslides
stippling their slopes; naked
granite summits capturing
low-slung clouds, wearing
them like wigs on bald pates.
A shimmering of evanescent
light streams down as the sun
releases itself from the screen
of clouds, but soon melts away
when a gathering surge of
milky mist captures the peaks
mantling the slopes and the
summits in mystery, an opaque
shifting cloud of vast,
ephemeral properties and
the trees, the boulders and
the stark summits are suddenly
gone, no longer there, a mere
figment of nature's imagination.
The Declining Canopy
A sweet breeze shifts the
drying foliage of beech and birch,
maples and oaks on the mountain
slopes. Sudden gusts release
semi-transparent yellow leaves
to finally part with their life
perches as they silently flutter
like resigned butterflies to
gather on the forest floor,
the acrid flavour of their agony
stirring on the breeze. Chickadees
and nuthatches flicker and flirt
in the woods beyond. The rich
burgundy of oak leaves, the
reds of maples contrast with the
living blue of a pair of bluejays
their shrill calls reverberating
on the landscape. Acorns and beech
nuts, a harvest for unseen fall
furred gatherers, click audibly
in sharp rebuke to the wind. Above,
gathering clouds ambush the sun
whose light warming rays filter
through the declining canopy.
The Sky's a Stage
The night had been cool, the
sky so clear it seemed as though
we could reach up, stretch a bit,
and a little more, to grasp
the handle of the Little Dipper
and spill the fiery stars it held
upon our heads and the Stygian
night below. When morning dawned
the landscape was sodden with
heavy dew, all that was left
of the spilled contents of the
tantalizingly beckoning dipper.
As dawn entered, she ushered
the sun to dry the dew and
warm the landscape. Soon, a
crowd of clouds shuffled into
view, bickering among themselves
for the valued privilege of
challenging the sun on its throne
of imperial rule and rudely
intruded to shield the world
below from the pleasure of
light, warmth and beauty,
insisting garrulously on their
turn in the theatre of the sky,
with the thundering bombast
of their drum roll heralding
triumph of aggression over
harmoniously placid content,
showering down upon us
lightning, sleet and fury.
Come On Buy
Rural small-town America in a
state whose population is meager
and whose landscapes are vast and
geologically majestic, where the
economy rests in boastfully
proudly inviting the world to visit
at a price that tourism gains a
livelihood we see pride struggling
with necessity, orientation
subservient to attracting guests
to gawk at the natural splendours of
magnificent mountains and
glistening lakes and rivers
into whose landscape crowds
the ubiquity of tawdry trailer parks,
sleazy rental cabins, upscale condos,
recreational minutiae, scrubby
family entertainment centres
service-slanted to satisfy the
vacationing whims of visitors,
an economic scheme that chugs
along in grudging benefit to the
homebound folk leasing their state
in temporary welcome to the world.
Reborn
An unusually overheated late
fall day culminated with a
precipitous overnight temperature
drop creating an inversion that
left the cover on the box of his
truck beyond merely dewy,
enough to drown a creature
so slight its death was of no
account in the Universe. He
reached to remove the still form
gently paying tribute to its scant
presence in death as in life,
but when its sodden folded wings
were touched, its fragile legs
twitched. So he grabbed a leaf
and manoeuvred the drenched
creature with its wide white wings
onto the leaf, held it that way
in full exposure to the morning
sun, then placed the leaf with its
slight burden on a sun-warmed
rock. Soon, the moth was restored
from near-death to a renewed
passion for life and off it flew
into a new day without so
much as a backward glance.
Her Supreme Majesty
Hordes of sight-seeking tourists
converge on an area of splendid
natural geology, with breathtaking
vistas of mountains marching in
vast discipline upon the far horizon
yet achieving a measure of intimacy
by clambering up a mountainside
to view an arras of scattered boulders
and smooth granite surfaces embracing
a raceway for a mountain stream
hurtling itself toward the river below.
Tourists spill from a parking lot
toward trails leading to bowls
scoured out of the granite where
rushing water enters and revolves
circularly and powerfully as it has
done since time immemorial, carving
the basin upon whose presence
attention is riveted. Venerable oaks,
beeches, pines and yellow birch
stand sentry beside worn trails
leading over latticeworks of roots
and rocks to a series of granite
levels where the stream froths and
falls ferociously over boulders only
to slither silently on the smooth
descents. Standing in awe and
admiration at the raw power of nature,
humankind grasps but briefly
the supreme majesty before it.
Their Social Contract
They squat, scattered along the
backwoods highway, a forlornly
depressed area of a wealthy nation
whose time had never arrived;
townspeople content in the
predictable familiar, an area
whose residents, steeped in the
love of their forefathers who
toiled with scant reward
see nothing to be gained by the
curiosity leading invariably to
greener pastures, for their own
is deemed sufficiently green, if
not overly productive. There they
live out their lives, in the comfort
the confines their town offers,
for their plight of poverty is
universal to their heritage and
experience. Not for lack of pride
do they remain, the codgers, young
and old, pledging allegiance to
their nation, their flag, but placing
their trust and emotional investment
in what they hold most dear, what
their poppy and their mammy valued,
circumspection and suspicion
of the world so alien beyond
the confines of town and country
where all are known and held
in fondly confident contempt.
Mirroring Nature
The mountain stream-fed
lake mirrors in its placid
tranquility the autumn-burned
foliage that nature has so
artfully groomed to maturity
as a background screen,
patiently awaiting this
October day to flaunt the
timeless beauty of a scene
whose fleeting presence in
the transition between seasons
tantalize the human eye with
form, texture and colour
that has motivated the artistic
souls of the authentically
talented to paint into
landscapes as treasured
as nature's fleeting landscapes;
the paintings rare treasures,
vastly outliving the originals.
The originals costing the eye
of the observer nothing to enter
that briefly enchanted world.
The paintings, superbly emulating
the reality, carrying a price only
the privileged may access,
successfully mirroring nature.
Lie Detector
Hope does indeed - bafflingly
enough - spring eternal, at
least in the feverish minds of
avid collectors under the illusion
that "you never know" what may
appear, some unexpected treasure,
to meet the acquisition
compulsion satisfying the
parameters signalling value,
beauty, skill, composition, design
craftsmanship and desired materials
to present as an object of merit.
Patience is never more a virtue
as initially appealing objects
reveal themselves as degraded
counterfeits and the collector
sighs in weary resignation, if
not downright disbelief that a
seller whose anxiety to dispose
of the questionable object must be
at least as great as the potential
purchaser's to claim it, offers his
paltry pretence at a hugely inflated
price reflecting a distorted kind
of commercial dance between a
connoisseur and a charlatan, a
poorly choreographed waltz of
indifference and greed sparring
with acquisitiveness and resignation.
Exiting Summer
There are glimpses, through the
canopy of beech and birch,
maple and oak, of a wide
blue sky, and the sun in full
sail on that ocean of blue
sending bright luminous
shafts of light to flicker like
a mirror on the rippling
mountain brook, sliding down
the mountainside, slithering
like a live creature, around and
over the litter of rocks pebbling
the water's raceway, playing a
musical rush, roar and tinkle
as an orchestral counterpoint
to the brilliant peals of a passing
bluejay. Fall-tinctured foliage
flutters gracefully from branch to
forest floor, silently abandoning
life. The oak too add to the
seasonal turnover, their acorns
steadily released in the wind,
unlike the foliage, emitting an
audible !crack! of dismay, as
they meet the ground; the varied
details involved in nature's current
absorption; deconstructing summer.
