Volatile Nature

She is tempestuous by nature
of nature and of course is
Nature. One of those bad
tempered piques when she
decided not to raise the blind
on the window of our landscape.
When dawn came creeping in
after the dark hours lapsed, she
snubbed the emerging light
ordering an opaque grey to
shield illumination and warmth
from the furnace of the sun.
All day she sulked and all day
her creatures looked up
anxiously at that ceiling of
grey to no avail, where her
'do not disturb' sign hung
mockingly over waiting day.

Ruin

The wall stands
on the Ontario landscape
rough grey granite
drywall   no mortar
gluing its oneness
hints of a fireplace.

Now the underbrush intrudes
forest pushing back memory
birds loop the lonely air
and forest creatures
shelter under its shadow.

It could be the
ruins of Ilium
of a Minoan palace
or even Dresden. The
causes as diverse as
a wooden horse

              Santorini
or Allied bombers. This
wall speaks of the
inevitability of time
flux wrought by nature
by the nature of man.

Sunflower Smile

She is a bright spark of energy
and hope, purposefully
guiding the eyes of harried
shoppers to the table in the
store's large vestibule where a
transparent collection box sits
awaiting donations to the charity
of aiding those every community
has, the underprivileged in need.
She is suffused with the
enthusiasm of youth, bubbling 
effervescently with hope for the
future. Hair carefully coiffed,
eyes brimming with expectation
her smile as wide and brilliant
as a sun-drenched sunflower field
the temporarily unemployed
twenty-something has turned
her personable skills to community
volunteering, admits it is humbling.
How else to describe the mortifying
sensation of people determined
not to make note of her presence,
curtly pushing past her smile, her
disarming plea-patter? She would
so much rather be working the
fashion industry in Toronto but
this, she wrinkles her neat little
nose in play, prepares her for
dealing with others, making light
of her mission and her efforts,
informing her as they brush
sympathetically by that they
too are in need of assistance.

 

Sanctuary

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.

 

The Setting Sun

In the swiftly gathering dusk
the hollows of the forest 
glow with the warm tones
of fallen foliage, crisp and
dessicated awaiting the
snowfall of winter. In those
hollows run rivulets of recent
snowmelt, the atmosphere 
vacillating, uncertain whether 
to accede to fall or winter. 
The arras is of fall yet the 
chill ill wind is that of winter, 
numbing the blood of the 
woodland creatures. An evening 
fire emerges in the sky, slumped
from daylight blue to the
darkling shades of imminent
night; the setting sun
fire-lighting the heavens.

Time Flight

Of course when she was
younger she loved to brazen
through a shining helmet of
brassy auburn, tinging on fire.
It glowed and so did she, never
mind she was just a sociable
clerk at a thrift shop. She too
could save enough for a winter
trip to Florida. But time moves
on, her body thickened though
that mischievous grin still sparks.
Now she says she's too tired
to forge on. Her hair no longer
dyed that brash invitation to
flirt, nor is it now, at age 60
that grimly gruesome steel-grey
au naturel she so detests. This
time she chose midnight black
not to advance the admission
of youth's flight into the dark
corridors of age, but to defy it,
as she prepares for the next
scene in the engaging play
so inexorable in its predictability
we all lightly refer to as life
adrift in the passage of time.

 

Urban Wildlife

They visit us often, those
creatures unbidden but welcome
unaware that humans are
jealously attached to the homes
and properties we call our own,
private possessions whose 
purpose and ownership is
deemed such that none may
encroach upon. Exceptions
granted to creatures free of
our quaint view of the world.
While in our arrogance of
domination we impudently
make free of the domain of
the wild organisms of the Earth.

Forest Nightfall

As dusk too early begins
to shutter the light of the day
the last trill of a thrush
presumes on the hush
that lulls the early winter 
forest to rest. Wind has
vacated the snow-dappled
landscape as a veiled mist,
faintly opaque, rises to meet
evening's rush to send 
darkness, a coverlet to lend
the mystery of lengthening
shadows' anonymity, finally
engulfing all in the clutch
of the dense dark of nightfall.

Winter Wraith

There is little nuance of colour 
tone as though the landscape is
jealous of its monotones of
greys and browns, black
contrasting with white tenuously
on the cusp of melting, scant
contrast in tufts of evergreen
boughs relieving the backdrop
of sameness this early winter
day. Stillness pervades the
chill atmosphere as ice pellets
fall from a leaden sky, and a
small white dog, delicate legs
akimbo in motion, dangling
ears flapping, whips through
the forest undergrowth, like an
amorphous gathering of snow
suddenly rising, pantomiming
life; an ephemeral winter wraith.

 

Ode To Youth

When he was bright and
new to life he was
perfection in form and
essence personified. Nature
herself must have spent
painstaking hours in research
and development to breed
a living, trotting, emotive
toy. Wherever he went
adoring crowds followed
eager to view him, touch
him, hold him And he,
grand master in his
Lilliputian world, reciprocated
allowing himself on display
to be held and endlessly
admired. As we all grow
old, so has he, and adoration
no longer enthuses him
for he can no longer hear
the squeals of joy his 
presence elicits, and wishes
to be held only by us, our
elderly little companion.
Still sweet to behold, but
exceedingly cantankerous,
bald, sight-impaired with age.

 

Afternoon Sun

The forest path is crusted
with frozen snow and ice
patches. Wind has whipped
layers of snow from the latest
storm off tree trunks and 
limbs to coat the forest floor.
Winter-bare trunks and
needled boughs reach up
to a baby-blue sky with
scalloped-white clouds
scudding swiftly across
the sweep of the heavens.
The late afternoon sun
glances its benediction
through the chill landscape.

Winter Radiance

 

Winter Radiance

The sun, a wanly golden disk
in the vast blue of an icy winter 
day yet glimmers and scintillates 
through pine and hemlock boughs, 
its winter radiance hinting of warmth 
it cannot provide to the woodland 
creatures seeking shelter wherever 
they may in the reality of wicked 
wind gusts stretching wretched fingers 
of ice into vulnerable huddling
birds and mammals witnessing
ephemeral hazes of wind-whipped
snow from among high perches
entering the very crevices
of infinitely minuscule spaces
between shuddering feather and fur.

Woodland Windstorm

Moaning and groaning in a
rage of belligerence the wind
bellows and whistles through
the canopy of the winter forest,
howling like a demented,
ill-tempered old man berating
the unfortunates attempting
to placate his geriatric fury.
A confluence of snow and
cold and bitter wind envelopes
the forest in brittle survival
mode, trees stiff with frozen
terror clacking their masts
in a frenzied harmony of 
hapless dismay at the violence
their landscape is beset with.

Seasons

In gentle clusters weaving 
in the slow, cold wind of
early winter, snow gathers
on tree trunks, branches
and needles of pine and spruce,
hemlock and fir, limning
their surfaces in startling
white against the sere backdrop
that fall has left awaiting
winter's entrance. The morning
dawned with a silver sky, no
need for clouds as heaven
released an unremitting 
veil of ethereal flakes
misting the atmosphere
bewitching the landscape,
sending woodland creatures
to a mad frenzy of late-season
foraging in a depleted cupboard,
nature's bounty temporarily
exhausted, awaiting spring.

The Winter Clique

It was an exclusive little
party. Nature sent her invitation
only to fall and winter advising
cold it might remain in strictly
observer mode, and wind to
hold counsel for the nonce. 
Then in dredging memory recall
and artistic contemplation she
drew forward her paintbox
preparing to etch a panorama
setting the stage for more to come
informing her guests they might
indulge along with her, but
their selections would be
constrained to the subtle palette
of ivories, chalk and mellow creams.
Fall dissembled, insisting on shades
of grey and tan even as greens and
golds, reds and purple-pinks were
summarily discarded. Winter wisely
selected white ingratiating himself
to Nature's powerful majesty.
Truculent fall has been sent into
the disgrace of a year's exile.

To Each His Own

Sometimes when you tell
an old acquaintance whom you
haven't seen in ages that he
looks really well you may for
once be sincere, because he does,
his enthusiasm for a change in
lifestyle affecting an alternative
in outlook, values and satisfaction
and you can empathize seeing
his aroused new pleasure in life
the results plainly evident before
you. Even if for you his choice
makes no sense and exerts no
pull of curiosity or envy since
living your life your way with
its benefits far outweighing
the deficits that led him to
discover his own personal
salvation through his life's
finite journey to its conclusion
convinces you of his error.

Flurries Falling

Carried on the cold wind of
late fall the sound of a woodpecker
thrums through the urban forest.
So cold it is that even the shredded
bark of long-dead trees seem to
shrivel. Yet those are magical
beams of sunlight slanting off
the gleaming white of denuded
birches and the understory of
the treed hilly slopes is green
with yew carpeting the forest
floor. Sun glances off desiccated
piles of fall foliage penetrating
now where it was denied through
the leafy canopy of summer
searching for colour among the
drab shrivelled leaves. Then, even
as the sun sails buoyant in its blue
ocean, snow begins its lazy
descent, flecking the atmosphere
with white puffs of winter.

Unabashed and Modest

The Sergeant-at-Arms Kevin Vickers receives a standing ovation as he enters the House of Commons Thursday, Oct. 23, 2014 in Ottawa. Vickers was among those who opened fire on Michael Zehaf Bibeau, who stormed Parliament Hill on Wednesday. (AP Photo/The Canadian Press, Adrian Wyld )

 

Unabashed and Modest

It is not the boastful self promoter
whose dazzle fails in times of
crises meeting a disaster upon
whom society foists its laudatory
congratulations and appreciation
but invariably the silently 
introspective one with the
introverted personality capable
of striding calmly into the
centre of a volcanic cauldron
of danger to the public, to find
solutions through personal
sacrifice. Yet though this self
abnegating scenario serving the
public weal may be seen to rescue
a dire situation from catastrophe,
still, time and again it remains
the brawny handsome fantasist
whom the public's eyes swivel
towards in worshipful admiration.

Generational

When we were young, a
lifetime ago, our parents
hauled us off to shoe stores
looking for sturdy footwear
impervious to the heavy duty
stress young limbs in motion
inflicted upon them. In service
to the solemn occasions
experienced older salesmen,
family men themselves, knew
the routine well that we so
loathed as much as the product
bringing forward nastily
rugged stock at the stated
upper-price limit. When our
own children were young that
drill had seen slight options.
The parents whose wallets
were strained had children
whose earning fortunes far
outstripped their own. Their
offspring, however, had academic
opportunities never dreamed of
by their parents. Now, in their
grandchildren's time there are
no shoe shops, only the grand
shopping emporiums of 
"super stores" and "big box stores"
large and complex enough to
threaten directional confusion,
and the hordes of those servicing
clients in the "sport"-obsessed
community are the hip young,
zealously serving the needs of
shoppers, themselves academic-
adverse, no employment available
but salary-lean and obligingly
and regretfully service-oriented.

 

Remembering

Their backs stooped with age
and grief wearing remnants
of proud old uniforms they
blink tears at the memory
of those who remain forever
young in their memory.
Companions at arms sharing
the exuberance of young men
heeding their country's call
to defeat an army of merciless
killers responding to their
own nation's call upon the
youth of the day, eager to serve
wearing their uniforms and
their rifles, their aspirations as
brave smiling faces of unlined
youth. Perishing in their effort.
Never to grow old and to weep.

The Nourished Mind

What is a dwelling place
not graced with the presence
of books but a temporary
resting place for someone's
corporeal essence, soon
enough to be snuffed in
the fullness of the human
expiration date. Indifference
to opening one's mind to the
mysteries that surround us
here and then gone, adds
little to the human passage
in limited time. The home
invested in knowing the
world and its surroundings,
honing a familiarity with
humankind's awareness
of the immensity of the 
universe and our own minds
within it savours immortality
and celebrates the very triumph
of our transitory existence.

EverythingSomehow

Photograph courtesy NASA/ESA/Hubble Heritage Team

EverythingSomehow

A single immensely singular
infinite density of matter and 
antimatter and no one to know
of its non-existence. It just was,
the event of creation, the universe
appearing from no thing its 
patient arrival as an indescribable
quantum event of huge mystery
and sublime presence. A mere
fourteen billion years ago, an
event unprecedented and explicit
as a representation of awe
as in awful and as in exemplifying
impossible; just simply became.
From nothing but a hidden
presence unassuming and
precipitate came the ineffable
cosmos, its still lingering
microwave shifting in time and
space validating the existence of 
all. How? Do not trouble yourself.

 

Transformed

The sky a vast silver grey
dome reaching far below
to caress the forest's 
fall-nuded canopy,
loosing a whitewash
of early snow over
sere grey branches and
soon all horizontal surfaces
are brightened, the
morosely sullen hues
of grey and brown
sifted with a frozen
icing. Tiny kisses of
snow melt on our faces
limp foliage crush
underfoot, layered in
snow. The landscape 
once again magically
winter-transformed.

Sign of Our Times

When our children were young
and adorably stubborn and their
parents adamant that they be
compliant in consuming the
nutritious food served them in
those proportions suitable for
young bodies to thrive, growing
healthy and robust, it took both
their parents' entreaties to convince
them their chiming complaints were
unjustified and unuseful to their
actual needs. Occasionally they
might relent and pick daintily at
the fish, liver or brassica offending
them on their dinner plates, even
on occasion lift a morsel to their
downward curling lips and manage
to gulp them down, with much
encouragement. Adults now, their
tastes encompass mostly what
they long ago spurned, while
those still offensive tastes are
banished. Alone, together at our
dinner table, it is I alone who
remonstrates on those occasions
when our children's father fails
to appreciate those same dinner
offerings rejected by our offspring,
a sign of our less tumultuous times.

In A Nutshell

Credit: Janus Brink

In A Nutshell

It has been hundreds of thousands
of years in the making, far less 
a social construct than truly a
distinct gender difference that
even early homo sapiens understood
for they were not (self)-named
'man-the-wise' for nothing. That
females gave birth and in so doing
the busy mother and the mewling
infant required support to survive
was simply acknowledging reality
of a kind amply recognized by all
animal species. Those biological
adaptations resulting in male and
female merely Nature's formula
for reproduction as the mistress of
existence fiddled with her archaic
architectural plans melding physics,
chemistry and organisms in a
choreography of imperious design 
to amuse her royal majesty, sole
witness and grand proprietress of
the dazzling, twisting Universe whose
infinite attention to scale and minute
detail alike inflicted upon Planet Earth
a species whose antics, emotions and
pathologies guaranteed her not one
wasted moment of suspense. Assuming
she endowed those females with so
many attributes not unlike her own,
creation among them. The puzzle left
would be what she exampled the
male psyche upon in her fertile
imagination, laughing indulgently
as he created the idea of an all 
powerful deity, just incidentally
in his very own humble image.

Existence

The timeless, perplexing and
sublimely complex creation
that hums and thrums throughout
the Universe holds endless
fascination for those times
when our minds contemplate
the unknowable vastness and
diversity that surrounds us, in
everlasting space, dark and
teeming with celestial bodies
whose chemistry the brilliance
of a scientific mind deciphers,
beyond the comfort of we 
whose focus remains close at
hand, sighting about us the
wonder of ephemera, butterflies
and morning mist, spring peepers
and flowering vines, the fragrance
of favoured dishes, the flood of
memory bringing us to tears.
Our amazement that we were
born and out of fortune's sideways
glance we met to recognize our
future of shared thoughts, love
and tenderness, the care taken
in the duality of two becoming
as one, living our allotted time
given to a microscopic presence
within the great gyrating
wheel of the Universe.

Offence Intended

What time are we saving,
which daylight hours hoarding
when night falls so rapidly
sending the gloom of early
dusk so swiftly to greet
the dark, eager to invade
our senses. The utterly
senseless tradition has long
outlived any usefulness
imagined by the international
community which conspired
to wreak mass confusion
when it unveiled a dastardly
plot to irritate and confuse
our biological diurnal clock.
Just ask our canine companions
outraged at the hour's lapse
when we finally move our
lazy intent to present their meals, 
an hour late sans apology.

 

Awaiting Winter

Early dusk dominates the
horizon of this overcast day.
The sky's cauldron has been
brewing a turn toward rain
but has failed to tip the vessel
releasing the downpour to the
waiting landscape below. 
Streaked clouds of darkly
purple hue yet linger but the
wind that incited them to 
mayhem has retreated in a huff
of disobeyed orders. Not a
whisper of expectation remains
within the stillness of the
fall woods until a clatter of
crows lift in unison above the
diminishing canopy of the
woods heckling the powers
dictating climate and the seasons
soon enough to extract revenge.