The River
It is a mighty river,
deep and wide, silent now
and bound in winter ice
capped with snow left
behind by the departing
season's snowfalls. Above,
a sky so blue and broad
it is as though a playful
giant hand turned the
landscape upside down,
creating from a winter-frozen
lake under a clear blue sky
a cloud-topped ocean
absent the winter arras.
The spring sun gathers
its heat to melt the river's
burden, to release its solid
state back to liquid form.
Spring Cleaning
The housekeeping tasks
devoted to Spring's entrance
have finally begun. An
embarrassment of rudely
impolite detritus is slowly
released from their rigid
icekeeping as the soft
cleansing of spring rain
tips generously from the ceiling
of grey to wash the world
below of its tired burden
of winter's leavings. A wan
silvery nimbus suggesting
heat and light struggles
vainly to penetrate the
grey to release the imprisoned
sun eager to fulfill its spring
function. Soon enough it
will prevail, bringing green
shoots to life, fodder for
a host of returning migrants.
Naughty Mischief
They are not yet all that
removed in their young lives
from the black balls of frantic
fluff we first saw and brought
home with us as mirror images
of one another, brother and
sister scamps whose curiosity
and compulsive perpetual
motion entertains and exhausts
us, simply that now we have
become more familiar with
their delightfully idiosyncratic
tics, she we dub Miss Chief
the fount of their flirtation
with devilish pranks, and he
Master Naughty whose penchant
to cuddle and kiss he augments
with dashing scampers avoiding
those caught-in-the-act exploits
of lightning-strike stealth
swift and symbolic of some
never-seen arcane presence
unfairly attributed to our two
dark marauders transformed
from innocent puppyhood to
anarchists in residence.
Incomprehensible
The world is an incredulous
village that thrives hungrily on
and thrills to its daily quota of
gossip. As vast as the globe seems
and as diverse as its peoples are
the universal appeal of gossip
dignified by the title of "news"
remains the constant universal
culture satisfying a deep-seated
human craving for curiosity
rewarded by revelations certain
to amaze, shock, entertain and
terrify the avid searcher-after news.
We are never so complacent than
when a people removed in geographic
distance behave in ways that confirm
our belief in our own infallible
superiority, nor as bewildered
that they fail to recognize the
functional entitlements we deserve
resulting from our exemplary values
and mores. More's the pity they
refrain from emulating our example.
On the other hand, if they did, what
then would serve to scandalize us?
My Friend Smiles
Think of someone and
mysteriously they happen
to appear, despite a prolonged
absence. And there he was,
his features relaxed, smiling
a greeting, his faithful little dog
by his side, walking without
apparent effort for a man
dependent on the helpful
thrust of a cane. His bearing
despite infirmity and age, a
testament to his military past,
this quite peaceable man.
There were many laboratory
tests and specialists to pore
over X-rays and the results
of more sophisticated medical
devices peering into his body
but no conclusive diagnosis
to explain his sudden, anomalous
collapses leading to emergency
admissions, one, then another
and a lengthy convalescence.
But he looks well and I tell
him so, and my friend smiles.
Grieving Their Loss
There can be scant expectation
of feverish attempts to fill a void
caused by the loss of the
companionship of love and mutual
dependency in the absence of a
well-loved pet whose creature days
are cruelly numbered, cut short
by the stark reality of the limits of
biological survival when Death
comes stalking its prey. Seeking
the balm of consolation in other
young adoptees creates a diversion
expanding the capacity to
welcome another emotional
attachment, but in the calm hours
of sleepless nights, anguish
and regret make their silent
visitation once again renewing
the raw pain of the punishing loss.
At My Side
How deep is my love
for you? It is a
depthless ocean of trust
and admiration well
matured in time and
living experience where
no thing mattered to me
before you and all
things have meaning
with you at my side.
Viewing you through
the lens of youth I see you
as you were, like me
a child when we met
and now through a
lifetime together, well
seasoned veterans of love.
Isolating Winter
Old Man Winter is
in failing health
suffering from Spring fever,
able now to muster only
a wan and worn facsimile
of a snow blizzard
on occasion, not even
remotely resembling
what his cranky fury is
generally capable of.
He's off to the infirmary
for a deserved and overdue
stay and preparing to
accompany him are his
collegial cronies
wind, sleet and cold.
May they enjoy their due
convalescence in isolation.
The Doves
We appear to have developed
it would seem, a firm
monopoly on their affections
as their faithful attendance at
our feeders would testify; at the
first dim rays of dawn and on the
fingers of dusk shading the
landscape from winter white
to spring's promised arrival
they present with a telling
whir of wings, singly and in
pairs, a trio, then a quartet,
until a gentle flock has assembled
claiming the feeding stations
then settling for a postprandial
nap, aware of the presence of
others but tranquilly at rest
the very symbol of peace
the doves who winter here.
Youth Deferring
It has become a territorial
dispute of time and place,
order and procedure, when a
grumpy elder refuses the timid
courtesy anticipated by a
younger, fresher replacement
prepared to render aid to the
birth of a new season. Nature
could intervene to mediate
the impasse but appears
resolved to allow the contestants
to work out their differences.
The arrival of the Spring Equinox
is regarded as rank impudence
by hoary Winter, delaying
exit, ever interminably, but
the endless snow squalls really
do test our faith that incoming
Spring takes her mission
sufficiently seriously to mount
the challenge required to
move crotchety Winter off
his self-assigned perch of
repugnant, delayed obstinacy.
The Global Bazaar
The world has become a tighter
space inviting its residents
to migrate and blend, taking the
Orient to the Occident, where
once that traffic was turned in the
opposite direction. We are becoming
occupied; the colonized people of
the world have by gradual degrees
turned back the trend as they have
achieved the confidence of
independence and now they bring
their culture and their still-exotic
presence to dilute the once
dominant cultures that denied
their sovereign entitlement to
self-government. The death of the
colonial era awakened an urge to
depart well-beloved soil for another
beckoning wholesale multitudes
to converge where once they were
seen as inferior material to help
form superior societies. The world
is still reinventing itself with a
colourful plurality of humankind
negating the desire to visit strange
new places since the strange has
ventured abroad; no longer strange.
Companions
A brace of beauties, they are,
long-legged, gleaming
long red hair falling
coquettishly over their
doe-eyed faces that
could grace a calendar
boasting feminine grace.
They stroll easily and
confidently together
no doubt sharing a
secret language to
confide their innermost
thoughts. It is as though
they are joined at the hip,
as the saying goes, but
in fact it is a leash that
joins them in their intimate
camaraderie, a lissome young
woman walking her Irish Setter,
each with bronze hair pluming
in the wind, a felicitous
cross-species pairing.
Impressions
All the superlatives that
come readily to mind
in the admiring opinion
of older women regarding
exemplars of the cohorts
that follow them on the
steadily rising plane of
female empowerment
sweetened by femininity
describe this very young woman
before me, though the
descriptive "very young"
certainly betrays my own
distance from youth. She
is coolly self-confident,
bright and physically, glowingly
lovely, her voice light and
engaged, the consummate
professional. I listen
deliberately beyond the
unmistakable whiff of
condescension bubbling as
an undercurrent of her
expression, impressed.
A Place To Rest
It's an venerable rough-hewn
timber bench welcoming
any who seek solitary peace
in nature, sitting as it does
on the crest of a hill
overlooking a forest trail
in a ravine where approaching
spring has released a stream
from its frozen winter bondage.
There's a gusting, blustery
wind chilling the icy air
under a sky as pacific as the
ocean blue, the sun bright and
warm glittering on the ice
encrusted lacework of conifer
needles, and in the distance
we hear from our comfortable
perch on the old bench, the
chattering of chickadees
piercing the dull roar of the
wind in the forest canopy.
Devil's Spawn
Jack and Jill, we named them,
the pair of tarbabies to share
our home. Black as Hades,
both brother and sister,
and it has taken no time at all
to convince us they're
devil's spawn, evading
the curse of nice behaviour
ebullient with the joy of
endless mischief, revelling
in the pleasures that
destruction brings, indulging
in disappearance for the
stealthy challenge of
mounting the excitement
of covert actions certain to
elicit stern rebukes of "No!"
followed by voices that
whimper, "no, not again!"
The Tenants' Complaint
Our landlady has become so
immune to the impudence of our
constant bleating over discomfort
with atmospheric conditions
she imperiously exposes us to
as she flaunts her rights and
we bemoan our lack of same,
her heartless disregard for the
assumed covenant between
owner and dweller leaves us in
a suspense of living agony.
Impervious to complaint, she
reigns supremely indifferent.
While the roof of the world leaks
constant typhoon after hurricane
and intemperate blasts of drowning
rainfall along with the freezing
passage of winter tinting our inner
landscape in a blur of blue-white
ice within which no tenants
should ever have to cope and
endure as we protest to no avail.
Creation, Time and Space
An imposing cathedral of
unparalleled beauty sheathed in
crystalline grandeur lifts its
imperious grace to the ceiling
of the sky velvet with approaching
night, a halo of moon and the
boldness of stars impassively
observing a landscape unlike
their own of frozen gases and
ancient minerals. The one below
with its living atmosphere
responds to the distance of its
sponsor-sun in a frigid pause
of the clamour of growing
things unlike the inert nothingness
of cold and distant space. This
most familiar place of time and
seasons, liveliness and curiosity
a highly specialized experiment
by nature in randomized creative
adventure. And so, her creations
look up and peer beyond the
darkness of the unknown, certain
of discovery and revelation.
Multitasking SuperMom
Double tasker, triple wonder,
thy name is woman and more
specifically 'mother', casually and
wholly competently staging with
minimum effort successive events
of note in anyone's lifetime, the
ultimate manager par excellence.
She was the talk of her small town,
bright and able, mother to teens
and a series of infants - pop! -
they're there. How does she
manage...?! The older cohort busing
home from school, the tinies
brigade tucked in for naps,
she set a pot of oil on her kitchen
stove to prepare a treat for all,
veered off to the bathroom, was
distracted, forgot the pot and its
evil contents. Soon enough she
managed to grab the one-year-old,
failed with the others. The tiny
coffins for the two- and three-year-olds
burned beyond recognition in that
unfortunate conflagration, awaiting
burial; that question answered:
because she failed to manage triple
tasking she will be haunted all the
days of her natural life, no question.
The Twins
She is developing to be a
real Butch of a Bitch.
No, really. She may have
chewed up a feminist tract
in our library. Heaven knows,
her puppy teeth have relieved
themselves on so many
defenceless items in this
house. Not that her brother,
physically slighter than her
is an innocent by any
means of reckoning for
he gives an accounting of
his impish ways in tandem
with her. But when they
wrestle, and that's often,
he is on the defensive, she
on the triumphant offensive
standing over his protesting
prostate form. She effects
the canine version of catcalls
and incitements to mayhem.
He is the eager follower,
though to his credit when
there's a challenge worthy
of standing fast and pulling
hard for possession of a
desired object, he gives a
full accounting of male pride.
Chivalrous? No. Resigned.
The Miracle of Spring
The miracle of Spring's arrival
the renewal of life eternal
bewitches and enthralls
the winter-weary
in the prospect of white
transformed to green
overtaking the
frigid landscape. The
balm of warmth beamed
through the cool, clear air
of a sky blue as the ocean
over which presides the
golden gleam of the sun
melting the season's snow
on rooftops and forest canopies
releasing winter's fierce grip.
Lily-White
Lily is what she was and
remains for the present,
an anomaly as a white
German Shepherd, a good
natured but reserved patrician.
Patient to a fault with small
yappy dogs when she was
in her middle years and now
that she is aged, commendably
patient with a pair of black
Poodle puppies the merest
fraction of her aged wisdom
and kindly heart whose beat
is arriving at the gradual yet
too-soon conclusion of her
life. Perhaps she recalls in her
canine mind the wonder of
discovery and her antic displays
of leaps and frolic with the joy
of emerging consciousness
of the world around her, and
now does her best to encourage
it in the wave of puppies
succeeding those succumbing
to end-of-life she is so latterly
familiarizing herself within.
The Learning Curve
He is new to the adventure of life
and everything becomes a surprise
discovery to be pounced upon lest
what it happens to be manages to
escape in a world that never ceases to
present exciting new prospects in its
dedication to educating a very small
puppy. Determining whether objects
are playthings or edible, at a time
in the life of this irrepressible young
creature when just about everything is
edible and at the same time a
plaything for sharp little teeth
incapable of distinguishing a toy
from the fingers of a hand, a glove
or slippers, as opposed to digestible
food, everything is savoured; twigs
and desiccated foliage fallen as
autumn detritus, so enrapturing
in their promise to sooth an
unappeasable appetite that the
driven creature almost misses the
opportunity of bumptiously bobbing
about the mature dogs anxious to
escape the frantic cavorting of claws
too sharp to heed their irritant quotient
and an appetite too large to avert his
eyes and nose from every speck
of promise his shortened leash denies
him the passion of access. Poor
little tyke, his angst over the
vexingly mysterious disposal of
kitchen waste, a case in point.
Chance Meeting
The great head of the young
Bull Mastiff looms over the
quivering toy poodle puppy,
the former curious, the latter
in a state of blissful ecstasy
that such a monumental figure
whose head alone is larger
than the mite of a presence
the poodle presents poses as a
counter-measure to the
dominating size of humans
who presume to portray
themselves as the masters
of all they command. From
the perspective of the toy dog
the massive size and silent
assurance of the mastiff
signals a view validating
the tyke's pride of species.
Waste Not, Want Not
Needle and thread, zippers,
hook-and-eyes, elastics, buttons,
have become as scarce representing
replacements when garments wear
and tear as the garment owners'
willingness to mend those items.
The quaint old method of
repair-and-wear replaced by
the acceptance of obsolescence
through tear-and-discard. The effort
to apply the reasoning of thrift
and re-use vanished as a lost art
where time has collapsed as life
becomes too crowded with events
clamouring and demanding of
quotidian tasks of necessity
taking root and of necessity of
the lack of will to attend to homely
skills now abandoned. For the young
see no point in repairing what
can be readily replaced as fashion
demands and the elderly who once
darned, and crocheted, sewed and
knitted, suffer age compromised
eyesight and arthritic hands no
longer capable of deftly manipulating
needle and thread and fabric.
OUR SHADOWS MOVE LONG LEGS
Snowshoeing ravines
we wind carefully down
where streams rush headlong
in summer. Tree roots hang
icicled like hoary whiskers
like your beard with its exhaust
glistening back the sun.
Animal tracks lead a crisscross
a braillework of animal lore
and we stop briefly to study
speculate, wonder if they're
watching us awkwarding
their byways. The trees
stand like dolmens, stark
against the white plain;
among them great elms
sieved by woodpeckers
creaking murderously
in the wind. Ghosts of
summer whisper from beeches
and redpolls flicker
from branch to branch as
chickadees dart and tease
us with their silly name.
It's cold enough so
our snowshoes creak and
groan on the wind-tufted snow
yet we plod on
red-cheeked but comfortable
in our cocoon of energy.
Clouds string the horizon
as the setting sun
illuminates and warms
the trail we leave behind;
animating it like
a giant caterpillar.
Just Enjoy!
Pretty in pink, she smiles
graciously for the camera,
a pink blossom wedged in
her wispy-white hair and
admits she is happy. Distinctive
she most certainly is,
and venerable as well, an
absolute rarity as someone
born in 1898, precisely 117
years ago to this date of
March 5. Her kimono
patterned in cherry blossoms
with a certain girlish lift,
she speaks of her lifespan
as feeling "rather short", but
eminently satisfying. As to
that inevitable query regarding
what had led to her world record
of longevity, her response
went far in demonstrating that
wisdom does occasionally
accompany age when she
casually murmured her own
puzzlement in gaining that
anomaly: "I wonder about that too"
Night Sky Ball
Like the wardrobe of the
fashionable woman of a
cosmopolitan world of
glamorous night-time attire
selecting a deep-blue velvet
gown and a perfect diamond
whose facets gleam and glitter
in the light of the fine-cut
crystal chandelier of the
vast ballroom, the envy of
her female coevals, attracting
admiring compliments from
gallants, I praise the sky this
becalmed late winter night,
having changed her wardrobe
from the splendid roseate glow
worn the night before, in favour
of the midnight-blue of this
moment, hosting a bright moon
and a diamant-dangling Venus.
The Hostage
So then, my friend, as avid
lovers of non-fiction we're agreed,
it was an interesting read that
advanced our knowledge of an
intellectually thorny subject,
of the dangers posed to the
international community
through the emerging hordes
motivated by religious zealotry
taking human rights careening
back to pre-medieval violence,
a fascinating and fearsome
topic. The plight of an unfortunate
hostage held for ransom by
pathologically vicious brutes
well documented, along with
his fears of beheading, so
we empathized, while oddly
agreeing his release was a
vast relief, even as we reacted
with personal distaste for
the narrator's quaking persona.
Glittering Treasure
She's in one of those moods,
unwilling to commit to either
the beneficence of the warming
sun or the exciting drama of
wind and snow whipped into
the atmosphere. That being her
lack of weather clarity, this day
has been one of fierce
brightness, the lamp of heaven
illuminating the snow and ice
festooning the forest until cloud
suddenly darkens the sky to
dusk and myriads of white
fluff twinkles its lazy descent
to cover the landscape below,
then stops as the sun resumes
its sedate place on its throne
in the sky and the settled flakes
that coruscate below gleam
and glitter, the world become
one vast winter treasurehouse.
The Crystalized Wood
The Sky has rained frozen tears
for days, mourning the passage
of yet another year, bringing
us closer to old agedness.
How peculiar its empathy, for
we feel no such sorrow.
As we move through the woods
they too weep, but their grief
expresses their loss of twigs,
branches, limbs brought to
the snow-cushioned ground
with weight of snow and ice.
Tree trunks are glassed with ice
swaddling. The day mild enough
so droplets of melt move under
the ice sheathing like dark bugs
crawling down the trunk.
Finger-thick ice has brought
green boughs to utter decline
littering the forest floor. Above,
silently cruises the dark form
of a lonely crow. No wind, but
damp air and vanishing ice fog.
The sky, a bright pewter awning
has relented, halted its freezing
assault, and presents slivers of blue,
and there, the struggling sun. The
weeks-long frozen creek has
won its reprieve, runs free, burbling
