Dilemma Solving

Is there any doubt that we live in parlous
times? Does not the world reel from
the presence of conflict, of appalling
blood-letting, capricious tyrants
endlessly exploiting every opportunity
to brutalize their dependent populations?
Is it not the case that dangerously
murderous ideologies roil world order
entrapping helpless and vulnerable
people in the death-traps of state
criminality, where the rule of law
surrenders to the irresistibility of 
fear? The world is stalked by the
sinister presence of psychopaths whose
psychotic manipulations end in tragic
atrocities leaving the world to mourn
its inability to impose order, peace and
security. Yet there are those whose
common sense aided by the wisdom
of years find solutions to all these ills.
And in the interests of full disclosure
and with the kind of modesty that such
declarations require, I speak of a quorum
of elders who among them represent the
collective wisdom of Solomon. Hear me
out; we meet not by design but through
happenstance daily in our neighbourly
perambulations, courtesy requiring that
we acknowledge each others' presence
then briefly halt to refresh one another's
attention to the proliferation of ills with
which this world abounds. And with 
consummate skill and wisdom we tease
out solutions to all world problems
solving them all, one by one. We can be
persuaded to make ourselves free for
consultation, singly or through committee.

The Rain, Oh The Rain!

The lid of the sky has been lowered
touching the atmosphere with its
pewter denseness, laving the earth
endlessly, clamped down tightly
powerfully inclined to remain
as indeed it has lengthily as
though there will be no end
as day following on day the lid
drips and drips and drips
with all below drenched and
gasping. Struggling for air
the lid is occasionally lifted
but slightly, allowing the sun
its light and its warmth to creep
through the aperture and balance
is restored. But the omnipowerful
hand that lifts the lid restores its
position and on it comes, endless
rain varnishing the landscape. There
reigns perpetual dusk as though a
universal light source is forlornly
sequestered and darkness is now
the order of the day, every day.

Mission Mass Dementia

Iraqi Shi'ite Muslim men from the Iranian-backed group Kataib Hezbollah wave the party's flags as they walk along a street painted in the colours of the Israeli flag during a parade marking the annual Quds Day. (photo credit:REUTERS)

Mission Mass Dementia

Beyond puzzling. It is an incontrovertible
reality that humankind is biologically
anchored in a shared sense of morality.
Yet events occur persuasive of an
opinion that it is possible that
irrationality and hatred can conceivably
be transmittable, that entire swaths
of populations imagining themselves
to be infused with an inherent set of
values honouring justness and fairness
can allow themselves to be tainted by a
pathology of morbid hatred in defence
of an ideology claiming itself to be
victimized when it is held responsible
for inciting to terrorism. These fallible
dupes cling to a belief of themselves in
support of helpless victims who are in
point of fact religion-driven fanatics of
a revolution inspired by an ayatollah who
scorned their hapless commitment, spitting
out a curse they are unable to divine through
these words: Those who know nothing of Islam
pretend that Islam councils against war. Those 
[who say this] are witless. Islam says: kill the 
unbelievers just as they would kill you all!...
Islam says: kill them, put them to the sword!...
Islam says: Kill in the service of Allah those who 
may want to kill you!... Yet though the mission
is clear the interpretation is faulty and
that leader of the Islamic Revolution who
inaugurated al Quds Day now sees ardent
support in London, Paris, New York, Toronto
Berlin, Canberra, Islamabad, Jordan where
marches in support of the concept of
eradicating the presence of Jewish Israel
find enthusiastic support among those
proud to hoist aloft the flags of Jihad.


 

 

Treasure Chest

Little wonder one is drawn to the
garden and to gardening. The rewards
of that binary attraction are endless, a
love affair of countless dimensions
and never-ending fascination. A
sense of gratitude to nature making it
possible, dispatching her elements
of sun, wind and water in recognition
of a kindred spirit in her creatures
acknowledging the fundamental
interconnectedness of all living things
she has created. A stroll through the
garden captivates the senses in its
mesmerizing spell, leading one to
dream while fully aware for a garden
is a daydreaming place of  solitude
and visual splendor. In the greater
scheme of nature's blueprint ephemeral
but in our lifetime a ceaseless source
of pleasure, a living, textured, fragrant
landscape akin to a treasure-chest
brimming with priceless, rare objects.


 

 

Absent The Senses

Pictures, they enthrall and transport
us with the drama of the tales they tell.
And tales they do tell, is that not what
the old adage informs us, that a
picture is worth a thousand words?
So in photographs that we value
as memory enhancements lest we
forget those captivating details that
we witness, there is a thousand-word
story, a verbose accompaniment to a
photograph of grace and elegance.
We appreciate the essence of what
it is we view, but in extracting those
thousand words are we party to a
summer afternoon abruptly transformed
to night? Do we hear that oncoming
series of thunderous rolls warning us
that a storm is nigh? Do we recognize
that lamps geared to daylight hours
suddenly burst into blazing light?
And can we see fountains of rain
hurled by the sudden presence of wind
lashing the windows we peer from? We
view the picture, a faithful rendition
of what the camera can capture in
emulation of human eyesight, a brief
instant of raucous drama captured as
a theatrical setting, spontaneous and
awaiting the forces that bring it to life.

Thunder, Action!

For us, delicious high drama
as we lay in bed appreciating the
drum roll of thunder, the clash of
the dark night split by lightning
the wind roaring, rain lashing
against our windows. For our two
little dogs, alarming threats as they
cowered and barked and we soothed 
their uneasiness and enjoyed the 
theatre inherent in a night of violent
rolling thunderstorms, we snug and
comfortable. By morning the sky
had cleared and sun beamed its
warming balm over the landscape
inviting us to decamp for a hike
in the dripping, humid woods.
Our impulse shared by others with
whom we spent more time chatting 
than our two leashed companions 
could tolerate. In that spent time the 
shafts of sunlight seeping through the
drenched forest canopy ceased while
the mood turned dense with dark 
expectation. Soon theatrical claps 
of thunder drew imminent, our pups
leading us skipping through the 
forest trail, storm's initial droplets
ample warning we had too long
tarried. Yet haste and fortune earned
a reprieve and soon we watched in
fascination as the morning turned night
and once again a tumult of rain
thundered down from the dark sky.

 

Heart and Soul

The bleak despair of devastation
is what defines the crushing
of the human soul. The debate
over the seat of the soul
and the heart of the matter
represents an arcane mystery
to science, but it is no mystery
that the heart, or the soul
is a delicate instrument devised
by nature to pacify and ennoble
her creatures. We are designed
to love and be loved. Our
emotions rely on the assurance
that those to whom we are
closest in intimacy and
inheritance care deeply for
us and our well-being is
assured when we return that
trust and devotion. Remove 
that fundamental assurance and
the soul is destroyed, the world
becomes a place of desolation. 
The heart is bereft and the soul
wanders friendless and abandoned.
Existence becomes a burden to
be rejected when a casual cruelty
or a calculated spurning becomes
reality to that friable awareness
dependent on mutual adoration.


 

 

Elegy for Lilly

Seeing the colossus approaching
us on the forest path it is not
difficult to imagine this steamy,
humid post-rain atmosphere
hosting forest giants. But this is
a giant whose name we know
whose sons we have met, whose
granddaughters we've spoken with,
familiar to us. It's just that something
is dreadfully awry. It's his unusual
presence, absent his companion
and when we ask, expecting his
usual laugh that she'll be along
directly, after loitering behind some
trees, we understand that we will
never see Lilly again. As her name
implies, a lady of profound dignity.
A sweet-tempered, patient and
profoundly intelligent partner
suddenly gone. No more will our
two puppies rush in eagerness
toward her, nor she gently abide
their ill-mannered rush. He stands
before and well above us calmly
explaining how his life has been
diminished. And we know that
he is bereft for their interspecies
compact, that of a man and a 
German Shepherd of impeccable
mutual trust has been sundered. 

In Science We Trust

Why, you ask, do I look depressed?
Perhaps because I am. It's science
specifically food science and medical
science. Science, as we all know
is fairly infallible, as in the statement
'the science is settled', and we glumly
adhere to what settled science tells us.
It has been chastizing us for many
years, informing us that we have
and continue to defile the temple
of our bodies, hastening ourselves
toward that bleak endless night we
name as death. Oh yes of course
there are the issues surrounding drugs
and alcohol and the dread misfortune
of addiction appealing to the Angel
of Death to hurry in and claim the
living corpse. No, that's not what has
been clinging to my mind. It's the
years of avoiding saturated fats, salt,
excessive sugar, and empty calories
absent nutrition where processed
Frankenfoods are to be avoided in
favour of ,fresh, whole foods that nature
intended us to appreciate as the
recipe for a long life. Genetically
modified crops, one area where
food science thrives is no threat to
me, but wait: science now says the
fruits and vegetables nutritionists have
urged us to consume may harm us
by causing inflammation, the nexus
of autoimmune disorders. This, the
ultimate addiction, devouring nature's
bounty seems a conceit we clasp close
and in the doing seal our fate. Absent
the fuel of food there is no life, 
but nature's formula to prolong life
is withheld and we grope for answers
eluding us, trusting in science. Hello?

Mad Rush

The mountain stream
thunders and pounds
its surplus down
and over the
granite slopes
around erratics that have
calved off the sides
of the ancient rock cone
needling clouds halted
in their coursing flight
across the dark sky.
The watercourse swirls
and scatters leafy
detritus and aged patches
of curling grey lichen
scrubbed by the
wind and rain from
venerable tree trunks
as the forest below
saturated, humidity
suffocating the atmosphere
is sprayed again by the
stream's mad dash to the 
treed valley and the
river, bounder-strewn
and aptly named 
Mad River swells and
gathers its engorged 
watery volume in
rapids and cascades
boiling and roiling
frothing and thrumming.

Irresistible

As it rushes in its frenzied
tumble down the mountain
the frigid stream meets no
resistance, twisting its
ferocious course around boulders
frothing and hissing its disdain
spreading over the expanse of
granite then narrowing as it
squeezes through rocky clefts
undeterred by an ancient
geology it has itself over
aeons past, shaped. The humid
ambiance has bred luxuriant
colonies of mosses and
rock cress nestles its
perfect white blossoms 
in the seams where the granite
face of the mountain meets
the seat of an erratic, long
since cracked off the summit
constantly hydrated by the
endless stream. Rivulets
like questing fingers rush
over the sun-glazed rockface
eddying in small pools
before trickling off to rejoin
the motherstream. A constant
musical susurration of water
outpacing its hurried path
down the slope sounds notes
reflecting a series of cascades
where butterflies float. Their
aerial mating dance flits from
foaming stream to root-gripping
trees, trunks leaning perilously
horizontal, spray spuming
great old hemlocks, birch
and pines, witness to eternity.

Serenity

Well beyond the roar
of the swollen, coursing
mountain stream,  the 
small lake sits modestly
serene, about it the forest
of hemlock, yellow birch
pine and spruce crowding
its narrow shores, sun
slanting through the
green canopy to create
diamonds of light
reflected on its passive
surface. Straw lilies and
bunchberries flower in
abundance, succeeding
the trilliums surrendering
their glory as the woods
approach the heat of the
afternoon and hungry
clouds of blackflies rest
among blueberry bushes
awaiting unsuspecting prey.
None stir on this spring day
not even the trill of a thrush
to be heard in the humid
and hushed forest. 

 

The Scene

As the supreme genius of
choreography she has no peer
reigning unchallenged
the undisputed queen of all
she surveys. Pleased no
doubt with her own inventive
solutions to achieving perfection.
And perfection is precisely
how the forest, nestled at
the base of the formidable
mountain, streaming an
endless libation over its own 
granite flanks, coursing through
the valley below to the rivulets
running through the verdant
steaming forest, presents. The
moist, sweet fragrance of
petals unfurling on dogwood
woodland violets, bunchberry
crowding the forest floor
waft in the atmosphere. 
Yellow Admirals floating lazily
on breezes freshening the air
robins and thrushes bursting
with the joy of birdsong
their high notes leavened by
the baritone murmur of the
stream rushing to a loud
crescendo racing and bursting
with frothy spume over
mountain-hurled boulders.

The Swift

What more fitting name
for a wild, tumbling
mountain stream than Swift
for swiftly strenuous it is
whirling madly around 
boulders long settled on 
the streambed, erratics of
granite calved from the
mountainside, the
irresistible, timeless force
of the stream carving
away portions of the 
granite slope, now sending
up spuming white foam
as it courses relentlessly
downstream, swelling
gaining momentum and
raising its voice in a
triumph of gravity eroding
the impermeability of the
mountain's granite shield
yielding to its power.

The Forest Hothouse

The forest gleams and glimmers
through the gloom of total
overcast, rain steadily falling
through the verdant canopy. The
swollen mountain stream rushes
fiercely over boulders lining
the stream bed, foaming white spray
damping the atmosphere. Little
wonder thick green mosses
lavishly adorn the granite, much
less giant tree trunks and lichen
cling possessively to fallen trees
vying with the fungi on the 
forest floor for prominence 
and tenancy. Greens vibrate 
with energy, illuminating 
the sodden forest, a luxuriant
symphony of nature's timeless
ritual tenderly bringing the
forest giants to climax and
nursing waves of successors to
maturity, the whole thriving in
the humid hothouse of renewal.

The Forest Fastness

In this forest, Hemlocks dominate
from the aged giants to their
serried-in-time successors
and the current year's seedlings,
all tipped fluorescent-green
with spring growth. Among them
Yellow Birch, giants to saplings,
Pine and Fir, Spruce and Oak, 
with an understory of Moose Maple
and Dogwood, the forest floor
crowded with ferns, Solomons Seal,
clusters of Lily-of-the-Valley,
Violets, Bunchberry and orchid
Ladies Slippers. Thrushes call
melodiously from tree masts,
Yellow Admirals float on warm
breezes. The stream roiling down
from the mountains above 
thrashes and roars as it slaps 
against boulders long tumbled
from the mountain into the
stream bed, sending cold spray in
a wide arc. The mountain valley
is forever humid where curled, 
grey lichen cling to the trunks of
grizzled behemoths whose canopy
permits only slender fingers of
sunlight to penetrate, probing
that damp forest fastness. 

Rattlesnake Mtn., N.H.

As mountains go, this is a
modest mound of granite whose
summit is readily attainable by
locals, an immensely popular
destination of which generations
wax nostalgic recounting fond
memories of weddings officiated
at the summit, bands playing, sound
carrying down to the lake below.
Imagine the bride in white finery
and hiking boots, hoofing up the
slopes with her wedding party;
tuxes and frothy dresses, children
in tow. Accessible, the pride of
the community. Most days clouds
park over the summit where
stunted pines and alpine growth
flourish. This day is one of
genial sun floating on an ocean
of periwinkle blue, robins
trilling praise and a freshening
breeze. A week-day, the climbers
are the septuagenarians, grey and
cheerfully dogged, walking sticks
propelling their rude girth forward.
They stumble only occasionally,
sure-footed by long memory over
protruding rocks littering the
gravelly trail, over a cross-work of
tree roots, boots plunging in the
mud-sucking bog the trail has
become in this year of uncommon
rain saturating the soil that nature
sifted over the granite surface,
penetrating and suffocating the
landscape incapable of absorbing
more; excess in a continual 
exercise of shedding each new
rainfall, slithering down the worn
trail in rivulets, hosting the larvae
of black flies, so on this superbly
atmospheric day, clouds of tiny
fierce flesh-biters collect their toll
from the ample flesh of the
senior contingent struggling to
achieve a long-familiar goal.

 

Anchored

Anchored firmly to the 
blunt summits of the
mountains the ragged dark
clouds weep copious tears
of rage over the valley
below. From that valley's
perspective there is no
sight of those far-off
summits as an opaque
steamy fog absorbs the
landscape as though the
vast geology has disappeared
through some sinister alchemy
leaving only mystic mist
white and all-embracing;
rain descending, fog
ascending and no more
do the mountains exist
but shrouded; their penalty as
the pierced and static clouds
exact their vengeance.


 

The Robin

An air of comforting solitude
infuses the dense new green of the
forest. Silently rain falls, penetrating
the canopy to the forest floor below
for the foliage is drenched and can
no longer hold back the tide that
pools on the soil, around bracken
and the trunks of old deciduous 
trees not that long awakened from
the deep slumber that winter imposes.
Forever dusk within the confines of
the forest, the screen of green
shimmers, a luminous curtain
embroidered with crystal drops
whose weight timelessly gathers
and drips, until the atmosphere is
fully sodden and infused with the
aura of an underwater landscape. 
Suddenly, the hushed ambiance
is enlivened by exuberant peals of
birdsong repeated and repeated in
the confidence that the saturated
forest floor will emit gourmand treats
for a robin surveying its source. 

Unrepentant

A calculated choreography of mutual
grief? Perish the very thought. Though
there is great synchronicity they are
after all twin little black imps
and like monkeys, what one does
the other takes pains to repeat
so there is a chorus of painful
plaints from two very small fellows
who feel dreadfully aggrieved that
their interests are being casually
shunted aside in my cruel disregard
for their perishing state of extreme
hunger. The chorus begins with
a moan and a whimper, at first
reproachful as they gather their
resources to attract my attention
otherwise engaged in matters of far
less importance to life and death while
their lives hang in the balance for
they are starving, little tykes, their
disbelief at my lack of guilt an insult
to our relationship, they reeling in
disbelief at my callous reaction of
'Wait a minute, will you, please?'

 

Secret Solace

This small garden this place
of mine where my hands manipulate
the soil and coax it to nurse the
tender plants that promise
a season of scent
and colour
and the ecstasy
of a landscape in miniature
that no palace grounds
could possibly give greater
pleasure in the invitation to
wander among the familiar
shrubs, the flowers
the trees whose welfare
is inextricably integrated
with my own
for the satisfaction derived
as I revel in its bewitching
beauty captured by the
camera of my eye.
This, my Eden where no
guardian angel need alert me
to the dangers of sinister
dark spirits wandering
disconsolate in the blaze
of a summer sun permitting
no unauthorized entry to
disturb the solitude and comfort
of a garden's solace for all
that goes awry in a lifetime.

 

Woodland Succession

It is her private passion, a longing
to wander about in nature's preserves
and so she indulges doing just that
whenever the opportunity arises and
she hugs herself with joy that she is
able to take advantage of those times
plentiful during her leisure days
enabling her to pass intimate hours
strolling woodland trails, her senses
alert for signals she has long recognized
that the time and the place is right when
she may re-acquaint herself with the
seasonal presence of delicate, fragrant
and colourful wildflowers, blooming
shrubs and trees, all calibrated to
know their allotted presence in the
choreographed sequence that nature
has devised in her proud succession
of flora that animate and decorate the
forest floor, stretching their stems and
their exquisite petals to the sky above
in a fascinating celebration of life
and renewal and the eagerness of all
growing things to flaunt their presence
certain of their unique aesthetic
reflecting their importance in their
maker's complex blueprint of sublime
existence from simple primitive 
specimens to the most complex and
lovely in texture, appeal and shape
beautiful to behold for the brief periods
in which they are commanded to appear.