The Fecund Earth

There is much to see on a casual

stroll through a forest on any given

day for each foray invites the gaze

to a multitude of microlandscapes

each proffering testimony to

Earth's life-sustaining properties

nourishing the vegetation

that in turns gives us breath

feeding us and pleasing us

with the beauty that erupts from

the source of our existence in an

endless cycle of birth and rebirth as

nature kneads all her creatures into

their assigned roles all of which

sustain the whole. There were early

signs of soft berries transiting from

blossom to fruit, bees hovering within

those still in blossom stage as their

vigorous stalks developed out of the

forest floor. Native cherry trees bearing

their fruit, hawthorns and wild apple

trees, elderberry trees in bloom

and yes, look there, the heroic

rebirth of ash trees, the stirring

roots of dead trees felled by the

dread Emerald Ash Borer inciting

the tree to rebirth, extruding new life

green and determined to endure.

Stalemate

It is undoubtedly a fraught exercise
in frustration with a predictable
outcome when debating religious
bigotry with one steeped in his faith
and your perspective is canted from
non-faith raised as a secularist prepared
to accept all humanity as one yet
affronted by religion's biases and
rejection of those outside its tribal
fastness. You argue the responsibility
of human decency is to observe others
and events in the round, neutrally
based on evidence and the lessons of
history. When unsubstantiated credit
is given to rumour and innuendo whose
purpose is to bury history in a pit of
rejection throwing in evidence for
good measure you know the futility
of the exercise yet believe it becomes
incumbent to emphasize the role of 
logic over creative interpretation based
on doctrinaire rejection of verity
that has its genesis in sacred scriptures
assuring the faithful of the treacherous
deceit of your kind. You cannot gain
by such lopsided debate and nor can
your passionate debating adversary.

 Interpretation

A sombre, far-off boom
and the air trembles
all is still, unmoving
the forest waits. Beneath
the canopy shafts of sunlight
still stipple the forest floor.
The sky that was so blue
has shifted making room for
the uninvited clouds angry
and purple-grey casting aside
the lofty white bubbles of
cloud that had preceded them
as though initially declaring
no malicious intent
merely sending sheep into
the meadow of blue
there to graze in peace
pacing the arrival of the
herders brooking no
interference in their business
of culling and slaughtering.
But no, this is a thunderstorm
violent in its powerful entrance
spilling the contents of its rage
to drown the landscape below
threatening in its belicose
hostility but merely part and
portion of nature's endowment
sustaining life, not taking it.

Garden Savant

Gardener, know this: you are under the
illusion that you are master of all that
you plant and nurture, trim and admire
as a landscape of your infallible sense 
of design and understanding of vegetation
its needs and propensities spending hours
of patient time cosseting and admiring
the result of your green thumb. Ah, but
this is a young garden, newly introduced
to the art of existence and deception and
in time maturity will lead it to understand
that it has certain rights and rites bestowed
by nature itself, the inalienable fount of life 
whose reach and power over existence 
extends well beyond that of the temporary 
taker of care in the garden, the steward 
whose pride in accomplishment is delusional
enabling each plant to accomplish its 
very own destiny in a runaway burst of
ecstatic life no amount of snipping and culling
can curtail, as the garden conspires with
its constituents to defy the blandishments
of the desperate gardener, lopper and
secateurs in hand frantically snipping
to no avail, as shrubs and trees reach out
to strangle the intent to tame the green
groping mass of the wild untameable.

Hair Shirt of the Day

The anomie of boredom breeds its very

own dissatisfaction with life, searching for

a source of inspiration to give value to

existence and for quite awhile the searchers

found fascination in the lives of public

figures, social and cultural elites, heads of

government, entertainment moguls and

celebrities whose glittering lifestyles they

might avidly follow and emulate in the

process ventilating their aimless values 

through social media platforms in search

of envy and a pedestal of their very own. 

But boredom knocked again and a restless 

world awaited a throbbing cause to gnaw 

at the ankles of conscience eschewing the 

emptiness of personal status exuberant 

when the epochal era of victimhood rescued 

their commitment from the dungeon of

wasted effort. Suddenly, so suddenly the

cause appeared that had eluded them though

it was always there, stagnating for want of

notice while the sufferers staggered under the

weight of history and residual inequality. The

world, taken by a storm of sympathetic guilt

not their own but happily appropriated, the

hairshirt of penance and regret, acclaiming

the victims their heroic campaign of the 

moment. Sadly, there is no end of historical 

incidents of cruel atrocities that humankind 

visits on its own. Happily, their numbers 

will keep the public busy protesting those 

wretched instances of reprehensible mass 

wrongs, shouldering the censure though they 

were in no way complicit, thus paving the 

way for society's psychopathic contingent 

to join the fray under cover of numbers 

to wreak havoc and mayhem as they protest 

law, order, decency and the social weal.

Welcome to Surrender

The sacred covenant devised by cunning minds 

brought to humanity the concept of an authority 

to whom all must heel yet has never produced that 

docile, humble congregation of initiates prepared 

to love their fellow man to ensure a reign of peace 

and mostly because that spirit of faith commands 

heart and soul dedicated to His worship and grace

a focus so intense and narrow there is no space 

left to forge friendships with those sharing 

inhabitancy of a finite world in which live tribes 

and clans whose surrender to God's commanding 

presence is faulted by the truly orthodox, as 

scrolls from antiquity attest when initiates must 

pass the test of self-abnegation to the greatness 

of the Creator and abjure communion with all 

but those of the sacred commune whose duty 

every waking hour is to praise the Almighty and 

scrutinize with fervour and favour the texts 

detailing the obligations of the faithful. The great 

kindly god of peace and good fellowship calling 

upon His suppliants to distance themselves from 

sinful non-believers describes them as dross the 

faithful are obliged to convert though refusal to 

acknowledge that Supreme Divinity gives just

cause to withdraw life from the unworthy. Those

ignorant of the covenant of grace and purity err in

their horrorstruck definition of the piety of jihad to

name it terrorism when it is merely a symbol of 

God's merciful forgiveness, willing to embrace 

all humanity into the capacious splendour of that 

Supreme Being's burgeoning halls of worship.

 

Illuminating Life

By daybreak the deluge had exhausted
its fury the hillsides had emptied
their burden into the rushing
creek below the ravine
waters churning and hauling
through the narrowed channel
detritus from its bed and all that
fell throughout the night from
the canopy above shedding
discarded bark and twigs
pine cones and all that succumbed
to the force of the wind-driven rain.
From its depths arose swamp gas.
As the sun rose the forest interior
remained shrouded, mist lazily
rising responding to a temperature
inversion in the dark tunnel of the
forest. There was no birdsong this
morning those trills of welcome to
the dawn, everything still and sombre
inundated as the chill of an altered
atmosphere lofted by the raging wind
tossing aside masts of old trees
huddled in one another's company
swayed and groaned. And then rays of
wide, bright light penetrated the dark
and dripping forest, illuminating life.

Protest Pillage

For have we not eyes to see and mouths
to speak and common sense to parse fact
from fiction? Confronted by the eternal
state of victimhood claiming all those not
sufficiently compassionate to the  history
of their suffering are racist bigots, the world
shrivels in dismay as eyes cloud over and
mouths purse while common sense takes its
leave and what is left is a quivering mass of
contrition, prepared to accept the default
imposed on all but the self-appointed victims
that their state of perpetual purgatory is your
fault, and your fault and your fault for your
skin tone is proof positive that your life
with or without the success that all strive
toward has exacted a dreadful price upon the
human rights of others whose opportunities
have been denied channeling them instead
toward a degraded life of menial service at the
best of times and gang violence, drug dealing
and petty crime at most other times when
attention is turned from preying on their own 
who reject victimhood in preference to 
discovering their own opportunities , turning 
their sons and daughters toward normalcy 
shunning dark streets of crime. Not for them 
the murder and mayhem the perpetrators 
blame the blameless for as they protest, bully
blame, flame and loot hard-won enterprises 
their own community owns and depends on.

Pardon?

Tone and tenor is everything of course

reflecting meaning and perspective and

how what is said is meant to be taken.

Take the phrase 'I beg your pardon' and it 

could be a genuine apology and alternately

a demand for an apology. Tone in the sense

of aural sound bedevilled me as a child for

all too often it eluded me and caused a sense 

of deep embarrassment. That I was unable to 

hear the tone, tenor and place context in what 

was said be it a casual conversation or a vital 

piece of information left me feeling vulnerable

inadequate and wholly at fault. My mind would 

race to make sense of what I had heard/not heard

as I pillaged a mental workbox full of non-verbal

responses and facial contortions meant to convey 

that I had heard and so be it that I had not for 

these subterfuges never caught up with me

no betrayal of my ignorance of a communication 

ever resulted. Inconvenient as it was it somehow 

never struck me that I had a hearing disability 

though I knew I did and had no intention of 

revealing it. The seasoning of age has reduced 

embarrassment while increasing acceptance 

and urged upon me the recognition that there 

was nothing of any usefulness I missed since 

most people at the best of times have little of 

importance or intelligent interest to convey.

 

 

Process and Purpose

There's no denying it, in a societal culture

respectful of the feelings of others one

has a tendency to withhold the urge to

comment, render an unsolicited opinion

interfere with someone else's values and

beliefs and certainly hesitate to disclose any

personal thoughts on religion to spare

another the dismay that may result and at

the same time conceal one's own reactions

from scrutiny in that most respectful of

polite societies. Unleashed from physical

proximity and the social weal however

through the Internet where distances

vanish and identities become phantom

we feel released from discretion and

whether prodded or not feel free to dispense

advice, proffer questionable opinions

put forward assertive claims difficult to

authenticate and lay claim to authorships

not quite our own as experts with the

wisdom to officiously demand attention

while obnoxiously denigrating those in

true positions of merited authority through

the medium whose platform encourages

idealization of verbal chaos, mangling

accuracy of reportage to reflect an opinion

all one's own to amass a dedicated follow.

A Garden For Children

When I was a child, perhaps precocious, seated

in a circle among other children I repeated to 

myself the word I read in stained glass on the

door that said Kindergarten and said to myself

that's Yiddish and I know what it means, it's

a garden for children. I was a child who was

taunted as a 'dirty Jew' and 'Christ-killer' so

I knew I was different but how did they know?

And before long knew too that my kind were 

being butchered in far-off mysterious Europe

overhearing dire whispers between my parents 

and their friends. As I grew older strangers often 

approached to ask where I was from, and then

'but where are you REALLY from'? In my teens 

I loved to brown in the sun absent from the 

household duties my mother imposed and then 

people would ask was I Ethiopian? Forever

awkward, careful, slightly fearful among others

watchful lest I offer hints of characteristics

defined as Jewish, pained to overhear slurs

I eventually became inured and never understood 

why another Jewish child cried in the school 

cloakroom in despair at her Jewish identity. At 

age 13 my mother had me work a summer job

at a clothing factory. There, a non-Jewish boy 

asked me for a date, and I shrank in dismay

into myself. Assessing those years I survived 

where millions could not so I am grateful but 

will not forgive. Sequestered within old age 

living now in a world of my very own I have 

achieved a secret refuge, a veritable and valued 

Garden of Eden where no one but my beloved

is permitted entry and where we are secure.

Once Upon A Time

Once, long ago and far away nature spoke

with candid confidence to a pack of wolves

she favoured, her tone one of exasperated

resignation as she told them of a species she

had created which adamantly refused to get

along with one another, much less with other

species. And she explained too how suggestible

they were and though aggressive, malleable.

She sent them on their way and they proceeded

to befriend the otherwise distant and friendless

group with whom they had little in common.

But in so doing, they charmed and bedazzled

the naked bipedal species, fractious between

themselves but receptive to the kindly overtures

of the wolves who offered to protect them in

exchange for sharing the warmth of their

fires and the food cooked over those fires, a

covenant that has lasted from the primeval to

the present. Canines patiently taught humans

to interpret the language of their desires and

needs and to leash their companions the better

to defend them from onslaughts from unknown

sources, allowing them to play and to eat and

to sleep with their furry protectors whose lack

of presence in their lives would be unthinkable.

The Chaotic Garden

Sometimes it's a bit of a free-for-all
the chaos that occasionally results in a
bed or border that the avid gardener
does their best to synchronize to season
and succession growth and flowering
to instill order and tidiness in a venue
where the occupants feel free to stretch
their green limbs and casually occupy
space allotted to others in a plan to
equalize opportunity to all who take
seriously the expectation they will add
value in the shape of form, texture and
colour to the kaleidoscope of the living
garden. Then there is the never-ending
issue of legitimate tenants crowded out
by interlopers without permission to
settle in occupied places, some so cunning
they place themselves directly beside a
specimen plant they resemble to pass the
eagle eye of the gardener as a respectable
and entitled resident. Oh, and the others
those who replicate themselves beyond
measure to send their offspring hither and
yon, crowding the garden with repeat
offenders. Not all is blighted for there
are also shy and welcome visitors whose
presence is a delight; wildflowers like
tiny pinks, buttercups and daisies, seeds
that travelled on the wind to find the rich
fertile soil of your garden. Or the cultivated
treasure of a tree peony upon which hitched
another peony to mature over the years as
an especial, unexpected gift to treasure. The 
measure of an independent-minded garden.

Symbolism : Rejection

Pride doth goeth before a fall, this we know
as an ancient proverb but like the Messiah
who is aware of his provenance and purpose
as a world leader elected by the acclaim of a
star-struck public confusing charm, prestige
self-confidence and appearance with intelligence
and capability, who declared 'Canada is back'
because of his glorious presence ordained
by fate there need be no concern that pride
will absent itself from this persona writ faulty
upon Canada's place within the august corridors
of an institution which has likewise failed the
test of authenticity in its claim to represent the
best interests of humanity. Brimming with the
confidence of one whose countless assaults on
justice, sincerity and veracity have gone
unanswered, happily forgiven by those whose
vision has been obscured by blithe promises
never kept, Canada's prime minister prepared
for the adulation to follow his gambit on
securing a seat at the UN Security Council
anticipating his induction into the golden chamber
of intimate confidence with other world leaders
whose balance of national interests wobbles
the world from moderation to dysfunction. His
loss is Canada's gain, for those whose lens lacks
the roseate gleam of his backers, breathe relief.

Her Garden, My Pride

Since childhood living green held me
in its mystical, tender embrace and I
yearned to be there in a storybook place
of green growing things for it was where
I felt at peace, comforted and nourished.
But who might imagine a future distinguished
by the privilege of becoming one among many
yet distinctly idiosyncratically one's own
agency under the tutelage of the designer
of all that is, granted an invitation to look
and to learn upon a broad canvas supplied
under temporary lease with all the manifold
issues of the soil, tentative at first then with
growing confidence leaning into instruction
your febrile hands immersed in the warm
moist yeast of growing vegetation teased
this way and that from tender shoots to
delicately and often brilliantly hued petals
stirring the soul with pride and admiration
as perfection stirs its conceited head yet you
know this tapestry pulsating with life and
drama reflects no talent on your part as a
priceless arras you may enjoy, giving credit 
to nature where all and any plaudits are due.

Perspective

Like magic crystals touching the ocean
they are initially bouyant, then as they
become immersed they melt, just as the
years tend to when we begin the cruise
meant to take us to the years of our lives.
There is good reason for the oft-used phrase
it was only yesterday, it seemed like only
yesterday, and in fact it was indeed that
way given time's idiosyncratic influence
on our recall of those momentous events
that shaped the years behind pushing us
toward the unknown future. Unknown
only in the sense of when the journey has
reached its final destination. The wistful
memories cradled deep within drawn on
now and again as a diorama of a lifetime
speak nothing of when the ship will
dock, yet you recall having retired to a
state room dispensing with actively forming
a part of the crew, at age 60 to enjoy the
luxury of leisure in the years remaining.
How now the impact of realization that
your child has reached that same junction
in life accords with future expectations 
is another matter entirely, of course.

The Failed System

Not my fault, children wail when things

go wrong, and while some of them have

reason to believe what they claim others

feel justified in shuffling their juvenile

responsibility on to the shoulders of the

adults who stood by and failed to instill

in their children values that would guide

them now and forever. The fault lines now

have turned from personal agency to that

of government agency, and it is has become 

agonizingly clear that government has 

dismally failed in its responsibility to

those who have abandoned theirs. The

frail elderly whose offspring feel no

personal obligation for their care have

been sacrificed to the vision of personal

satisfaction in life choices where it takes

two salaries to adequately compensate the

dream of having it all. A dream that mandates

women may aspire to careers and manage

the raising of a brood through the simple

expedient of farming out children to others

ill paid but trusted to care for the offspring

of others and fulfill their emotional needs

returning them to the home fires for

several hours of 'quality time' together. So

that parents, unequal to the task of caring

for their own during an emergency when

schools and day cares close are unable to

rise to the occasion, bitterly blaming the

system to which they have consigned their

elders' and their children's futures of having

abandoned their responsibilities for them

while they have been busy having it all.

 

The Living Forest

Wind ruffles the emerald foliage of forest

trees newly emerged from their winter moult

as a new season's agreement on occupancy

commences. Returning hawks circle above

the canopy lazily buoyed and carried by 

the obliging wind, whistling their appreciation

for the lift. Elsewhere in the forest cardinals and

song sparrows offer their singular performances

not to be missed which the wind agreeably

carries, along with the staccato of a woodpecker.

None among them mind the wind or the cool

temperature. The creek running below the

ravined forest still hosts the temporary presence

of reverse-migrating ducks until they exhaust 

the store of tiny fish that aspired to adulthood. 

Within its ripples scoot water striders, while

Damselflies flit between water and bank 

greened with buttercups, fleabane and blackberry 

blooms. The masts of conifers and deciduous alike

speak in clacking voices as the wind drives

them together in social communion.  Below, in 

a singularly limited meadow flit bees and 

dragonflies, their iridescent wings ablaze in 

the sun. Solitary red squirrels fling themselves 

through the understory, their diurnal haven 

from the predatory eyes and talons of foxes

coyotes and slumbering owls. The forest imbued 

with the mastery of life in all its varied forms 

thrums the mystique of nature's protocol.