Astride His Face

A robust young man in his
twenties, his attention diverted
from the potential of public
contamination, his eyes averted
as though busily examining and
parsing some inner conflict that
the presence of others might
conceivably set awry, while
high-decibel-grade sound snugly
infiltrates his ears in punctuated
rap, striding purposefully ahead
wearing a full-throttle scowl
in facial pride of place. Does
this signal a choice of lifestyle
viewing existence as a
solitary emotional wasteland?

 

Winter Ice

The usual suspects, bedfellows
of winter, adjourned on a
midwinter day and invited
the sun to join the principals
without whose active
investment that season
would be uninspired lacking
in drama and suspense. Snow
ice and wind had performed
their seasonal functions to
perfection, the prevailing
atmosphere frigid to a fault
the wind throwing its weight
around as usual, whipping
itself to a frenzy over the 
snow-laden landscape, while
the sun accommodated by
asserting that time-honoured
thaw-and-freeze cycle on the 
snowy forest floor transforming
it to the sheer magic of glass.

The Airing

He is lean and he is tall but
stooped only when he leans to
help her, his grey head inclining
toward her own, a padded fairy
godmother figure pushing a walker
with less than authority along the
snow-crusted street. Her rapt
mesmerized fascination with
all she sees, the sky, the clouds
birds and trees prods her to emit
little shrieks of childlike joy
pleasing to her patient, uxorious
husband in whose mind's memory
flashes the lively spark of impish
gaiety the girl she once was
teased him with. They have since
lived their heaven-sent lives
over more years than he can 
recall. Now, whatever the season
their daily promenades halfway
up the street, halfway down
her chirping greetings to 
whomever they see, comprises
the very last chapter in her own
fading memory and consciousness.

Afflicting Predator

We call him Dufus though his name
really is Rufus. Substituting the
"R" for a "D" more closely reflects
that dog's compulsive propensities.
Our two little sibling pups have made
the acquaintance of many of
their species in their yet-brief
lifetime. Their cognitive capacity
enables them to recognize which
among them are friends and which
constitute a problem. Dufus
represents a multiple problem
and so when we come across
our old acquaintance on our
woodland trails, like us walking
the newer generation of canine
companions, we keep an eye on Dufus.
As we stand and chat our little female
pleads to be lifted into my arms;
this from a blithe spirit with no
patience ordinarily to being carried.
Which leaves her brother vulnerable
to Dufus's typical manoeuvre where
he corners, then backs our little guy
off-trail hard against a tree trunk
while steadily gaining the advantage
his large muscular body sneaking
over the small silently quailing
back of our fellow prodding us to
swoop like eagles to extricate the
mouse from the elephantine
rutting intention of Dufus.

Dinner!

Pit the cherries, section the
clementines, slice the peaches.
There, fruit cocktail dessert done.
Wait, there's your main course
so chop garlic and onion, bell
pepper and tomatoes to begin
the sauce. Dip those eggplant
slices in crumbs and heat the
olive oil, then fry-crisp and pat
down in paper towelling. Wash
the endless spinach leaves and 
lightly steam. Now, layer sauce,
eggplant rounds, spinach and
dollops of creamy goat cheese.
Repeat. Did you remember to
sprinkle oregano, basil and hot
pepper flakes over the cooking
tomato sauce? Bake until bubbly.
Inhale that aroma. Yum. Ring
the dinner bell and smile. Serve.

The Ice Man Cometh

Remember the sound the carts and the
horses' hooves made trundling down
the street, and the knife sharpener 
calling out to the housewives to get
out there with their knives? I can't
recall if the man selling blocks of ice
came daily, but likely he did, using these
huge pincers to carry the already melting
blocks into kitchens for deposit in ice boxes.
We kids used to hang around grabbing at
ice shards at the back of the cart; if the 
vendor could, he's give us a good cuff
to the back of our heads. The horse would
leave steaming balls, lifting his tail in
disdain at us as they carried on to the
next street. These were the days when
the Salvation Army made its presence
known on street corners, in uniform,
unsmiling, serious faces, shiny brass
instruments belting out sacred music in
endlessly repeated performances before
marching on. Remember those times?
I do. Kind of dates me. Yes it does.
But I remember the fat old wrinkled
Nonna next door forever knitting 
stomach-churning puce-coloured 
mittens and caps and scarves for the
boys over at the front lines in France 
and Belgium and Italy. I do remember
all of that, and more, much more. Like
the little house down the street with
no bathroom facilities, but there was
a little shed out back. Where we lived
renting the upstairs flat there was a
bathroom shared by another single
tenant, our family of five, and the
owner's family of two boys older
than me who would sometimes trap
me in that bathroom. I recall, acutely.
Oh, you're leaving, already, none of
your own memories to share? Pity.

Waiting...

Waiting...

With the limitless patience of the faithful,
they wait, imperturbably confident and 
assured, the seers and the shamans, the
yogis, the sufis and the swamis, near
Chichen Itza.  Their followers worldwide
besotted with the spiritual chill of the
unknowable void of being will settle for
alternates.  Awaiting the spirals of
heavenly light promised to invade the heads
of believers, from their vast galactic journey,
they weep in fear and joy.  A cosmic dawn
arrives to gift the worthy with telepathy and
they will loose themselves from the
niggardly magnetic bonds of Earth, to
levitate and flee its constricting confines
set to implode.  Electrical vortexes
arrived from the galaxy's centre bid them
hither and they will respond, leaving fear,
embracing love, bathed in the light of
transformative cleansing of the soul.  For
they have discovered true salvation, fleeing 
the stagnating brutal influence of life as
we think we know it.  That is the revelation,
the cataclysmic upheaval that engages 
humanity, one with the golden light
of divine forgiveness, an arcane alchemy 
of  life bypassing death, the final frontier
to incandescent longevity.  If not immortality
then why not?  Thirteen and counting.
Look...at us, at them, the pathetic ones -
quivering with the misery of unrequited life.