Snow-Laden Clouds

Just past midday on this winter
afternoon, a subdued atmosphere
prevails, where an aura of dusk
pervades the snowbound woods.
The landscape has divided itself
into monotones of dark-and-light.
White, the forest floor, but for slight
interruptions at random intervals
where wind has wrenched branches
dead and live, from their canopied
perches, a natural pattern of untidy
episodic reminders of flux and
renewal. Dark and stark trees
outlined against the opaque light
grey of the sky surfeit with snow
yet to descend. Clumps of snow
and of ice adhere to every surface
persuaded now and again by the
insistent wind, to release upon the
icy atmosphere. Fingers of cold
probe and penetrate every crevice
and crotch where overwintering
insects and birds seek shelter. At
the crest of a hill where spruce, fir
and pine recede, stag-horn sumacs
proliferate, and there, beyond in
the sky, the sun struggles in vain to
penetrate the snow-suffused clouds.

 

The Stars At Night

The probing minds of astrophysicists
and astronomers are busy validating
the presence of far-off galaxies where
planetary bodies revolve around their
very own suns, so many vastly larger
than our own, and there, in that far-off
distance, exist planets whose numbers
challenge the grains of sand on a beach
where extraterrestrial life undoubtedly
exists of an advanced order greatly
superior to our own. Unlike other
earthlings I have never yet come across
a visiting creature, hovering spacecraft
in distant view which some claim to have
experienced and with whom they claim
to have communicated. Far be it for
me to doubt, yet were I ever to chance
upon such a creature, given I could
retain my wits I would ask why these
efforts to make contact with earthly
humankind, a species which has never yet
mastered the art of simply tolerating 
one another. And, I would challenge
this creature, if you are indeed so
amazingly technologically advanced 
and cerebrally brilliant, why don't you
read the intergalactic news media to
discover before committing to contact
just how maladjusted and psychotic a
brand is Earth's humanity? Beware!

 

HisStory

From its primal cradle in prehistory
spilling into the millennia to follow
nature's pride of formulaic design
in creating a creature capable of
taking possession of her alternate
formulations, striving to emulate
her formidable talents evolved into a
mass of organisms each of which 
became a simulacrum of the original
suffused with the emotional rages
that she herself exhibits in fire, flood
and ice, translating those to an impulse
toward chaos, terror and destruction
stimulated by tribal aggression fed
by territorial advantage; religious
persecution stirred by theocratic hubris;
the compulsion general among
the species, to subjugate others to the
conquest and command of the bold
and those impervious to empathy
toward other living souls. That element
of nature that creates beauty and peace
transfers itself to those capable of
creation and discovery whose nimble
minds cannot conceive of what drives
the evil that besets the world, as they
themselves choose to bypass it all
engrossed in expending their energy
on artistic endeavours, labours of love
and of pensive thought, wonder and
bewilderment at the chaos and wild
disruptions raging about them. In their
naivete oblivious to the carnage, long
since convinced their philosophy of
the inherent goodness of humankind
in all its manifestations cannot be denied.

Fire and Ice

In the winter woodland valley of
the woodland an ephemeral tracery
of exquisite crystalline fire lit
by the sun's piercing rays glitters
and glows like a cathedral of
surpassing beauty visiting dreams
of peacefully slumbering children
eager to race about in its pristine
whiteness, a playground beckoning
as though with a wistful longing
to be admired and to embrace the
exuberance of children entranced
by a landscape of incomparable
potential. There, where trees
silently stand girdled with snow 
their branches studded with crystals
the gossamer-delicate tracery of
frost embosses every surface
even as wind lifts snow in a faint
white skein of silken density to
fall like ectoplasm  over the 
forest floor where stumps of
aged trees snow-heaped stand like
humped ghosts haunting the forest.

 

The Ripeness of Age

Age arrives with new experiences
leading to reflection and above all
patience. When accompanying your
wife to her annual heart-check, her
cardiologist remarks on your wearing
toque, gloves and scarf even in his office
so you obligingly inform him you are still
recovering from open-heart surgery and
he understands completely. Finally able
to resume your normal daily woodland
hike, acquaintances welcome you and
ask the inevitable and you acquiesce
in repetitive explanations. When a 
neighbour asks feelingly how you are
you know he cares and you know he
also knows since he has shared that
bypass operation himself. You note
do you not, that your wife no longer
becomes impatient exhibiting exquisite
patience in gratitude that normal life
has resumed and one more nightmare
has been faced in a panoply of health
interruptions on the journey of existence.
This, of course, represents a twin journey
from robust youth to considered agedness
a lifelong endeavour shared with huge
enthusiasm through a married lifetime
together in a tandem of discovery and
fortune's limitless opportunities embraced
and experienced, no rehearsals required.

 

Symbolism

An omen that raises the dread
of blood-curdling divination in
an otherwise practical mind reliant
on the rational interpretation of a
theological-based demand of the
faithful to terror-inducing slaughter
convincing the targeted that their
refusal of a divine invitation to
submit is written in the heavens.
There it is, the cosmic influence of
Islam writ upon the blue night sky.
A crescent moon hanging low and
central upon the peaceful velvet
background, lacking a scimitar but
in its stead, directly under the moon
a brightly prominent Mars engaged
in what the God of War knows best
a universal upheaval dredging Earth
in a battle for the souls of humankind
to chorus There is no god but Allah
and Mohammad is his Messenger.

 

The Friendly Past

How kind this woman is, how
very courteous is her response to
the obvious, that while she joyously
calls my name and rushes to hug me
in her capacious grasp, I am at a loss
for recognition eludes me. As occurred
once before when happenstance had
us cross paths, she gushed into happy
remembrance of our shared workplace
and I, confused, apologized while she
waved off any embarrassment on my
part. What a recessed ego in a gracious
personality. She too now retired only
two decades after I did myself, and
it is obvious to me that this extremely
pleasant woman who takes such great
pleasure in greeting others of her
past was someone I hardly took notice
of those many years ago, while in
contrast she recalls so many things
about me, and offers the golden platter
of compliments to one hardly in the
circumstances deserving of them. For
truth is, though she urges me to recall
through identification and description
of events and times familiar to me I
still would not, in a crowd of two, be
capable of placing the beaming face
much less the character behind it.