Perspective

What rain?  my father
used to say - - -
      it's only
                God,
                        crying.

Oh, he was an
irreverent man
and I was left to
grapple with the
compelling vision
of a broody God
crying fits like me
hands fisted in hard balls
of angry frustration
showering the earth
clouds insufficient
handkerchiefs
to stem the overflow.

Judgement Day

Judge not lest you be judged, wisely
proclaimed biblical sages who counselled
against social pathologies injurious
to the welfare of humankind. For
we are all too often not given to
kindness and compassion for one
another, choosing instead from
among the emotions instilled within
our psyches, destructive inclinations
of gossip, slander, invoking the
righteous wisdom of superiority
and entitlements while denying that
others are similarly gifted, leading
to tribal, clan and sectarian hatreds
resulting in mass migrations of
violent displacement, possessions
looted, the designated lesser mortals
slaughtered, while the originator
whose blueprint for survival these
evils represent scowls reprovingly,
and moves to do ... nothing. Omnipotent,
omniscient, omnipresent and abundantly
indifferent. So why may god his very self
not be judged on the historical record
of his unholy, disastrous failures?

Father

An irreverent man he was
knowing how gritty life truly
is; orphaned at ten, roaming
the streets of Warsaw at thirteen
escaped from a nearby shtetl
poorhouse, searching for a long
lost older brother who left 'home'
before him, then scooped by an
orphan rescue group by beneficent
elders to be shipped out en masse
to Canada as indentured farm
labourers. At least he escaped
the Holocaust. Ingrate that he was, 
he quipped to me his eldest 
yet a child not to fret over the rain, 
for it was only god, crying, and 
soon would pass. Myself now far 
older than the years allotted my father, 
I have seen god frequently weeping.
He seems to do little else. I am long 
past wondering that he does not 
bellow with thunderous rage over his 
impotent incompetence, defending the 
vulnerable from their tormentors. 
Whose responsibility then, is that other 
than the supreme essence that created 
the passions of avarice, anger and 
malevolent murderous violence?

The Storm

            The sky
grey as antique pewter
greasy with dark clouds
     the air heavy
with wet promise
and nearby a robin
        lilts a paean
to the joys of
drowned worms.

            The wind
chugging through
the trees in the park
like a runaway locomotive.
              The trees
scattering their seeds
upon the ground
defying biblical injunction.

Canoeing

Photo: J.S.R.Rosenfeld - Skajit River, B.C.

Canoeing

Our paddles sluice
the dusk-dark water
as night draws
the evening sky
close overhead.

Cedars and spruce
hang tipsily over the bank
leaning their dark reflections
over the lichen-glad granite.

A fish lunges
the taut skin of the lake
and overhead a kingfisher soars
beaking his lunatic call.

We drift the lazy water
clap echoes off
the tree-line
watch dragonflies etch the air.

Mist rises from
the edge of this day
and the humped hills
finally swallow the sun.

 

The Ascent

The ascent to Noon Peak
           rose sharper than
our expectations,
moss cushioning the granite
white pink clover
stippling the rising swell,
           tree roots writhing
gripping our climbing feet
we clambering like
   mountain goats
          to finally stop
lungs sharing the searing air
       tearing through
the heat radiating
from us as though we
were heavenly bodies;
     the center of a
                   universal blaze.

 

Winter Life

Crystal clear and 
diamond pure, the
cardinal's song peals,
piercing the gathering
dawn with its exquisite
melody, challenging
robins to contest
its musical mastery.

The dark shadows
of departing night
surrender to crystalline
light and a riot of
tiny pawprints
from prowling
furry beasts
embroider the
fresh-fallen snow.