Oh, The Pain of It!

Vanity and unrealistic but ever
hopeful aspirations motivate me
from refraining to sensibly discard
what no longer fits. Items of treasured
apparel become even more treasured
when by some mysterious alchemy
clothing once so becoming no longer
can be buttoned, zipped and struggled
into. This is a poor reward, I mutter
for appreciating colour and design.
Yet I cannot bear to part with them
thinking, promising myself that
by next season I will firmly confront
my appetite, and trimmer, all those
valued garments will fit again, then
I grimly pack them away to await
summer. Hauling out that summer
wardrobe and holding my breath in
anticipation and the fervent wish 
that it will be enough to reduce that
expanded waistline ... good grief
those trousers fit! Then I primp and
I preen, until suddenly recalling that
those were a pair too large last year,
yet tucked away with the others. In
chagrin I view myself, grimacing.

The Woodland Stroll

As reckless decisions are measured
our determination to forge on
not to forgo any part of enjoying
a glorious day, might have seemed
ill advised. On the other hand, not much
was at stake but brief discomfort and
a bit of dismay that blue skies suddenly
welcomed a surge of dark clouds 
crowding out the sun. All day a
ferocious wind had shushurated through
this spring landscape, enlivening trees
in a graceful dance, bowing and
curtsying, quite unabashed that
nature had not yet delivered their
ball gowns of living green. As we
set out into the forested ravine the
initial patter of large drops anointed
our heads while we sought haven under
a large old pine scarce able to capture
the rain. But the cloud passed, the 
darkness lifted and we ventured on
captivated by spring violets, trilliums
and lilies-of-the-valley still resonating
from that morning's kiss of the sun.
The wind bellowed through the woods,
whipping last fall's dried foliage off
the forest floor like startled doves
rising in the whipped air. Fiercer
gusts blew up a storm of movement
forcing trees to release dead limbs
smashing their descent among
awakening bracken below. And we
quickening our stride were outmatched
by a sudden drenching downpour,
nature's comeuppance to our complacent
trust that luck would see us through
our day's woodland hike unscathed.

Sinister Spirits

It should be to no one's
surprise that Malice and Spite
are the very closest of companions.
As beastly emotions go, these 
two are twinned spirits
born of their mother
Malevolence, and well and truly
tutored by her in the evil process
of inflicting torment and pain.
The two vie with one another
in efforts to prove that one
easily outdistances the other
in the exquisite needle work
of wretchedness. Beware
befriending them as useful
manipulative devices, since
those ardent practitioners are
more than capable of turning
the screws backhandedly for
their own unexpected pleasure in
the delicate extraction of revenge.

Life In The Universe

Convinced that we are not alone
in the vastness of the universe,
astronomers dream of extra-
terrestrial life. An intelligence
not unlike our own.

Great dish telescopes revolve
to the music of the spheres,
picking up radio waves that
scientists work to decode,
finding . . . nothing as yet.

Just think: somewhere in that
great infinity soulmates may exist!
Themselves training devices our
way. Picking up signals
and frantically unscrambling
the meaningless tangle.

Myself, I constantly turn my
radio dial looking for signs of
intelligent life right down here.
Those beings could be coming up
with the very same results.

Nothing.
Nothing out there.
Nothing down here.
There is no intelligent life.

 

Mutually Appreciated

He is a frequent guest, but a
shy one, arriving unheralded
when least expected, but we do enjoy
welcoming him. He entertains us
in exchange for a meal and we 
rejoice at his presence, though his
modesty dictates that he wear a
mask, as his mother does and
his father, too. Not outlaws, but
clever souls they are, choosing to 
live among others not of their kind.
They are an urban legend who
though at home in natural
surroundings beneath a forest
canopy, choose to visit us, too.
True, it's no way to treat a guest,
with cast-off crackers, crusts of
bread and kitchen waste placed in
a backyard composter, but our guest
politely accepts the offerings and
has never offered any complaints.

Repenting at Leisure

You've aged, old friend, you're old
now. No longer the virile man
with the perpetually wandering eye
you once were. As a man of the world,
are you happy? Satisfied with your choices?
Philandering did suit you well. Your
wife, younger by far and certainly
comelier than thou, not so much. She
tolerated in her love for you and the
comforts life with you offered as 
much as she could. But when your
flings transgressed flagrant she too
made a lifestyle adjustment, leaving
you, now that the children were mature.
A solitary life was not what you sought,
but no amount of promises and pledges
on your part of remorse and reform
convinced her to return to her lonely
husband, though she has seen fit
to forgive. Many years have passed
and  your anxious search for a 
replacement companion has failed
despite numerous rehearsals. Your
standards, admittedly, are high: the
freshness of youth, athleticism, style
and appearance all featured, but
candidates have failed. In despair, a
cat has jointed your silent household,
a delicate, most attractive and needy
feline, she is. Myriad trips abroad to
exotic far-off shores have broadened
your cosmopolitan perspective, enriched
the experiences of your life. But you
smile so infrequently and seem almost
morose at times. No need to respond,
the question was frivolously rhetorical;
just a reminder that we all make our
choices and live to regret them.

Angels on a Pinhead? 

The discussion now raging within
academia, between biologists and 
philosophers hinges on the mind. What
is thought and consciousness? It
is what makes us human. It is
the expression of our intelligence,
our realization of what we are
how we make use of our emotions
the link between existence and
survival. The locus of our minds
where thought and memory reside
appears in question, however.
Where logic might have it that
we must conclude that our very
consciousness rests within the
brain, the debate questions that
assumption, quibbling that too
much is unknown by science
of the link existing between
the body and the functions of
its operating system where neurons
fire impulse and movement,
thought and the unique individuality
of a mind, ours alone whose source
arcanely befuddles other minds.