Nature

Waist Land

Wind-sculpted tree on rocky coastline with turbulent ocean and cloudy sky
A lone, wind-shaped tree stands on rugged coastal rocks under a cloudy sky

Image generated
not by Big Brother
but by Little Brother
who left the Frying Squad
to become a painter
and mind-reader

Waist Land

Jack Pine Sonnet

living in a waste land
surrounded by books
he writes in his journal
things false and true
in memory of the old days
when the world seemed so new

a life built on sand
slips through his fingers
wouldn’t it be grand
if the sand stays and lingers
refusing to pass through
the hour glass’ waist
so time stops to flow

then he could say no
leave me alone
there’s more sand to fall
I don’t want to go

Comment:

It’s a bit like a cliff-hanger, isn’t it? Hanging on by our fingertips and not daring to look at the depths down below. We know they are there, but look, there’s a tiny fossil in the fissure in the rock, so much older than us, we’ve got a long time to go to catch that up. And remember – 80 is not old, if you are a stone!

Treading air – great fun. Not as good as treading warm water in the local YMCA. Just a lovely sense of balance, floating there in the warmth, no weight on arthritic joints, and the world around us amniotic, as it was in the beginning. Ah, those original waters, we have all swum in them, the rich and the poor, the black and the white, and all shades in between. Even King Charles and the late Queen. And remember, they may speak of blue bloods, but all blood is red -and, if you cut us, do we not bleed.

Speaking of bleeding – blood-thinners – my favorite doctor’s latest joke. I cut my arm the other night, getting into bed. Didn’t even notice. Pillows and sheets soaked in blood when I woke up and my scalloped arm, stuck to the sheet, opened itself up and started to bleed again. Feels like seventeenth century Spain, the wounds of the dead man re-open and start to bleed when the assassin appears before him. Certain truth. Obviously 100% guilty.

And they tell me that in South Wales people are adding cooking oil to gasoline to make the petrol go further. Scotland Yard sent the Flying Squad to South Wales to sniff people’s exhaust pipes to see if they were cheating the tax man. I asked my friend – “Is this true?” “Ah, yes,” he said in his lovely Welsh lilt, “and we call them the Frying Squad!”

Follicle Folly

Pink rosebuds hanging with water droplets on green leaves background
Close-up of pink rosebuds adorned with glistening water droplets

Photo AI generated
Big Brother was watching
and listening

Follicle Folly

Jack Pine Sonnet

I am happy with smaller things
the buds just budding on the ash
grass just being grass and green
beneath drizzle and mizzle and
the lightest showers of spring rain

grey / gray I don’t know nor care
clouds descend dampen spring air
dampness curls my remaining hair
some gone but not as much as I see
lost hairs missing from my friends

I traveled with a friend who counted
every hair he lost but couldn’t count
the cost of the weight of his worrying
about every forlorn follicle he lost

Comment:

No comment. That’s what politicians say, and people taken into custardy. What’s yellow and deadly? Shark infested custard, of course. There’s no flies on me said the Portuguese Custard tart as I brushed the ants off it prior to devouring it. Try the Garibaldi cookie aka the dead flies grave yard. The body count of a Garibaldi should be high. You’d be raisin the roof, if the count wasn’t as high as the Count of Monte Cristo. Take off that Iron Mask when you’re talking to me. Who was that masked man? I don’t know. Ask Tonto, stupid.

Warning – these comments were artificially generated by a lost intelligence that is only just coming of age in a time of jerry attic semi-conductor memory loss with everything under lock and key in a small room upstairs under the roof where the thatch used to grow. Even worse than losing your follicles is losing your ….. add your own ending. Don’t make me pull out my remaining hair and waste my time by searching for a word to rhyme. And remember the village church’s limerick competition – the only clean one won it.

May Day

May Day

Trees in bud
sudden their break out
fresh today
a red fuzz here
catkins over there

Fairy lights
in the Mountain Ash
goldfinches
a mountaineer
this downy woodpecker
scaling the heights
a star
on top of the tree

Green the grass
in places
brown in others
from last year’s drought

New Brunswick violets
our provincial flowers
a patchwork of blue

Dark green
the early hollyhock leaves
pushing stubbornly
up and through
to greet the sky

Commentary:

Mysterious indeed it is – to plant a clepsydra and watch it grow. Will it, won’t it? Does it suit the climate zone? Will it flower? Have you ever seen a flowering Clepsydra? Moo has. He draws and paints them all the time. But can he make them grow in my garden? We’ll have to wait to find out. He can certainly paint them.

But why does he call them mysterious? When I printed Clepsydra in my chapbook series, I mis-counted the pages and ended up with one blank page. “Mine!” said Moo. And he grabbed his colored pens and pencils and set to work drawing Clepsydras. That was his Mysterious Clepsydra Plant. Down below he has painted a Lady Clepsydra in Flower. Will the ones he says he planted in my garden be yellow, red, or multi-colored? Who knows? I most certainly don’t. And I am pretty sure Moo doesn’t have a clue about the plant life he uses to brighten my pages and plant in my flower beds.

Do you know what a Clepsydra is? Let’s ask Big Brother to draw us one. Hey, Big Bro – paint us a Clepsydra. A voice emerges from nowhere – “Say pretty please and I’ll think about it.” “Pretty please.” The metalic voice vanishes and a sign appears – Thinking!

Replica of a Roman water clock with ornate brass components and a glass water container
A functioning replica of a Roman water clock circa 50 AD / CE – a clepsydra – displayed in a museum

CE – Common Error – well I never. I guess poor Mistaken Moo made a common error and thought a Clepsydra was a flower. Time flows like a flowers, but it never flows back. If you see Moo, don’t tell him about this. He won’t be happy to know he can’t tell a flower from a set of flower pots. And what the heck would he paint if he went to Flower Pot Rocks? Oh no!!!! Well I never did. I blame Moo entirely. Shame on Moo! He’s fooled me again!

Mindfulness

Mindfulness

Poems arrive, as silent as the deer
that troop through my garden.

Some times they hurry past,
and catch them if you can.

Sometimes, they stay, wait, nibble
 at an overhanging branch.

Just when you think you can
reach out and grasp them,
they sense the bark of a dog,
the sigh of the wind
through leafless trees.

You blink, and they have gone.

Was your camera ready?
Was your note book open,
your pen in your hand?

Or did they flit away like dreams
 in the morning when the sun
comes into the bedroom
and sparks diamond fires
from the lashes that stand guard?

Nights

Nights

There are nights
when the trees
seem to whisper
your name,

cautioning you
against the wind’s
knife edge.

“What have I done,”
you ask,
“to merit this?”

The soft fall
of burnt brown leaves
weeps over
your woodland grave.

You will walk
these woods
no more, save
on a frosty night

when deer shiver
beneath naked trees
and the moonbeam’s
icy blade.

Comment:

Poems arrive, as silent as the deer that troop through my garden. Some times they hurry past, and catch them if you can. Sometimes, they stay, wait, nibble at an overhanging branch. Just when you think you can reach out and grasp them, they sense the bark of a dog, the sigh of the wind through leafless trees. You blink, and they have gone.

Was your camera ready? Was your note book open, your pen in your hand? Or did they flit away like dreams in the morning when the sun comes into the bedroom and sparks diamond fires from the lashes that guard your eyes?

Rage, Rage 57

Rage, Rage
57

Time’s oxen
have plowed their furrows
in my face.

A silvery thatch
bears witness
to the winter
of my withering.

My broken body
hangs from the coat hanger
of my shoulders,
its worn-out sack
knitted from skin,
bonded with blood.

I walk with two canes,
not just a sick man,
but a stick man.

When I fall asleep,
my enigmatic body
haunts me with
its death-rattle
of drying bones.

Comment

Sometimes no comments are needed. However, when it comes down to it, I guess it’s worth saying that I am raging, raging against the dying of the light.

The dying of the light – in the evening, when the sun goes down, the house grows silent and cools around me. Some nights, when the news is bad or depressing, I feel we are entering another dark age. Luckily, spring is on its way, with summer not far behind. But what will spring and summer bring?

I fear the heat, the gathering of muttering trees, the ambush nature is setting up for humanity. We live among trees. Trees, all around the house. Trees, climbing the hills into the distance. I loved them when I came here first. The maples, the paper birches, the mountain ashes with their spring finery and the light green fuzz of forming leaves. Winter – the firs and pines dressed in their winter coats.

Last summer, fires broke out all over the province. The closest was a mere 30 kms down the road from us. We could smell the fire, see the smoke, and sense the discomfort of the proximity of possible outbreaks closer to home.

As I grow older, I become more fearful. Walking downstairs in the morning – cada pie mal puesto es una caída, cada caída es un precipico / each badly placed foot is a fall, each fall is down a precipice. Luis de Gongora. ( d. 1627). Alas, it’s that time of life, and it comes to anybody who, like me, has walked this far.

It’s the animals that I pity. The birds who move on and away and no longer stay with us. The deer who also have nowhere to go when their habitat is destroyed. The moose, the bears, the coyotes, the foxes, the jack rabbits and yes, they have all been visitors to our backyard.

Last summer, the local council circulated some ideas on how to prepare for immediate evacuation of our property- what to pack with a day’s notice, three hours’ warning, two hours’ warning, one hour’s warning. I hope it never comes to that. But now, I no longer know, and so I rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

Bees

Bees

This year, we mark them by their absence.

There is a stillness in the bee’s balm,
a withering of early blossoms and still no bees:
will they ever come back? The bee-keepers
don’t seem to know as they scratch their heads
and search dry colonies only to find
dead and dusty hives, with cells devoid
of the lust and life of their former inmates.

Each day we watch over the flowers,
and hum as we wait for the bees to buzz:
“will ye no come back again …”

Monet at Giverny

Monet at Giverny

1

his lily pond
a mirror shattering
shards of clouds
flames beneath the lilies
fractured fish

2
the executioner stripes evening
a cross the sacrificed horizon
in blood we were born
in earth will we rest
our flesh turned to bread
empurpled this imperial wine
streaming with day’s death
these troubled waters

3
green footprints the lily pads
a halo
this drowned man’s beard
liquescent
like the gods
he dreamed
he walked dry over water
flowering goldfish
this thin line of cloud

4
maples flash ruby thoughts
ripples flowing outwards
as heavy as a stone at Stonehenge
this altar tumbling downwards
through a liquid sky

5
wisteria and his curly blue locks
Narcissus clad in an abyss of lilies
imperial his reflection and perilous
slowly he slides to sleep
merging into his imaged dream
a vaulted cathedral
his earthbound ribs
the blood space immaculate

6
night and day and sun and clouds
leapfrogging over water
something survives
sepia tints
dreaming on and on
exotic this sudden movement
Carassius auratus flowering

7
Clos Normand and the Grande Allée
closed to him now
folded his flowers
their petals tight at his nightfall
dark their colours
mourning for his mornings of light
fled far from him now

8
can we soften this sunstroke of brightness
le roi soleil threatening to blind us?
rey de oros
the sun glow braiding itself
an aureate palette
a susurration of leaves

9
the lady of the lake
holding out her hand
handing him an apple
l’offrande du coeur
a scarlet heart of flame
monochromatic this island
brown earth in a crimson lake
the world reborn in tulips

10
especially
when the dying sun
molten fire spreading
a limpid light
sky brimming over into pond
trapped in low clouds
a slash of colour here
and there a tree
a fountain of gold
the sun an apple
blushing
on a setting branch

11
silver-white the money plant
moonlight between fine-tuned fingers
its rattle of seeds
blunt the moon’s bite
raked from water
gaunt its gesture
matched ripples
face to face
with the moon

12
upside down these clouds
bright in their winter boats
the night wind blows
clean dry bones
across the sky

13
fish aloft like birds
skimming wet sunshine
spring’s first swallow
rising from the depths
to snatch a golden note
quivering in the air

14
thunder raises dark ripples
lightning a forked tongue
insinuated into paradise
an apple tossed away
caution thrown over the shoulder
as sharp as salt

15
winds of change
that first bite
too bitter to remember

16
timeless this tide
this ebb and flow
oh great pond-serpent
biting your own tail
forever

Comment:

A real Golden Oldie and going back a long way. I just re-discovered it. Funny how these things become lost and abandoned. Then they resurface. This is from Though Lovers Be Lost, available online should you wish to continue with its poetry!

Click on the link below to purchase the book

Though Lovers Be Lost
Print Edition

Rage, Rage 26 with Bonus Poem

Rage, Rage
26

In my dreams, I track 
the sails of drifting ships,
white moths fluttering
before the wind.

I think I have caught them
in overnight traps,
but they fly each morning
in dawn’s unforgiving light.

I give chase
with pen and paper,
fine butterfly nets
with which to catch
and tame wild thoughts.

I grasp at things
just beyond my fingertips.

I wake up each morning
unaware of where
I have traveled
in my dreams.

Comment:

White moths fluttering before the wind – my dreams at night. How do I trap them, catch them, squeeze them between my fingers, hold them, pin them to the show case of memory? I remember in Oaxaca – the young boys, trapping the moths. Huge, gigantic butterflies, moths, as large as birds. They severed their wings, and sold them to the passing tourists. Such beauty, such colour.

I heard an angry buzzing, looked down, and saw flightless bodies, wings clipped, rowing their stumps of bunt oars, skidding sideways across the gutters, and dreaming painfully of the stars.

Bonus Poem

Dreams

White moths fluttering
before the wind
my dreams at night.

How do I catch them,
trap them,
pin them
in memory’s showcase?

In Oaxaca
young boys traps moths.
Gigantic moths,
huge jungle butterflies,  
as large as birds.

They cut off their wings,
sell them like postcards
to passing tourists.

I hear
an angry buzzing
and look down.

Flightless bodies,
wings clipped,
rowing stumps of blunt oars,
skidding sideways
across the gutters
dreaming painfully
about the stars.

Ice Storm

Ice Storm

This month and my life
are nearly done.

Sun strengthens in the sky
but birds ice up
in spite of feathers,
fluffed like eider downs.

Man alone,
within warm walls,
can bravely laugh
at winter’s squalls.

But oh, if the power fails,
if wires are tumbled
by winter’s gusting gales,
man’s heart no longer
fills with ease.

He sits at home
in the cold and dark
while all around him,
ice covers the land
and even fire dogs
freeze.