Photos

Ice Flow

Ice Flow

Free fall, then scree on the road
to Wolastoq. with the fresh air
speaking to the rock face
in a long-forgotten tongue,
broken words metamorphosing
into fragmented scree at rock-foot.

Just for a moment we glimpse
the ancient water in the stone,
catch the flow of winter words.

The January sun, low in our eyes,
heavenly glory glancing off rock
to give earthly joy, golden beams
highlight damp, glistening slate.

Afternoon frost, water and rock,
polished into ice-maiden tears
that dance their sparkling way
and are held for a moment
in a vision that will last forever.

Comment:
Such beauty in silent things, ice, rock, sky. But learn to listen and perhaps you will hear them talking, one to the other. One day, you too may share their words of wisdom.

Islands

Islands

Bewildered
by the rush hour
surge of traffic
we peer at street signs,
slide slowly round
roundabouts
sprung up overnight,
mushrooms
grown to confuse us.

Swept along by the main
street’s vibrant flow,
we fail to recognize
new shops standing
where we remember
old cracked paint
and the woman who sold
curiosities.

A face in the crowd
holds us for a moment.
Grey hair, unshaven,
clothes ragged,
a scarecrow on the street,
was that the man
who once ruled our world?

That old woman,
hunched, wrinkled,
her face a Hallowe’en mask,
her limp, her canes
and dragging feet:
is that the dancing queen
who ruled beside him?

Lights change.
Cars move on.
Another island
beckons
as we pull away
from the past
and drive
into the future.

First Snow Blow

First Snow Blow
4 December 2023

A dry old stick of a man
I hang a warm coat
on my scarecrow frame
and don thick mitts
to keep out the cold.

Gripping grimly
the snowblower’s handles,
and hanging on tight,
I plod my wobbly way,
working the gears as I go.

The snowblower, this year,
is a recalcitrant shopping cart
with me, the shopper,
frantically pushing, pulling,
forcing the machine along
a narrow aisle of snow.

Out of breath, I stop,
breathe deep, and try to
regain control, first
of my heart and lungs,
and then of this machine
that so frustrates me.

It seems inanimate, but
some spirit must dwell within
and force me to follow
its devilish whim, instead
of going the way I want to go.

Comment:
Just the one snowfall so far, but there’s more on the way. Winter in New Brunswick, Canada, is never complete, without multiple falls of lovely snow. Lovely to look at, but not so much fun when you’re getting old and the snowblower snorts into life meaning that it’s time, once more, to go outside and clear the snow.

Do you ever see wild animals?

Daily writing prompt
Do you ever see wild animals?
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Do you ever see wild animals?

Indeed I do. And sometimes, just like this Wapiti, or White-Tailed deer, they see me as well. Some are camera shy. But this one, caught one morning walking past my garage door, heard the click of the first camera shot, stopped, turned towards the sound, then kindly waited until I had shot him, in the only way I would ever shoot a wild animal, with my camera. Isn’t he a handsome fellow – very photogenic.

Some of the animals that pass through our yard do not seem that wild. This one lay down for a little rest about forty feet from the house. Early morning light, not easy to shoot, but he sat there and waited for me. Alas, I was using a camera with a laser focus and the red flash of the light disturbed him. I didn’t mean to do so. Whoops – there he goes, tail-up and now you know what they mean when they say ‘high-tailing it’ out of the woods and up the road.

And what about the chipmunks, and the squirrels, and the skunks, and the raccoons, and the jack-rabbits, and the porcupines? They all drop in from time to time. Look at this happy couple. Aw! Aren’t they sweet?

And don’t forget the birds – but give us another prompt – all about our feathered friends -and we’ll talk about them next time

Dark

Dark

The lights went out suddenly,
leaving me in the dark.
A cloudy night, not a spark
of starlight to light my way.

My search for candles was slow.
I found them, struck matches,
and sat at the table watching
light catch and flames glow.

A war baby – bombs, blackout
curtains, diminished light, all
are present in my DNA, and yet,
I fear the dark above all.

Like a moth, or a high plane
caught in a searchlight,
I struggle to escape from twin
siren calls: fire and light.

I sat and waited for power
to return. An hour, two hours,
three, four. Then I couldn’t wait
any more. I climbed the steep,
wood hill that led to bed.

At the top of the stairs
a plea for light filled my head
and a plea for the return
of light formed the focus
for long-forgotten prayers.

Comment:
We lost power for 15 hours a couple of weeks ago. One moment we were sitting there, after supper, ruminating quietly, with the lights on. The next, we were sitting in the dark. We found a flashlight – light but no warmth. Then moved on to candles. Candles need matches. When the ingredients were ready, we struck the matches to light the candles. These were the first three we lit.

We are so lucky. Sure, it was an awkward night. But it was only fifteen hours. We talked about the homeless, their poverty, often in the middle of such wealth, the poor who have homes, but who cannot afford to light them or heat them, the innocent victims in war zones, powerless in every sense of the word, deprived of light, heat, water, plumbing, sanitation. Our prayers that night included them as well – all of them.

September Song

September Song

In the gathering autumn shadows
summer flares as bright as the berries
adorning the Mountain Ash.

Beads of blood,
they hold late evening light,
as do the Black-eyed Susans
growing wild beneath my window.

Rain wet, wind swept some nights,
yet still they glow
with their bottled sunshine.

Fairy lights, Christmas garlands,
ash rosaries will circle another tree,
enlightening wrapped presents,
lighting up the vacant crib
waiting for that little child,
soon to be still-born.

Comment: Poetry is where you find it. The inspiration for today’s poem came from the Poem of the Week in The Guardian. Inspiration, I found it in two places – 1. the photograph at the head of this blog and 2. in the analysis of the poem, not in the poem itself. The twilight of this autumn world is indeed wonderful.

Windmills

Windmills

Only the pendulum clock
disturbs the silence
as the slow stars circle
and the moon hides
its face beneath
seven excluding veils.

Tranquility finds me,
seated here, head in hands,
contemplating the complicated
dance steps of a terra-centric
universe where planets weave
an intricate back and forth
to justify the falsehoods
of misguided mistakes.

Men, confident in their wisdom,
know that all is well,
that their faith in the old gods,
the old books, the words
that were written, in stone,
before the modern world began,
need no rethinking.

Those whirling sails,
imprinted on the questing mind,
are a giant’s arms, those sheep
an enemy army cloaked
in dust, coats of arms visible
only to the far-sighted
whose eyes defy vision’s laws.

Right, they were then.
Right they are now.
Nothing changes. Nothing
can possibly change.
Sheep are the enemy
and windmills wait to invade
the unsuspecting mind.

Comment: The history of Don Quixote and its reception in Spain is quite interesting. I was very sorry to read that Cervantes’s language is now considered so antiquated that interpreters are needed. I actually have a cartoon version of his quests – a picture reader, so to speak, very brief, because each picture is worth a thousand words. I have not yet seen the simplified text, rewritten with today’s reader in mind.

Don Quixote still holds many lessons for this modern world of ours and is definitely worth re-reading for, as Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1555) wrote: “There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn’t true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true.” Don Quixote, the character, threads a narrow path between those two extremes, as do many of the other supporting characters, some of whom use metatheatre for their smoke and mirror Wizard of Oz trickery. And remember, or forget at your peril, nihil sub sōle novum – there is nothing new under the sun. And yes, history does repeat itself, as you will see if you read (or re-read) Cervantes’s master piece.

Flight

Flight

Such a miracle: those first steps to flight
taken by the cormorant over water.
That first one heavy, creating ripples,
the second one lighter, and the third one
scarcely touching the water.

The need to take flight lies deep within me.
Fleeing from what? Flying towards what?
Who knows? All I know is that the future
lies ahead where my bird’s beak points and
the past, a rippling wake, lies behind me.

That white water, trailing its kite’s tail,
tells me where I have been. Machado’s
voice calls out from the past: “Traveler,
there is no road, just a wake across life’s sea.”

Comment: The photo is a golden oldie, one of the first I ever posted on this blog. The poem is part old, part new. In reality, it is a revision, completed today, of the earlier poem associated with that old blog post. It is interesting to compare the two visions – with those seven extra years of creative experience between them. Let me know what you think!

A special thank you to my long-time friend, Dale Estey, for commenting and suggesting an improvement for the fourth line. Spot if if you can!

Rebirth

Rebirth

“El mundo nace
cuando dos se besan.”
Octavio Paz

A new world is born
when two people kiss.
The hummingbird sips
at the hollyhock’s lips.
Bee enters the blossom
and, sated, comes out.
A butterfly perches,
flutters its wings.
The sun enters a cloud:
radiance is born.
Silver linings
morph to gold.
The sun’s needle stitches
the world together.
Oh to be a part of Eden,
Paradise born anew,
in the moment when
lip meets lip and the tongue
is a twister, touching down.
Two hearts a-whirl,
their world aflame.
Their world reshaped,
new shapes now born.
Wild flowers swaying
in an age-old dance.
Life’s journey renewed,
not always by chance.

Write about a random act of kindness you’ve done for someone.

Daily writing prompt
Write about a random act of kindness you’ve done for someone.
View all responses

Write about a random act of kindness you’ve done for someone.

Sir Alex Ferguson, one of soccer’s greatest managers, once said that it wasn’t the victories he remembered, but the defeats. So it is with my own coaching career – it’s the losses I recall. Same thing with random acts of kindness. There have been many, too many to count. I will not paper my e-walls with glowing memories of past kindnesses. But what about those random acts of kindness I failed to do? Here’s one of them.

            Crave More: I hate those words. I always choose a cart with the shop’s name on the handle. I can handle that. I can’t handle a shopping cart that screams Crave More at me every time I stoop down and place another item in the wire grid. If stores were honest, they would inscribe their shopping carts with a sign that said Think More, Crave Less, and Save Your Money. I bet that would quickly cut into profits.

            Anyway, there I was, in La-La-Land, leaning on my cart, still half asleep, when this ghost drifted towards me. “Help me,” it said. “I’m hungry. I need food.” I woke up from my dream, looked at the ghost, tall, skeletal thin, cavernous eyes and cheekbones protruding, gaps in the teeth, grey face drawn and lined. The single word “Sorry” came automatically to my lips. Then I felt shame. I looked at him again. “I only carry plastic.” The excuse limped heavily across the air between us. I saw something in his eyes, I knew not what, and I turned away.

            Then, as I walked away, I added 100 lb of muscle to the scarecrow frame. Took forty years away. Filled his body with joy and pride, and remembered how he played when I used to coach him, hard and fast, but true. I ran my hand through the card index of former players that I had coached. I knew their moves, and attributes, the way they played the game, their stronger / weaker side, their playing strengths, their weaknesses. I remembered him holding up the Champion’s Cup. But I couldn’t remember his name.

            I pushed the cart all over the store in a frantic search for him. I went to the ATM and took out cash. I could hand it to him. I could tell him he had dropped it. I went through a thousand scenes. I could invite him to the snack bar. I could tell him to buy what he needed and follow me to the check out lane where I would add his purchases to my cart. I looked everywhere. He was nowhere to be seen.

            A single opportunity. One chance. That’s all we get. Miss it, and we blow the game. Take it, and we win the Championship and hold up the Cup.