Tag Archives: life

Life is messy

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Reflections on things we cannot control

(Respectively, photos taken in Toronto; Hope, BC; New York City; China Beach, BC; Chilliwack, BC; Volcan Arenal, Costa Rica; and Montezuma, Costa Rica)

Have you herd?

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The ground is covered with the crisp snow of January,

The wind howls its plaintive cries of winter.

The herd mill about in tight formation

Trying to stave off the cold.

Most lift their feet one at a time

As if to get brief respite from the icy tendrils;

Their flesh quivering to make blood rise

And warm their souls in the early morning darkness.

There is little communication between the members

As thought is too difficult on this cold winter’s day.

The breath of the herd forms an icy cloud above their heads,

That is quickly blown away to fall as snow in some far off land.

Their minds wander to that time so long ago,

When the sun shone brightly and the grass was green;

A time of plenty when they were warm and active.

 

The wind blows one icy blast, masking out all sound

Even that of their own heart beats.

With ice forming on their coats,

The herd huddles even closer,

More oblivious than ever to the world around them.

Suddenly, one of the herd lifts its head.

A whisper is faintly heard fighting against the breeze.

In response, more to their mate than to any sound,

The herd begins to waken.

The herd jostles as the sound changes

From a whisper to a call to a roar.

The herd becomes a living organism,

Changing from its dormant state to one of vitality.

As the sun peeks over the horizon, and life returns,

A clear call is heard by all:

“VIA train, eastbound for Toronto,

Now arriving on Track 2.”

Another workday begins for the people of Oakville.

The Guardian

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She stands in the yard,

the centre of her universe,

an observer of her time and place.

Barren arms reach into the air,

fingers scratching at the sky,

grasping at the breeze.

She stands alone.

 

Her skin is deep ebon,

in stark contrast to the piles

of snow at her feet.

Once, it was smooth

but now bears the deep

crenellations and scars

of her many years.

The pliancy and suppleness of youth

have been replaced with the

inflexibility and roughness of maturity.

 

Her age has brought many visions,

scenes of an over-full life

flooding her existence.

She has seen the passing

of innumerable families

in her neighbourhood;

The birth of children

who have played in her yard,

enjoying the welcome

of her open arms.

Children who develop

and change their surroundings,

having children of their own,

growing old and passing on.

Yet, she outlives them all.

 

She will live forever.

For her, the years are minutes,

decades but hours.

Who knew, those many years ago,

when that small grey squirrel

prepared his forage for winter,

that such beauty would surface

from the cold, damp earth

pressing down upon her infant self;

to shade her yard in summer;

to return fertility in the Fall with humus

from her dead and dying leaves.

She is the immortal,

timeless and carefree.

(One of the autumn immortals from Toronto’s High Park.)

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Hephaestus lives

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There is something magical about fire. It destroys. It cleanses. It rejuventates.

Few other media seems so alive and yet have no life. It has an almost palpable need to fight for its existence.

A few years ago, I was awoken by bright light through my bedroom window, which would have been fine, but the clock said it was only 4 a.m. Rising from my bed, I drew back the blinds and the room was suffused by the yellow-orange glow of a fire that raged in the next building. The rooftop patio of the club across the alley was aflame.

I was transfixed by the flames that shot higher and higher, dancing across the wooden frame and sending its embers out in search of new sustenance, dancing on the breeze the fire itself created.

Luckily, no one but the club owner’s bank account was injured.