gargoyle lays broken
upon stones with displaced wing
his spell has faded
bird feeder topped up
flock of nuthatches descends
for evening feast
squirrels hang in a row
upside down and right side up
for evening feast
sparrows flutter in
weaving their way through the growth
for evening feast
sharp call of blue jays
invites their kin of cardinals
for evening feast
twilight in the east
causes life to seek their nests
evening feast ends...
air is clear and cool
as I relax at the Pond
twinkle lights strung along posts
emanate golden glow casting shadows
golden nectar chills in the goblet
while my body relaxes upon wicker
tis a night of wonderful dreams
of fae, frogs and toads, and squirrels
the chaise draws me in, calling me,
come rest awhile golden lass
the quarter moon shining brightly
will lull you asleep, I abide
I come home after a ten hour work day,
change and head to the Pond.
The air is refreshingly clear and
a cool wind blows chimes to tease me to sing.
I’m not relaxing for fifteen minutes
when the symphony of mowers begins.
The retiree J across the street hauls out
his “silent” mower and is soon joined by his neighbour C
who inherited his riding mower that is heard
for three blocks away. He grins knowing the previous
owner ran it for two hours EVERY FRYDAY afternoon.
Next up is my own neighbour. We’ve chatted
explaining my preference to silence after a work week,
but in one ear and out the other. At least she is quick,
not retired and doesn’t dilly dally.
There is a pause and silence descends.
O what a fool am I when the chainsaw begins.
Not one block away and an idiot who
just has to give it a one more go.
I seek the sanctuary of my chesterfield.
Three hours later and the hood is silent.
Not an engine or tinker toy is revving.
There is peace and o such quietness
and I’m relaxing in silence, well almost
as squirrels have descended into the bird feeder
the squabbling has begun and I ~ sigh ~.
Wait! Tis now 8 pm and yet ANOTHER retiree
decides he needs to join his neighbours in creating
another perfect lawn for the weekend
just in case there are visitors.
I ~ sigh ~ and wonder why on a FRYday.
patio door is opened wide
and I stand scanning the garden,
a blink, another blink, and yet another.
I gasp, and giggle,
“you have found me!”
says I to the night air filled with lights.
Thank you for renewing life,
as they fly blinking sky wards
There is such serenity
in the garden this night,
the Ponds surface shimmers
in the evening breeze
while hyacinths and lettuces
float among the orbs.
The only man made sound
is Bach’s Cello Suites
emanating from speakers
out into the garden
where I sit and savour
sights and sounds.
Robinnettes have recently
left their nests
chortle from the garden,
calling to their parents
while both know they are safe.
Soon, sparrows and chickadee’s
fly in and sing their songs.
Were they drawn in by the cello?
Or the serenity?
I will never know and it doesn’t matter
for I am enraptured with their song.
The wicker chaise
calls me name, come lay with me,
let me arms wrap around you
and keep you safe while you dream.
The invitation is enticing...
I must be living a good life and one with nature.
Last year there were three nests with mums’ nestled in.
One was vacated after a hawks visit. A bold one it was.
The mum left never to return after the attack.
This year there has been one successful brood of two babes
who are thriving in the garden, and they are huge!
Rick and Roll bathe daily in the Pond, each taking their time.
I am quite happy with their growth.
Rick and Roll sprung from the nest over the drive side door.
After they left, another mum redecorated the nest to her liking.
Presently there are two babes, again, sheltered, loved,
and now daily screaming “feed me” “feed me”.
I tried to banish nesting on the column at the main entrance
but she worked over night and within 12 hours her home was woven.
What could I do after her energy spent building her nest?
Ruth and Rupert are now proud parents of two babes.
I warned both that this was my home so deal with my living here
and I will be entering and exiting this doorway at all hours.
That hasn’t worked out so well as both parents are a tad protective,
dive bombing and loudly chirping their warning when I’m near.
To date there was one successful brood and two more on their way.
Last year there were four broods out of two nests. Not bad at all.
Mind you the weather was more agreeable and they all survived
without late snow blizzard and freezing temperatures.
Nature does sing its own tune and I happily sing along.
my beautiful stones
created by earths movements
over untold centuries
smoothed by rivers flow
by rivers flow
and tides washing in, washing out
gently smoothing the raggedness
creating jewels, a pleasure to the touch
to the touch
one feels the energy of creation
amethysts of divine colour
buried in the cliffs of my county
of my county
specks of gold in iron deposits
hidden in outcroppings
beyond everyday reach of human
reach of human
or without reach of my hands
citrine, lemon coloured ice crystals
woven into bracelets for a dear friend
a dear friend
chose her stones of jade, leopard jasper
and earthly variations of local agates,
earth colours befitting her soul
befitting her soul
my stone is moss agate
the name alone suits me
I wear the stones knowing...
leaves pulled away from wakening leaves
allow stems of brilliant green to emerge,
once the sun and its warmth tickles the bulb
blue blossoms reach for the sun.
petals unwrap themselves and spreading open
reveal the glorious goldness of life.
Tis Fryday, the end of a brutal work week
and I’m nestled in the den surrounded by books, art and music.
Around the Block sings from the stereo; indie artists taking my breath away.
Its been raining for days, which is most welcomed as soil is very dry,
a silent thank you to the heavens for this life giving moisture.
With rain cooler temps arrive that cause the garden to halt its growth.
I survey the garden and see it being covered in a blanket of white.
No No No, this is not right, this is not Spring.
The twolips, having disappeared from existence for years,
finally made their appearance this spring.
Now they are being held hostage to the elements.
The lone Red Poll has landed in the bird feeder,
pecking at what is left after the Ravens feast.
Robin feeding her brood cuddles them into herself
anxiously living out the storm. Will they survive this temp?
Scillia’s, daffiies, lillies and yew are bound down
under the weight of white shite, Will they rebound?
I sigh remembering the garden just this morn was a carpet of green
now lays cloaked in white velvet.
Banish him from this land for we have weathered enough of his follies,
we need a land of heat, a sky of blue, we need Spring.
slumber find me
wrap me in your arms
silent, til I have rest enough
allow not waking
bird song to break
your spell of deep sleep
nor train whistles
speeding through town
singing at every crossroad
just let this mind and body
to relax and shut off
without thought or dream
slumber find me
this one night this week
I need the purge of life
What I’ve missed the most during the past year is perusing book shops. I am a collector with book cases overflowing with worn paged books, columns of read and yet to be read stacked in another corner of the den, piles of half read, when become bored, laying beside me bed. Tis me good night tradition, when done, the page is marked and light extinguished. I fall asleep with the writers vision in me head. A sweet way to end the day.
It’s not just the title or inscriptions, but the cover art that also entices me. Like a fine bottle of wine, the label speaks volumes. The artist, be a scribe or a vintner, designs the label to suit the song. And I, an aficionado of art, sings along with the story.
A few found delights are The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers, The Peacock Feast, The Lost Painting, The Chef’s Secret, The Hare with Amber Eyes, The Mermaid and Mrs. Hancock. There are many more that have found new homes with adventurous eyes and minds. I can’t write enough about seeking new authors with interesting tales to tell.
Books with a story, be it fiction or non, can envelope me so tight I find it difficult to breathe until the reading of the next chapter. Steampunk, art, gardening, architecture, history, faerie tales, and even pop-up. If they whisper to me, I will bring them home. Just say my name and I’m yours.
Tis that time of year when the sugar shacks are producing liquid gold,
that ever so pure and sweet maple syrup, natures gift.
It is a long process with days and days of splying, gathering sap,
depending upon the weather. The temperature must be exact
and old timers are constantly checking the weather.
Too cold and trees shut down. Too warm and sap spoils quickly.
Collection is via buckets or hoses; we prefer buckets over plastic hoses
that must be sanitized regularly. Buckets are open to the elements
and what kid hasn’t drunk from one. Tis a right of passage.
I’ve worked a sugar camp for years and there is nothing so exhilarating
being in the bush, working until you collapse onto snow from exhaustion
with the widest smile upon your face and scent of maple syrup in the air.
Not only in the air but it permeates your clothing, that heavenly scent
inhaled by passerby’s in town who smile and nod. They know.
Unfortunately this year I can not participate and it saddens me so.
I relay weather updates hopefully ending with clear sky and warm temps
and silently moan wishing I was there. In my absence I was asked
to bake my secret Ginger Snaps. Spicy and moist, to keep the lads going.
And the lads kept at it, day and night, switching shifts,
even though the virus swept through the community,
those who returned followed strict protocol
until the weather turned dismal and soon buckets
were emptied and sadly the last was boiled off.
T’was a sad maple syrup season this year, weather and nature
battling about; friends kept sheltered, weather was dismal
and those die hards worked dawn to dusk to dawn
seeking to produce that glorious liquid gold.
O to those sappers, brava!
I have missed this glow,
living room bathed in sunshine
welcoming me to the day
and the task of overdue dusting
Tis been a year since I received a hug,
a hug, a simple physical emotion between two people
wrapping their arms around each other in celebration.
That celebration was my birthday.
This year there was no fine dining with dear-hearts,
no gathering of folk and friends,
just me, music, phone calls and e-mails.
The birthday cake was non-existent,
because the bakery was closed. Guess why.
It was replaced with a sliver of fine chocolate.
Kinda hard to light a candle in that.
I miss the humanity of celebration and I’m not alone.
If only we would respect each other by following rules.
I certainly do, at work I’m a designated essential service
or my job is. I’m there for employees though
I’d prefer to be elsewhere safe and sound.
But I’m there and find it difficult to remain hug-less
when a co-worker has just been diagnosed.
~sigh~ Tis so hard to deal with.
This may turn in to a rant, and I try not to here but
My message to the Covidiots is this,
STOP, just STOP!
Follow the rules. I’ve given up much of my emotional life,
as have my clan so why can’t you? It isn’t that hard.
And so my birthday continues with mixing pigments,
tuning into Motown, scribbling and finding an ooommmm.
for better days ahead.
I smell the arrival in the air,
it is the clarity, the freshness of still snow covered land
while sunbeams melt it thus so.
Grian rises in colour as he does when leaving us,
colours o the colours of peach, salmon and gold,
gifts to us from earth awaking.
Twilight descends later and as in the awaking
he bids adieu with colour, the background
silhouetting neighbours spruce and fir.
I see the arrival in the bunny trails
across the garden and drive
seeking out over-wintered shoots.
Tracks majically appear over night
playing ring around the rosie apple trees,
then on to follow shoveled paths.
When the dawning begins it hops off
to its home underneath the veranda,
it knows it will be safe til twilight.
I hear the arrival with birds on wing,
crows have returned from their country home
heralding the awakening.
Their bodies fly with lucidity
slowness of wing, there is no rush, no hurry,
to be about their business.
They seek out winter ravaged nests
ear-marking when mothers return to roost,
murderous aviators on the hunt.
Silence descends after the blizzard
while the full Snow Moon rises over the river.
I have a front seat view while it slowly ascends
not as vibrant or huge as two nights past.
Though it is full, there is something lacking
in its form, brightness, colour.
The view makes me wonder that the expectation
of brilliance somewhat dims after creation.
As in life and nature, it is not the end destination
but the journey that makes it worthwhile.
What a simple act of joy gives life to people...
A neighbour woman and young son
created penguins moulded from snow
and lined the park snowbanks with their creations.
Since their arrival I make a point of driving by every day
to ensure they are safe and sound.
When the snowplow buries them, they are replaced.
The grin on my face, as well as many others
who come to see the penguin parade, are priceless.
This is what we need more of simple acts of kindness
Thank you neighbour and young son.
You have no idea how much this means
to those who are barely holding on.
This winter, O this winter
has been, and is, one of memories
when we embraced cold and snow
when we bundled up within layers of clothing
when we walked in sunshine exhaling ice crystals
when we cheered at the slap of pucks from backyard rinks
when we squinted through toques and scarves
when we laughed at lopsided snow-men
when we filled bird-feeders twice a day
when we carved tunnels in snow banks
when we were just present,
without a care in the world
This winter, O this winter
has been, and is, a remembrance of life
my favourite CBC broadcast
surrounds me with easy vibes
I need this comfort this night
Tis a night worthy of soothing chords,
relaxing melodies, and peaceful vocals
making one forget the day, the week
I will wake in a new beginning
Running with Insanity plays,
I ponder such a fitting title for these days
though words sing of hope
will it last
White Shite is moving in,
thankful it’s the weekend
and not Sunday night
greased snow shovel awaits
bird feeder AKA squirrel feeder
is full, awaiting the blizzard
they need to eat too
as do I, but not during the storm
squirrels are spoiled
with leftover Christmas cookies,
Ginger Snaps are favoured
the zing provides a giggle
I wished an employee good life
a Syrian refugee who we gave a new beginning
he wrote my name in Arabic as a farewell
I am so honoured
rhymes are a tad off this night
this is more of a pondering
before I bid a good night
and wishing for a sound sleep
New Years night is foreboding
streets are without travelers
neither two-legged or vehicular,
no shadows cast upon the landscape
of grey and brown, an ugly quiet
Slowly the air becomes brighter,
falling flakes clouding street lights
and the dismal landscape silently
takes on a winter whiteness
First light reveals a lighter landscape
the garden is blanketed in white
shrubs and trees have laden branches
long awaited moisture has arrived
and in the stillness there remains quiet