Is the writing on the wall so cryptic? Graphic images depict rage flames of dissonance young men bleeding at their own hands compassion incapacitated.
A sad awakening for a society fixated on rights and privileges, dominating culture excluding the nurture of humanity, or preservation of life.
How can we continue to closet our children’s pain – their vitality oozing – hopelessly abandoned by morality’s shelter?
It is the wall, not the spatters of blood upon it, which needs amending – adolescent minds too tender to wade through the cryptic priorities – messages divided.
(Cryptic first appeared here May 2018. Edited here. Image my own.)
Restlessness accompanies me on this sojourn today – unfazed by ripe red belly of robin, or shimmering emerald of breeding merganser’s crown.
My lens seeks out decay – rotting wood, darkened cavities, as if my soul craves reassurance that life persists even where death hovers – I need a sign
Discontent, I move on- drive the river road snail’s pace – praying for something to shake this malaise – birds come and go, trees radiate Spring green, I pause, unmoved.
And then I spot it, across the river, up high, a massive hulk; lens raises, adjusts, snaps, the regal hunter turns toward me regards me with ferocious intensity, does not falter on his perch –
All-seeing, fearless, he is spirit-manifested, a messenger, lifting me from stagnation – momentary redemption.
(Needing a Sign first appeared here, May 2019. Image my own.)
In anticipation of guests, the hostess – always bent on pleasing – carefully selects the script, ascribes roles, envisions an afternoon of light repartee, peppered with philosophical pondering – satisfactory entertainment.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, confident in the outcome, fatally smug.
Crowd arriving, she fails to read disinterest in eyes, politely attempts to orchestrate interactions, while they cast about, calculating, shunning protocols of etiquette, dispersing in an unsettling way, then returning, savagely encircling their prey.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, panic rising, confusion overriding confidence.
Unprepared to defend herself – bears no arms but the giving type – she ducks, grasps, attempts retreat from the onslaught of vindictive agendas, but the wall of stored grievances, spotlighting a history of injustices, corners her, hopelessness in its wake.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, knowing full well the legacy of pain.
It’s friends, in the end, who save her – a surefooted cavalry, bearing the swords of understanding, compassion their war cry – reigning in the once-invited, now betraying guests – objective hearts demanding an end to the fray.
They’re just family, after all, she tells them, tells herself, composure a mere thread.
Tables turned, the offenders now plead for forgiveness, beg for help, pretend the slights were unintentional, harmless, expect their hostess to step over the bloodied and slain bits of herself, and with benevolence, restore her love for them again.
They’re just family, after all, she says weakly, the torn script of her expectations scattered.
(My art, entitled She Stands In the Middle of It All. This poem first appeared May, 2016)
Rain-infused greens inspire whimsical thoughts – surely there are sprites frolicking amongst the mossy boughs, sheltering beneath ancient roots whose twisted tendrils rise and dip in rhythm to Earth’s pulses.
The muddied path pushes back against my weary legs, invites me to sit awhile, wonder at the impossible heights from which birdsong flits across treetops, pinging back from unseen distances, unhindered by human progress.
Salmonberries, newly popped, herald the seasonal shift, and I watch as a slug undulates slowly past, antennae bobbing, the black spots of its tail reptilian.
Below me, lantern-like blooms of yellow sprout at creek’s edge their pungent aroma carried by the still chilled vernal breeze.
A red-breasted nuthatch scurries up a neighbouring fir, while two robins flirt playfully on the rainforest floor, hopping amongst the freshly flowered trilliums, their white crowns a regal presence in this place of enchantment.
(Image my own) Morrell Nature Sanctuary first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II in April, 2018. Morrell Nature Sanctuary is on Vancouver Island, Canada.
Wish I could converse – one harmonic voice blended in a symphony of birdsong – but my tongue stumbles reveals me as interloper
As much as I tread softly over forest floor, my missteps crackle, alert the denizens danger is about – no imploring can reverse the impression
Nature’s sensitivity is finely tuned and I am urban-scented, barely tolerated, seldom trusted – must bear my reverence for this sacred space more deliberately.
One Woman's Quest 