STAR FILLED WATERS

Sometime back in the 1970s, I can't remember exactly, we purchased a canoe. We, my wife and I, were novice to canoeing so we purchased what we thought was a stable canoe, one that wouldn't tip over. We purchased a Sports Pal, a 12 foot canoe with floatation pads on both sides. It was not only impossible to upset, it was extremely difficult to paddle being constructed of a light aluminum material that the wind, all too often, took advantage and pushed us in every direction other than the direction we wished to go. A couple of years later we decided that it was time to get a "real" canoe. The Sports Pal had become a bit of an embarrassment, the subject of amusement for those paddling more streamline, fibreglass canoes. We stepped up to a 15 foot Scott fibreglass canoe and paddled shakily down the lake. In time we learned how to properly handle just about any  canoe, in just about every kind of weather.  We stepped up once more purchasing  a 16 foot Scott Kevlar canoe. This was to be our last canoe. With my health not the greatest, and canoeing thought to be a bit stressful, it was decided in 2007 to retire from the sport. I mean who wants to go down with the canoe way out in some remote lake, eh? We'd had our day. We'd paddled many, many miles, and had enjoyed many experiences on many lakes and rivers. Still it was a sad day when we helped the new owner of our canoe strap it to the roof of his car. Even now, each time that we get up to Algonquin and watch as canoists launch from the outfitters, I get this feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, then I shake my head and realize that all good things must end....one day. Thankfully, we have the memories, wonderful memories of days out on the water on some wilderness lake, with the wind in our face, and a loon off the bow.

Star Filled Waters

When I was somewhere between young and old,

late at night or early morning,

I’d launch my canoe on a northern lake,

and paddle on star filled waters.

I’d paddle solo in the darkness

to places unfamiliar,

and with the twilight,

I’d paddle home.

Now,

somewhere between old and older,

late at night or early morning,

I launch my canoe on northern lakes,

and paddle on star filled waters.

I paddle solo in the darkness,

and visit unfamiliar places.

And with the dawn I paddle on,

to places I’ve never seen,

with waters crystal clear,

and wind bent pines, that

cling

to rocky shores.

I linger in these places,

and hope to stay awhile,

but with the sun’s rising,

I know it’s not my time.

With the sun on my back,

and the wind in my face,

I turn my canoe,

and slowly paddle home.

I promise to return one day,

to this land of wind bent pines,

and crystal waters,

to paddle further down the lake

on star filled waters.

EAS

STILL WATERS

On a northern lake,

the twilight’s quiet is broken

by the haunting cry

of a Common loon.

Our canoe floats,

between sky and water

in the twilight’s reflection.

Paddling silently,

we drift,

anticipating.

The loon surfaces at our bow,

aware,

undisturbed.

Its reflection

fills the ripples of its forward motion.

It dips its head,

dives,

and disappears

in the dark,

deep,

still waters.

ONCE UPON A TIME

It's February 5, 2019. Looking out my office window I can see that it's snowing lightly... at least for the moment. In the past few days we've suffered through freezing temperatures, and snow-squalls from off of the Bay followed by an unusually warm day where the temperature shot up to +7C accompanied by a heavy rainfall. The temperature has since dropped back to a seasonal norm of -5C. What can you say, it's Canada. Of course, some would say that it's global warming?

Our home is situated in a subdivision surrounded by a sea of private dwellings. Reflecting backwards, having grown up just down the street, I can recall that this area was densely forested and that the road that runs past our place was but a path leading further into the forest, and eventually finding its way to what is referred to as the longest road in Ontario having its beginning on the shore of Lake Ontario, and ending in the Penetanguishene harbour, or Georgian Bay. It was a place of discovery where once upon a time one could roam the fields and forest and observe nature in all of its glory. Sadly, it's all gone, terraformed by we humans in our quest to make planet Earth habitable for humans. I'm fortunate, I suppose, I have memories of what was......

A Leaf Fell

There was a time, one lazy summer day when still a youth, I went exploring.

I roamed through fields filled with golden grasses, and wildflowers.

I watched as butterflies flittered, bumblebees bumbled, and honey bees buzzed here and there.

Beyond the golden field a forest grew 

its darkness dampened sound, 

and from the top of a tall, old, tree, a leaf fell 

and drifted lazily towards the ground.

An errant breeze caught the leaf before it struck the ground,

and swept it high up in the sky where it caught the wind, 

and sailed away, an adventure just begun.

I wondered as it sailed away,

does a leaf, when it strikes the ground, 

make a sound?

I came upon a  path less worn

that travelled through the darkened wood.

I stood, wondering, then slowly ambled in.

It was quiet in the dark, dank, wood.

Not a sound.

I looked around, my eyes adjusting to the darkness in the wood,

and came upon sights I’d never seen.

Toadstools, moss, and ferns of every sort

lived deep within the dampness of this wood.

I got down on my hands and knees, and 

peered beneath the ferns.  Everything was tiny, a completely different world.

Snails, millipedes, spiders, and beetles, movement everywhere.

As I watched I wondered if those who lived within,

would hear a falling leaf as it struck the ground.

I continued down the path less worn leading deep within the wood, 

exploring, observing, listening,

until the crickets sang their evening song.

Doubting that I would ever go back, and wander down the path less worn,

I made a note, a memory kept, and stored away,

a reminder of a wondrous time, spent

one lazy summer’s day.

The Leaf

The leaf fluttered

in a growing breeze, 

and clung to the branch on which it was born. 

Once green, then red, and now

shades of brown.

Once live, and now dead.

Purpose served it held in place,

until the growing breeze became a force, and 

ripped the leaf from its branch, 

and sent it on a journey forlorn

to take its place on the forest floor

to serve a greater purpose, 

a mystery lost in time.

HOME, IS A PLACE TO REST.

Of late the news here in Ontario has touched upon the level of care in nursing homes after evidence of violence resulting in death, and poor care received by elderly residents, has come to light. This, however, is old news as anyone who has, or has had, a relative, or a loved one, housed in one of these institutions can attest.

My wife and I  have had to deal with parents, and relatives, suffering poor health and dementia resulting in their having to be placed in a nursing home. It's painful to watch as the individual begins to suffer loneliness and neglect, the result of inadequate help, and overworked poorly trained staff. 

My father died, I feel prematurely, as the result of leg sores  that were neglected, turned gangrenous, and resulted in amputation(s) and death. My wife's mother suffered bruises, that were always explained away as the result of falls. My aunt suffered the loss of her intellect caused by isolation, and simply went away.

The situation has become such that ask an elderly person if they would want to be placed in a nursing home, and many will say that they'd much rather die. I know that it's not my wish to end my last days in one of these places. But, I may have no choice.

Meanwhile the politicians are looking into the problem. No doubt they will order a study be done, that will result in further studies. After all, civil servants must appear to look busy.

I used to visit with my aunt, my mother's sister, at least once a week for the years that she was a resident in a nursing home. We were close, a relationship that began when I was very young, so it was a foregone conclusion that I would help her navigate life as she grew older, and was no longer able to cope. I watched as she slowly went away, never complaining, always thankful for every bit of kindness shown her way. That it was a learning experience that's for certain, but at the same time I felt it a privilege to be able to share moments of perhaps the most important time of our lives, our going away.

Home, Is A Place To Rest.

A home is a place to rest.

A nursing home is not the best,

place to rest.

It’s a place of last resort,

but certainly not a resort.

A door opens and locks you in.

There’s no escape until your journey ends.

You’ve  joined the group of forgotten souls,

but not for long for soon you’ll be gone.

Gone to where,

no one knows.

Heaven some say,

as they drift away

to dreams of yesterday.

No,

a nursing home is not the best

place to rest.

It’s definitely a place of last resort,

a place where you’ll find,

little rest,

a place where your dreams,

of peace and quiet

are replaced by nightmares, 

some would say,

as you cringe, and try to hide away

from minds demented,

souls possessed,

caregivers who, 

could care less,

about your care.

No,

a nursing home is not the best

place to rest,

it’s hell at best.

EAS

I Heard Her Say...

Is it wrong to remember,

as one grows old,

to speak of other times

not necessarily better times?

If I say I remember

why do you cringe?

Perhaps,

I’ve spoke of this before, 

and you do not wish

to hear it more.

I’m sorry,

perhaps,

I told you

some other day.

My memory is not the same, but

I’m not to blame,

for every day just

seems the same,

and all that comes to mind is 

time spent

long ago.

I’m tired,

I’m weary,

I’d like to be cheery, but

sitting here

all alone

no one to talk to,

my friends are all gone,

the time just drags on,

and on,

here in this place

I now call home.

Look,

out there,

a bird just flew by!

I wish that I could fly

away……..

And so her days, and

nights,

were spent in silence

in this place

of lonely souls

lost and tired.

She tried her best to

stay, but

one day

she

simply

went away,

regretting that she’d lived so long

in this place of little song.

EAS 2019

WHAT PURPOSE

This blog is about to morph into a place where I publish prose and poetry....and very little visual art. The reason is simply that I'm not as mobile as I once was (growing old), and were I to continue making art, the visual kind, I wouldn't have any outlet to share it outside of this blog. The business of art is, as I've explained in other postings, very arduous, and I no longer have the stamina to chase around to various galleries and the such. Instead, I'm going to do some writing, a hobby of mine, something that I've dabbled with over the years. I don't promise anything great, just thoughts that come to mind that until now I've only shared with me, myself, and I, my alter ego in other words.

I've enjoyed posting and talking about my art over the years. Hopefully, some of those that visited took away some helpful information. I enjoy sharing. At the moment I'm working on another art book, my last, archiving in a manner of speaking, some of my very early landscape work.I'll let everyone know when I publish. I the meantime, here's something that I wrote this morning while contemplating the 100 cm of snow that we received in the past couple of days. Enjoy....hopefully.

~~~~~~~~~ 

At this moment in human history when we are in peril of self destructing, there is a rush to leave our world and, like a message in a bottle set adrift on an endless sea, leave a message that says that we were here.  If this is important to our purpose is it possible that the idea is older than time itself, and are we simply the message in a bottle?

What Purpose

What purpose do we serve?

Is their meaning to our lives?

Questions,

as old as time.

Makes one wonder,

who we serve,

and who,

who really, 

was God?

Are we replicants of some lost race

lost in time

survived by 

other replicants 

sent to wander the endless void,

and protect a memory 

of a race,

doomed,

somewhere in time ,

and space.

Perhaps.

And is this rock

upon which we live

simply a testament 

to those that once lived, 

a mirror,

that says,

“We were here?”

EAS 2019