Above the Fray

 

Walking in warm sunshine,

ice mushed beneath my boots,

thin coatings of muddy water shine the path to Willow Island, where a feeding frenzy of emerald headed ducks and their hens fend off much taller Canada geese, while pigeons watch from above the fray.

“Birds are, perhaps, the most eloquent expression of reality.”

~ Roger Tory Peterson

(1908 - 1996)

Nature of Muse

My muse in heart or mind

is without personality, 

unless, unbeknownst to me, 

a ghostly persona hovers over me.

It is words ~

Words that roll out like

multi-coloured berries or beads

dark and shadowy or

full of glitter and joy

some discarded as too pedantic and soulless

Words that practically beg 

to be laid down

like tracks guiding trains

through tall trees and around snowy mountains,

up into desert high, arid mesas,

or to stretch and roll across vast prairie landscapes

My muse may be story.

Stories that spill out

over coffee and conversation 

at kitchen tables or coffee shops,

over the airwaves in sound or pictures,

crackling from newsprint or the pages of a novel,

photographs old or new

intrigue and feed my muse.

I could also say ~

my muse is the architecture of story 

that fascinates and maybe it is ~

the beautiful and elegant manner that

tellers and writers of story craft and weave words 

to lift me up, or to reveal the soul of reality.

Oh, and the sky.

My muse takes flight into 

the streaming clouds with geese,

black birds and meadow larks

while the sun's rays spread

brilliance throughout the day,

colours as evening wanes

letting the moon and stars

shine silver light across the velvet sky.

“To be a muse is to be a wonder in someone else’s eyes, flaws and all.”

~ L.H.Cosway, Still Life with Strings

 

A Walk in the Park ~ 1

I fell ~ 

Not so I couldn't get up, but

into the well of old thinking,

stereotypes and beliefs.

(there’s that word ‘old!)

‘Old’:

Signals not just 

A number of years, but

the inevitability of decrepitude!

When joints sing their scratchy, whine-y annoying 

songs of pain and angst I cry~

“But I can’t move my furniture by myself 

when I want to rearrange my living room?!”

When muscles scream and cry their warnings ~ 

“Don’t pick up anything heavier than five pounds.”

“Damn. That means my great-granddaughter and my cat! 

And what about my cast iron Dutch oven?”

When a walk in the park is 

not just a walk in the park 

but an exercise regimen - 

I have to do something!

Oh, sure, some people say a birthday is just a number,

But I say ~

that number comes with false advertising.

I am NOT decrepit

~ a couple of minor issues may have suggested

it’s time to fall into that uncomfortable place, 

to give up,

accept my place in the world of stereotypes.

You know,

my seven plus decades of life and living are just that:

life and living 

through all the bumps and bruises 

that came along with each passing year

complete with many sunrises and sunsets.

Can I still bake a cake or cook what I want?

can I still eat chocolate or steak?

(the steak does needs a bit more chewing now 

but chocolate comes in many delicious forms.)

old and decrepit? - I think not.

“Did you seriously just stamp your foot? 

I thought girls only did that on TV.”

~ Stephanie Meyer, Eclipse

 

Chapter Two, Episode Twelve - Educated - Situationally Theirs

Review, Revision, Edit and Update:

Missing last weeks review, I'm back at it today. The revisions I have made are changes in wording and are scattered throughout this episode. 

One major concern when writing an adolescent voice and grammar is that what I write is believable. Knowing few teenagers anymore, I don't know their particular lingo. Some of the wording changes I made are in the story Joey wrote.

Educated

Sixteen year old Joey Tucker was out of school ~ again. Only a few days before Christmas holidays were to begin, the government had closed the schools. An announcement had gone out via email that this was due to the recent increase of Covid cases. Reported in the news: “The Public Health officer will make another decision at the end of the three weeks.” His parents had on-line work to keep them occupied. None of his aunts, uncles, or cousins would be here for Christmas. He had done the homework he had been given. He had to stay in his family ‘bubble’ unless absolutely necessary. Flopping on his bed with his English poetry text, he tried to read. As much as he liked poetry, he couldn’t concentrate. Rain tapped against his window. “I wonder if we’ll get snow at Christmas.” Joey dozed off, his book dropped on the floor, forgotten.

Waking with a start when his email pinged, he scrambled for his device. Must be Steven. Joey rolled off his bed, excited to talk to his friend. They couldn’t hang out together, but at least they had video chats. It’s not Steven. Martha? He read further:

“Hello Joey, How are you? I hope all of your family are well. We heard that the schools are closed again and I wondered if you are able to come out to the Estate. Cook and I have taken care of any cleaning, but Samuel brought a tall spruce tree into the kitchen. We need it decorated. I know the restrictions are pretty tight right now, but the arrangements I’ve made with the rest of the staff should make it all right. All the decorations will be set out. Cook will have gone home, James and I will be back at our cottage. Samuel stays isolated all the time, never goes out so he’ll be in the kitchen with you so you’re not alone. Please speak with your parents to get their approval and get back to me. Thank you Joey, Martha.

P.S. You can bring your story with you. Just slip it under my door and I’ll get it to the Storyteller. M

~~~~~

“Damn! I forgot! I’ll go talk to mom and dad first.” Joey raced down the stairs. “Mom!” “Dad!”

“What is it, son!” His mother came out of her office “You sound so…so… excited? worried?” 

His father called from the kitchen “Come in here, coffee’s on so you can tell us what has you so worked up.” 

Joey told them about Martha’s email. They agreed that it would be alright for him to go out, not to forget his mask and make sure to wash his hands when he got there and before he left. The last instructions were from his mother, while his father smiled and turned aside. 

“Thanks, mom and dad. I have to email Martha….and I’ve got some writing to do.” Joey replied to Martha that he could come out the next day, and then sat at his desk to write.

~~~~~

Martha tells me it’s my turn to write you my story. I’m only sixteen, so I don’t have much to tell you. I’m an ordinary teenager who has had more time off from school than I ever could have imagined. I always thought that would be great, but it hasn’t been. It’s been boring. I often think of last summer when I got the job out at the Beaufort Estate. Schools were closed then, as they are now. I tried to get part time work mowing lawns or just handy work, but that was drying up. Steven (he’s my best friend) lives next door and we would sit on our driveways and jam. I play guitar and Steven, the keyboard. But even that got boring after awhile. So when Brigitte Smithson told me of a job opportunity out at the Beaufort Estate - a place I’d ridden my bike past many times - I jumped at it. It started out being just cleaning the top floor of the house, which was really not very intellectually stimulating but at least I had a great bike ride there and back. But the little ghost girl, whose name is Sarah, hundreds of years old, really threw me. I was ready to quit more than once because of her. Talking with Martha and Cook, I found out she had a crush on me. Freaky, right? They told me that I should get her doing all the heavy lifting and high dusting. She got bored with me and disappeared through a wall and I never saw her again. Then I met Samuel Forrester. That made my time out at the Estate very interesting. In school, I’ve had two interests. English Poetry and Biology. In our Biology classes, we discuss a lot of Environmental issues. That is really the part that fascinates me. Samuel Forrester, the gardener and yardman out at the Estate - you may already have his story - tells me about environmental issues in a very different way. From the ground up - literally. He has shown me that our food can be grown and harvested without all the insecticides and pesticides. It’s more work, but encourages the growth not just of the vegetables, but the helpful life in the soil and in the air. He talks of the birds and the trees as though they were more than just living beings, but living beings that are part of holding us all together. So my story will just get better with all that wisdom and humour Samuel has shared with me. Martha has asked that I come to the Estate to decorate their Christmas tree. I’ll get an opportunity to talk with Samuel again when I’m out at the Estate decorating the tree he brought in. I’ll have to ask him about the environmental value of cutting down a fully grown tree just for the kitchen. He’ll probably get quite a laugh out of that. I’ll leave this story with Martha. She’ll get it to you.

Joey re read his story. Corrected a few misspellings, folded it, put it in an envelope and propped it up against his computer. He put his head phones on and punched in Steven’s number. They talked for the next two hours all about the Estate, Sarah the ghost girl and picking apples in the summer. 

“I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.”

~ Mark Twain

A Cat's Tale - Just Chillin’

No one can see me

~ the advantage of

being a black cat

Curled up on a cushion

under the table top

just awake from a nap.

No worries about

food or water.

She takes care of that.

But she doesn’t let me outside!

So confusing.

I ask politely ~ usually.

So here I am

Just chillin’

I’m comfortable.

“Cats are connoisseurs of comfort.”

~ James Herriot, James Herroit’s Cat Stories

 

An Invitation

An invitation 

from my sister

pops up on my screen

an evening of poetry

in Edmonton

The Stroll of Poets

strolled through 

ideas

images

humour

poignancy

hope

words danced, floated and Zoomed

like glittering snowflakes

on an Edmonton winter day.

“Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, 

with a dash of the dictionary.”

~ Khalil Gibran

 

Wind Drift

Fine flakes of snow

lift and drift

across roadways and highways

piles and pillows against 

fences, buildings, 

even blades of grass

twirling in glittering eddies

sculpting prairie winter waves 

~ when the wind pauses to rest

whitening fog fills the void of

the wind drift.

“Nature is full of genius, full of divinity, so that 

not a snowflake escapes its fashioning hand.”

~ Henry David Thoreau