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)
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
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
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
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 Herriot’s Cat Stories
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
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
