NaturesOde

  Water one Lake's end  To other Warbling, middle-night tune. Stars up so clear in the Northland. Serenade, haunting, the Loon. His water's lap Neath the Dipper. His is the brisk smell of pine Seems he calls us To rare history. Portage and wandering fine. Might he my presence Find pleasant Might he a brotherhood raise. Lucky am I on The rock, marsh and lichen Lucky these June holidays.

  A tent city erected of necessity in the heart of Kitchener. Homeless folks. I visited by the tracks early Saturday May 28th. Found all in order and dry and needing understanding. One man willing to engage, after "sweeping" area around his "home". Dramatic changes for him through COVID. Al from Cambridge wants Kitchener to know of his heartfelt thanks. Others also joined in, somewhat reserved. Talked together for twenty minutes. Full and friendly eye contact. Nothing risky or missing meaningful exchange.

  Late September. Half hour after sunrise. Slightly cool. Cries of crows and gray jays animate the evergreen stand. Only about seven other cars in the parking lot. One of Canada’s singular beauties almost entirely to ourselves. No deck full of chattering tourists. No lake full of eager canoeists. Unrushed. Mount Victoria is capped with a slight suggestion of pink. Unique turquoise waters are motionless. Stands of conifer troop up the ascent with no realistic gauge of their size or number. The vivid colour is entirely unaltered, unfiltered. The Canadian Rocky Mountains gave us an emphatic impression of the vastness, diversity and beauty of our country. At other points Hilary and I would say hello to mountain goat, black bear and Wapiti (elk). No bison…they are in southwest Saskatchewan. The elk story was particularly exciting in a meadow just east of Jasper. A big male and his harem and kids were being bothered by a bunch of photographers out of their cars. He gave that odd bugle call o

  Busking for me Touching families and kids Who had come out of COVID And no longer were hid. Smerf-like masks in the drawer And engagement's the thing Yeah, community does this So together let's sing. With some shiny sweet harps Music by tulip beds And the sun kept us sharp Summer full steam ahead. in Victoria Park, Kitchener ON

The mother has two kids enrolled in a Christian school. In the playground after hours she observes a big kid. A very big kid. A very big black kid. He appears hauntingly sad and quiet. On another occasion the family offer “Big Mike” a ride home which he refuses awkwardly. Mother digs further and confirms that the boy has no home. Picking up discarded food after the school basketball game. Staying overnight at the laundromat to wash his too few clothes. Disturbed by this story she offers to take “Michael” home for a stay. This kindness turns into a longer stay and the entire family warms up to the possibility of taking legal guardianship for this sweet-hearted giant who has fallen through the cracks. A mother of too many partners, too many children, too much substance abuse is sought out from the boy’s past. She is too wounded, too poor, too ashamed to countenance a reunion with her son.  The way is cleared for a new family connection. New clothes. Flashy ones. New bedroom. New hope at

  Like a Cathedral This clean, muffled wood Birding and tracking Most often is good. Not daring to speak now My voice a trespass. But whitethroats and bluejays Perhaps let me pass. I know there is custom Some reverence to get And sunlight now dappled Through branches inlet. Back at the shoreline The boat dragged up high Its noise a faint memory As Bay winds draw nigh. I know that First Nations Claim first on this lot. But kindly through nature All this, have I got. A long weekend's voyage Through time and through scent. No other place worthy Of footsteps here spent. Here passed in such hours As deer might look on. The rush of the City Forgotten and gone. cottage road near Bracebridge ON

  Yep he’s down there for you Scotty Just hold still Wait for his pull And the minnow gives some action To the fish all beautiful. At this spot some Perch and whitefish Eating’s good You wait and see. Take your chair Enjoy the sunshine. Time is ours so Talk to me. Old Jeff here Visits often And some other fishing holes. Sharing time and Pleasant chances In this world of baits and poles. And honest, friendly talk.

  Camera Work Booklet (encouraging, newcomer stuff) Share this: Press This Twitter Facebook

  Yep, they got me! Year of our Lord Two thousand twelve. Measured. Catalogued. Given the Latin handle.* Lecture forthcoming. Teensy jungle world All agreen with the wet Of Equator’s moods. Those people and their Great fuss! Caterpillar, salamander And horned beetle My dear neighbours For years. Long families of them! But the homo sapiens. So egocentric. Pity, I could take them To  stanger critters still. Really. But I won’t show them All of my colours. Nope they really Don't know much. We have all been getting Along quite famously. (*Brookesia micra, Madagascar, February 2012)

  He took the chainsaw Lopped off chunks inappropriate. Sad to lose the tree From the front yard. Years as the green retreat For birds, their antics and song. But with the aging and decay It was now the woodpile Or something strangely beautiful. Unusually small buzzing implement. Big strokes first For the required dimensions, shape. Neighbours wondered at the event. Odd spacing at the trunk Became a bent leg As if resting. Upward right angled limb Becoming arm cocked And wiping off brow’s sweat. Features of the trunk converted Into jack shirt, jeans, wide belt And face of chiseled features. With a gentle smile. Precise detail in that face. Man of work, taking needed rest. Reminder of former times and ways. A real shovel held upright In the other hand. All this in a three day transformation. Sort of like Easter Hope. And destined to last. As a timeless thing. (one of the many figures proudly offered in Orangeville ON.)

  I have placed canoe a-luffing And the night sky twinkles rare With delicious pine aroma Saturating evening's air. And the paddling is finished Meditation is the thing. While the loons from one Lake's end to other Both so plaintively must sing. This my Northland with its freedom This my wonder filled with joy. And such thoughts delight First Nations, timeless Woodlore to employ. Only fortnight on the blue lakes Only bonfires on the stone. Hatchet, lantern, bucket, blankets Only furnishings now known. But I'm glad for this Homecoming. Terns and owls sing my health And the Bay, the Bay My blessing. And the greatest sort of wealth.

I have always had a fascination for the output of poet Robert Service (1874-1958). Born near Glasgow, he caught the wanderlust for the New World. Arriving in British Columbia he thought of himself as a “cowboy”, but soon was near destitution with slim prospects for employment. He worked his way down the west coast to California and back to B.C.- handyman, ditch digger, street beggar, boarder in a brothel, farm labourer, post office clerk. The dreamer had encountered some grim realities full on. An advertisement came to his attention for a clerk’s position with Canadian Bank of Commerce. The chance to be a gentleman. Positions at Victoria, Kamloops, Whitehorse and Dawson in the early 1900’s. Interesting young bachelor. Dances and dinners to brighten the gloom of the northern winters. Invitations to recite interesting pieces or to render a tune on the piano at the community hall. In his memoirs and ultimate autobiography Service would confess his total lack of ambition and mediocre perfo

  The balcony Morning quite coolish But bracing to One bleary eyed. Sonatas beneath  In the tree line. These neighbours are birds I don't mind. They draw me to day's  New adventures. They feed where the Feeding is good. The worries They leave in the Darkness The morning brings Life, as it should. Those cardinals Robins and finches. The doves mourn And geese honk their joy. Good lessons for Tired homo sapiens. Good vigour for Us to employ.

May, and they come From Maryland Put out some orange  And wait. Cliffs of Lake Erie Bid welcome. To what might Their brilliance equate. Our Robins pale In the assessment. But singing is where they excel. The orioles blaze In their orange-ness They're tourists who fit very well.

 

Yes, Dad, I will follow you. Away from nest, Away from harm. Doing what you Always do. Drawing fire With false alarm. Chattering ill To catch my ear. Shivering wing, And staggering rear. Feigning weakness At the threat. (Beast of prey Or fowler’s net.} Yards and yards From panting young. Comically, You lead along. ‘Til the risk Is neutralized. Then the burst, The wing, the skies. (One of the unsung Fathers: When I worked at a steel fabrication plant, the killdeers were plentiful in the yard. The fathers would often put on the diversion show in front of me, even as I operated a large and noisy Lift Truck. Some gumption! Their distinctive cry a delight...killdeer, killdeer.)