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Sunday, 1 April 2012

Movement

Being alive means undergoing change. We grow, physically, spiritually and mentally. We move from one place to another, from one level of understanding and consciousness, to a higher level, a deeper understanding. We perceive at greater depths. Back in early 2009 the Writer's Circle looked at the topic of 'arrival'. Here are some of those efforts:




Learn to Move From One Experience to Another.


At the end of the day I sit and look with wonder at the feast that lies before me on the coffee table. Not an edible feast, but a visual one, of treasures from the shore, gifts from the ocean, carried here on crests of surging foam and spume, blown by the North West winds of winter.

Fragile and colourful, bereft now of the occupants who worked so laboriously to create them. But beautiful still, they live on, and so I look at them and thoughts rush in. Of the hand who fashioned the beauty that surrounds us everywhere if we see, not only with our eyes, but our heart’s also.

I stand in awe as I hold these treasures in my hand daily, I carry them home gently, to enjoy for years to come.

A perfect Sunrise Telling, two (halves) yet one, each half perfection, joined by so small yet so strong a link. Streaks of palest yellow, pink of sunrise, sunset too, and white – separate but each (half) an integral part of the whole. All unique, individual beauty, part of all there is, today, yesterday and tomorrow.

I stood on the small rocky beach in town this evening, expecting, looking for something of beauty – and there, right before me, a wave deposited a wonderful Murex brown glossy fluted edge, so perfect, a safe haven for the little creature who once lived within.

My thoughts are – a safe haven is fine, but it leads to a dull existence, a life without change, a life of stunted impossible growth – no newness, only routine. I believe we should all live, accepting change, taking risks, and learning in the process, from our mistakes. Live with a passion for learning and change.

My thoughts skip as a stone across the calm water to continuity in all – the sun that rises and sets each day, the moon in its cycles. Continuity of friendships, of love always, these are forever – we are eternity.

By: Brenda Quin




We Arrive Without Seeing


I know to be careful…told too many times.
From the eager adolescent, through the wandering years and
to the onslaught of age.

We know it, we hear it,
forward, side, behind and again;
repetitive, monotonous, boring.

Is it looking or seeing?
I always look.
But what of the obvious, the clearest and important things?
My mind is elsewhere, racing ahead;
making connections I have not yet seen.

Today, right now, the lines are connected.

The 2 by 4’s just off the side,
standing proud, naked against the bright sky.
Coming close, they shift and step out as if to surprise;
 I count them, too many.
All I see is symmetry and equal spaces.

Eyes drop back down.
Line, space, line, space…mesmerising.
How many are there? How long are they? Do I count the lines or the spaces?
Too late, too fast to judge.

A blank canvas stretches out in front,
shadows cast from the side;
abstract sketch or an irregular heartbeat?
Again, something is there.

I should be seeing, but find myself pulled away;
that roofline with the sharp pencil points,
children on bikes meandering…blindly unaware;
stray dogs praying, following their noses.

A colour, a noise, a thought, all enough to break my glaze.
Knocked back to reality and a moment’s sudden dread…
Arriving, not knowing what is missed.
We know to look, but forget to see.


It happens, we reluctantly accept it.
Subconscious or instinct; it’s all right then!
And mostly it’s fine…yet…
a spin of the wheel.

And today,
the dog caught a scent on the air…a sudden change in direction…
A stone is sent spiralling, its angle awkward.
An old man catches the curb, twists and stumbles.
The child on the bike tries ‘no hands’.

This world has just changed…
as the larger continues on its own path;
the games or roulette are afoot.

 Time is a series of moments,
each moment a second…
all are precious.

A new reality inevitable,
maybe not for me, or you…but someone.
The price of not seeing…
another moment in time.

By: J. Mark Bailey











Autumn Rumblings

I

Summer on
Price Edward Island
ends
abruptly.
A few cold nights
shake out
the blankets.
Summer warmth
sneaks back
for short daytime
interludes.
At night,
frost claims the
windshields
of dormant vehicles.
A deep quietness
settles.
Mornings,
a tinge
of autumn
stands defiantly
in the air,
circling a mug of
steaming
fresh brewed coffee
in the hand
of the observer.


II

The fields
have turned
hard and metallic.
Their copper tones
signal
the coming of winter.
Colours clash with
the evergreen mantle
of the woods.
Birch and maple
trees splash
vibrant leaves
across neighbourhood
yards,
and throughout
countryside lanes.


III

Driving the highway,
the land is alive
with activity,
and feeding.
Fat geese
lift suddenly from fields
in wedges of winged
formation.
Startled,
the sight stirs
ancient instinct
within.
Eyes transfix
in awe.
The majesty
of the creation:
cold blood
spills across
my spine,
hairs rise
in salute.


IV

Soon
bare trees
with outstretched arms
will call to the
cold moon,
bereaved at the loss
of flowering youth…
I will tramp the woods
searching out the
partridge, asking
companionship
in the fading light
of an early October
afternoon.
The smoke will flatten
as it rises from
fireplace chimneys.
Lingering in the air,
scented memories
of bubbling open vats
of Maple syrup
in the springtime
sugar woods.


V

The squirrels and
chipmunks
have ceased their
incessant raids,
to lay store
provisions for the
interminable winter months,
the fallen acorns and
chestnuts
of my front yard.


VI

The vegetable garden
is long ploughed under.
Leaf, moss
and twig debris,
removed from eave
gutters…
the wood shed
swollen
in anticipation
of definitive purpose.


VII

I wait quietly
for the return
of winter’s
descent;
the long settling.
An ache inside,
hunger building;
and Autumn rumblings
erupting
in nature.


By: H.M. Peter Westin



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