Acts of Kindness
I have to admit
It was kind of strange
for me to be hunched
at the edge of the lawn
like that…
On a Wednesday morning
After a Tuesday night-before
In a neighbourhood where
every sunrise-after
lulls the Land of Suburbanites
Into their becalmed state
Of being.
Of wakefulness.
It should not have surprised me
when a Good Samaritan approached
His footsteps cause for alarm!
I mean, what could I say?
“Just a minor heart attack.
The merest constriction of the chest
A barely measurable acceleration of pulse…
No need for an ambulance.”
What other excuse could I invent
that wouldn’t besmirch my reputation?
Why else would I be staring
into the dirt, beneath the parted blades of grass
As if I could see something down there,
couched in layers of smothering soil
waiting to be discovered by archeology
Even through the final act…
The ceaseless progress of decomposition.
“You okay?” he said
Summoning me to the brink…
To my moment of truth…
I could not tell a lie… could I?
Couldn’t make up something
that would make sense
of my peculiarities.
“Just watching a worm,” I said.
“Burrowing into the earth…”
“Found him on the sidewalk…”
“They always do that when it rains…”
He looked at me as if
I might have been another species…
Or the long-lost member of an extinct tribe.
“Feast for the robins.” he might have hinted.
And who was I to argue?
Playing at God,
Absolving myself
of the inevitable sins
we’re committed to
By being alive?
CraigSpenceWriter.ca
Imagine yourself a tiny flea
Upon an elephant’s back,
Where every gaping chasm
Is really just a crack,
A crooked little wrinkle
In Behemoth’s leather skin,
Careful how you tread; you might fall in.
Or maybe you’re an atom
Inside a nuclear jar
Your nearest next door neighbour
Might just as well be a star
Because a fraction of a fraction of a fraction
Of an inch
Is a measure beyond measure…
And yet, it’s not a pinch.
It's a finger on a button,
and a mind that will not flinch.
We’re tinier than tiny
In this greater scheme of things
Fodder for the canons
In those places anthems ring…
But stop and think a moment,
If you only will,
There’s space between the drumbeats
To shout, why must we kill!
(Written for the tens of thousands who have died
and the untold thousands yet to die
in Russian President Vladimir Putin's war)
Had a little fun after discovering our jam jar more than half empty the other day!
My good friend Zeno says to me
you can have your jam for free,
nothing’s lost except by halves
the future never meets the past.
So in I dipped my eager blade
to test this wondrous promise made.
I scraped about the empty glass
for evidence of my repast.
Alas, the jar seemed quite remiss
and jam on toast was sorely missed.
Well, never mind, dear Zeno said.
At least you have your daily bread
and I assure you not a bite
will frustrate future appetite.
For once you’ve swallowed half that loaf
half remains, and half’s the most.
Munch and chew to hearts content,
the boundless half remains unspent.
Alas, I’m left with meagre crumbs
and a whole whose parts are not its sum.
CraigSpenceWriter.ca
Sound carries meaning.
A prayer carries meaning.
The words Happy Birthday carry meaning.
Listening to Lama Pasang chant Tibetan sutras
For my brother, Stewart, my thoughts and wishes
Expand across a continent, over mountains
Flowing into rivers and oceans,
And farther yet, on to distant shores.
They expand to encompass as much as I
Am capable of.
For Stewart to have long life… and happiness
I must think of
His partner Miao
She must be happy, too.
And his children, Sky, Joel, Sarah, Jesse, Josh, DarDar
And his siblings Lynda, Stephen and myself.
And all his many friends.
Then my reach must overflow, encircling
The families, friends and relations
Of all his family, friends and relations.
And beyond yet again, the chant reverberates
A rejuvenating echo
Heard by the children of his children’s’ children
And the families of families’ families
And the relations of relations’ relations
And the friends of friends’ friends.
And beyond again…
In all places
Children
Families
Relations
And Friends
May dwell.
It must rustle the leaves of distant forests
Live in the songs of heavenly birds
Survive the shimmer and flash of fins
Arise in the twitching of earthly noses.
It’s a chant that goes beyond
Anything I am capable of…
Except Hope…
Always Hope…
Wishing long life and happiness, Brother
To you and all our world!
Luv Craig& Diana & Family
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Mystic Beach – January 2022
Until now Mystic Beach has been a name on a map that conjured images: glittering vistas, sea breezes, the white manes of a thunderous surf.
The young woman we met at the trail head told us the hike was not too difficult. Some ups and downs, exposed roots, puddles and mud, nothing worth a fret. She and her frisking, mini Labradoodle have not yet conceived the true meaning of fate.
We wondered how it must have been for First Peoples to traverse this place, before the scrape of human infrastructure made it easy for our invasive species to cross its gullies, breach clinging underbrush, reach sacred strands?
Down, down, down we went. Our deepening descent staked by snaking steps and ramps, which would have to be retraced in an uphill climb… when we’d be left behind by younger sprites, sprinting by in the fast lane, leaving us to complain about weary muscles, creaking bones.
Down, down, down into our vision we homed, seeking that place that astounded, where senses are confounded, and the promise of wonder becomes a something known.
And, Oh! What a sight it was. Not the Vatican, or Taj Mahal, or an interminable, stone-faced wall marking boundaries between us and them, but a thrashing, crashing place where ocean, land and sky converge, making sense of an inner urge.
As always, wherever human feet have trod, there’s monuments to past descents, marking the supposed extent of human mind. Mystic Beach? There’s a thousand of its kind, a thousand more inspired vistas to be seen. But none that I have dreamed.
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This morning’s sun dawned on me, a bleed of light in the ambient air, impressing with its metaphor of glory.
And I asked: Is this the shining way… the path?
And I asked: How many dawns have bathed me in their blare of blinding light?
And I say: Dawning’s beyond conception.
I don’t remember my mother’s face, from that first day she held me swaddled in her arms. My earliest memories are assembled pastiches retrieved from jumbled collections, fading images in forgotten albums... Brothers, sister and me in defining moments picked from the scrabble of growing up... Growing old.
And I ask: Is this the past I wanted? My only possible inception?
And I say: Their love was good enough to endure a lifetime.
And what of my own sons, misunderstanding, misunderstood, good as me at finding fault? Is their's a future untold, stories in the making, or a history already that I’m to blame for?
In the midst of this day’s dawning a flight of geese honked and gabbled up our street; our suspiring phalanx of cedars, arbutus, and Douglas fir stood firm, and jagged against the sky; a frog croaked in the yard, awakening my admiration for ants, and beetles… and lowly worms.
My morning mantra harkened, urged me to complete The Circle…
‘We are defined by what we are-not As much as by Who we think we-are,’
The moment I sense my self I disappear, become part of the very nature that shapes my solitude... my joy, my fear.
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You've heard about the water wheel, has Chemainus in such a flap? Well, now the truth has been revealed... what turns its forward back.
The culprit's name is Flibber T, that's Flibber T Gibbet for long. He's the one you're gonna see if you listen to this, my song.
Oh Flibber T, Oh Flibber T You're such a curious fellow, your cap's as red as red can be and your shoes are bright, bright yellow
Flibber T is a naughty elf, as naughty as naughty can be. Never thinks of anyone else, out on his troubling sprees.
Turning clockwise the other way for unbelieving eyes is just the sort of trick he'll play to shock, and tease, and surprise.
But when it comes to elfish kind you've gotta believe to see you have to alter your state of mind with the likes of Flibber T.
Oh Flibber T, Oh Flibber T You're such a curious fellow, your cap's as red as red can be and your shoes are bright, bright yellow
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We didn’t realize it until we were returning from our Miracle Beach foray that dogs are not allowed down to the water’s edge. Some signs are meant to be obeyed, some you just gotta wonder about, and do what you think is right.
My impressions coalesced into a poem…
Miracle Beach - rites of passage
We broke a few rules, trudging the arced shore beyond the subtle sign, deleting dogs of any sort. Sophie’s nose came with us, snuffling things out, we might otherwise have missed, being merely human.
Death, of course, is ever present, a sickly sweet scent on salted air, a peeling back, layer by fibrous layer, of muscle and bone, the tendons and ribs that hold us in, bind us to joys, hopes and sorrows like the taught stings of a harp.
Impressions criss-crossed our wondering ways, sometimes the past tenses of others, or our own, at all times intriguing, the comings and goings, heres and theres of life in the making, out on the substrate sand.
Where it dawns on us, that all’s touch after all, the tingle of light in our eyes, the rush of the sea, its thrashing echoed in inner ears, the tongue’s excitement at what once was… it's all touch, vibrant on the boundaries of who and what we’ve become.
A convergence, really… at the point of being… if there is one?
I look to where my sky touches the ocean, land curves beyond my horizon, sound reveals its silence… and discover it’s all part of me, particles of who I am in this exact, eternal instant.
As for meaning? We’re ever on the lookout, gathering what we can from the clatter and clutter of worlds that engulf our common senses, defy purpose… and leave me asking: What remains of all this, once I am gone?
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I’m not a poet, but in this instance, a novelist composing a sonnet, taken from the mind of the protagonist in my current work-in-progress, The Mural Gazer. Buddy Hope has decided to take the final, life defining step of ending his life. But he’s not approaching this ‘task’ from the usual anguished trajectory. Instead, he sees it as a logical conclusion, a job that needs doing, almost as if it were a household chore.
I’ve been trying to figure out how he came to this conclusion. Many of us have contemplated the act of suicide, not as something we would actually do, but as a way of getting underneath, or behind, or into the meaning of life. That’s not where Buddy’s head is at. He’s simply tired, and doesn’t look forward to another thirty or so years dragging himself through a world that has no purpose, no sustainable joy.
To paraphrase someone very close to me, who chose Medical Assistance In Dying (MAID), Buddy isn’t living anymore, he’s just existing. He’s depressed at the prospect of carrying on, when every moment takes him farther from that time in life when he believed in his purpose as a father, a reporter, an armchair philosopher.
The question hanging in the air at this point in the novel is: Will Buddy’s recollections and contemplation heading toward his final act change his mind. He’s composed his parting letter, and left it on the dining nook table of the camper he’s been living in as his home-away-from-estranged-home. He’s saying his veiled goodbyes to family and friends, and is about to drive out of cell range to his chosen spot. Nothing he’s considered so far has dissuaded him from deploying EEK, his Emergency Exit Kit.
What Sense Reveals isn’t written to a particular person; it’s written to all the people he has known and loved.
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Poetry, of course, stands on its own. In fact, one of the joys of all literature is the creative response it evokes in the minds of readers. Sharing our responsive impressions is now possible, and this is mine to Rosemary Ratcliff’s poem Our Changing World.
This video was produced for the Chemainus Valley Cultural Arts Society, where I volunteer as a communications guy. Collaborations like this help bring the arts in general, and literature in particular, to a larger audience.
If you want to simply hear her poem, and let its language activate your own interpretations and visions, hit the play arrow, and close your eyes! Then share what it evokes for you in a comment!
