Canadada

Power boats momentarily meet on these open empty waters
Bow to stern bumping & nuzzling like frisky thorough-bred dogs
Confident couples banter back and forth, drinks in hand
As waters lap the clicking hulls and the hot hot hot sun melts all

Bikini boobs punctuate this festive satyr-like greeting
Perfect baubles gently sway back and forth above polished decks
At high noon, the Sun God rules. Hairy chests slow sweat
Satyrs, old goats, young toy boys, sirens, swans: all simmer

These sun bronzed bods worship and adore each other
Admiring physique, toned abs, stomachs sleek with neat feet
Lounging languid, lovely & poised, pleasure seeking
Men and women, built beautiful and bold: they enjoy

Then hand hard to throttle, these sleek boats move off
Powering through those empty open waters away
Their preened pagan cargo self-satisfied in comfort supreme
They push thru those open empty waves, away, away, away

northern lights zing-zang
like a zillion clinking bells

festive fire flies
feisty fairies - all

they shatter
my peaceful lunar hum merry
from a blue green
to a raw umber orange

touching warm mud grass
with my mush nose

I lift my heavy head, arch my neck
and listen
for you

I nest in the North
I face the South
my left eye on the dawn
my right on the dusk

I blink sometimes
- not often
just to keep those damn flies off

blinking now -
I wait for you

cariboo

Found this story recently in my ‘writer’s box”, it is about 20 years old. Gave it a quick buff, and here you go …

It began at the International Readers Series at the Toronto Harbourfront. The topic for the evening was ‘Landscape and how it affects the Minds of Writers’. I sat, patiently listening, waiting for something conclusive. A number of different nationalities were represented at this conference: their common literary language, English. The tonal range extended from the Australian outback to the learned tones of Oxbridge. Languid American southern drawls were contrasted to the airless high pitch of the Pakistani table-lands. I noticed I was becoming annoyed by all the sweeping hand movement, smiles and gentle ‘knowing’ genuflections as the words ‘spirituality’, ‘imagination’ and ‘alienation’ cropped up like gold nuggets panned straight from the McKenzie Delta.

I started to tap my foot. And then I began gazing around. I had had just about enough. Especially when Edna O’Brien started to scratch at her throat and do this wild impersonation of a sputtering volcano. “Passion truly lies dormant in Ireland,” she had said. No wonder, I thought, just look at that ragamuffin woman. Graham Swift, of Britain, sat quietly. He seemed the only one to understand the idiocy of tackling this immense topic within the limited half-hour format.

I left with my friends, Dorothy and Richard, also producers at the CBC. We slipped out before the lecture was finished. We meandered to the lakeside pub, blubbering on about the discussion. As we sidled up to the bar we were noticed by a group of well-tailored professionals out on the town. They eavesdropped into our conversation, and started to chip in their two cents. Engineers from Glasgow, they were in Toronto for contract talks with the waterfront development corporation. They were here to build our causeways and bridges. I listened to their hearty Scottish brogues, and thought what a contrast they were to our flat accents. We shared a beer. Then I excused myself. I had to get to another function.

I had been invited to a cocktail party to celebrate the engagement of a fiendish friend of mine to a recently new acquaintance of hers. It, the party, was in Forest Hill. (Forest Hell to those who are cute communists.) I arrived fashionably late: as expected, I suppose. I knew I was a bit tanked as I walked in the door. I came busting in wearing black boots and black jeans, not the requisite silk and pearls. O’ well. I mean if it’s fascist role models they want, let’s get to the party. The mother of the bride-to-be met me at the door - and she dutifully extended her arms in a mock embrace of familiarity. I noticed that her arms were stiff and ramrod straight - there was no warmth whatsoever in her clumsy lobster hug. So, yes, you might say the atmosphere was a bit superficial, masqueraded as it was in false politesse. All were a tad edgy.

I went to the bar at the back of the library. And naturally that’s where the heavies were hanging out. Jill, the girl-to-marry, was there, as was the host, chairman of Multi Uno Pipelines, Mr. William F.P.Walder, or ‘Harvey’ as he was called by his beloved son. (Apparently he cheats on the golf course. His strokes ‘disappear’.) Anyway, I settled into the bar and asked the bartender to pour me another drink. While he was doing so, I idly scanned the library. Jill approached and we looked at the titles together. Trudeau’s biography by C.D.Howe, political commentary and massive war books: the do’s and don’ts. We small-talked about her upcoming marriage. She was excited to be moving to India.

She had met Abbu while working for the United Nations in New York. He had been a student of economics at Columbia. They had dated for a three weeks then he had asked her to marry him one night while crossing the street on the upper west side.

She took me over to where he sat quietly and introduced me. He rose and greeted me with a weak smile and an even weaker handshake. Jill left us alone to ‘chat’.

Abbu was from Delhi and he told me within the first three minutes of our conversation that he was to inherit a sizeable fortune from his family. He talked a lot. I listened. He spoke of sustainable development. The trendy buzz word of global economics. Within 20 minutes we had covered the gambit. I had got his number, and it was clear that he wanted to sack me.

My mind went to the language of landscape. My body, the terrain, his body, another continent. This man standing opposite me pulled out 2000 years of Indian history and spoke of the ignorance of the Canadian ‘migrant’ populace with our meager 200-year-old landed legacy. As I looked into those deep brown eyes I did not find anything heroic, ancient or sexy there, I only saw another snotty spoilt opportunistic rich kid. His eyes were cold. I soon left him and forayed further afield through the cocktail party to the make-shift buffet table. There I met a drunken British lawyer who claimed he had negotiated half the waterfront development deals for Toronto. After some chestnut canapés, I returned to the bar.

The boys had settled down in the library to watch the baseball game. Incredibly slow-moving it was too. Slow ball. I dropped some joke about how opportune it would be to have a zippy hard ball commercial just about now. Faces turned, who is she? Mr. Walder snorted his disapproval at the disturbance and I fell back into muted silence sipping my drink. Be quiet woman. It did occur to me that what that old fud probably needed at this point in his life was a good loving f*ck to loosen that bitter, hostile edge. My mind wandered. What has his wife had over him for the past 20 odd years? Why is he such a cranky old bastard? Men are not born bastards. I continued to wander around.

Upstairs was the master bedroom. A large domed room done in navy blue and beige plaid. A large attractive conté drawing of a female nude spread-eagle hung over the bed. The room had been straightened up, tidied for the party. On the bedside table, his side, were more books on war and open at the spine was Gordon Liddy’s biography. On her side was a stack of romantic fictions, a few décor magazines and on top of all a well-thumbed dictionary. I was going over to pick up the dictionary when ‘Harvey’ walked into the room from the adjoining bathroom. His suspenders were down. He said curtly, ‘I am going to bed now’. Geez, I thought, what a gruff authoritarian. Just then a group of other guests wandered into the bedroom clutching their wine glasses, snooping around. I quietly exited, saying ‘good night, sleep tight’ as he pulled up his suspenders.

Time to go. But where? I left the party after the requisite thank you’s, hopped into my car and drove by instinct, following my impulses. I drove North. North to Alf’s place.

I abandoned my car at the bottom of his driveway, walked up the quarry stone steps beneath the pine trees and knocked loudly on his front door. He answered in slippers and pajamas. Like a friendly old dad. He chuckled when he saw me, and asked, and what do you want? I answered, a glass of milk. He smiled and dutifully poured out an immense tumbler and we both went up to the bedroom together to watch the end of the baseball game.

As I lay propped up and naked beside him I still felt I had not found my end destination. While he absentmindedly stroked my back I thought, geez alf, come on, you’ve got a woman 30 years your junior beside you in your bed, is this the best you can do? I turned to him and murmured sweet nothings to arouse his interest. He had a warm and hairy chest. He dutifully responded, his hand slid down between my legs and he pushed himself up and on to me. We were done in 2 minutes. He went back to the T.V. Then, out of the blue, he said, ‘I was in the navy for 9 years, I still keep my gun under the bed’. I looked at him. He was serious. I leaned over the edge and sure enough, there it was, a rifle with a bayonet attached to the end. I grabbed it and started to pull it out. He said, careful, it’s loaded. I gingerly slid it back in place. And lay down again beside him. Quiet. Mute. The ballgame ended. His hand went up to put out the light. He told me to go to sleep. Alf, I said, I’m not staying. I got up, got dressed, and took the empty glass back to the kitchen.

As I was about to go out the front door he came up behind me and gave me a friendly and well meaning bear hug. We gently kissed goodbye.

As I drove away I wondered again about the topic for the evening, “Landscape and how it affects the Minds of Writers”. Annie Dilliard, the American author said it best, “When all has been said and done, landscape in the mind of the writer is only a metaphor for the mind’s constant movement and rest, movement and rest…”

She might have something there.

(Pioneer Village Photo Montage by CanadadaPHOTOGRAPHY.blogspot.com )

Hidden amongst the tall jack pines
down a long lush country lane
is a secret village of yesteryear
built by single-minded volunteers

A timeless century of well-wishers -
community givers - lend a hand
in this perfect pioneer prism
built plank held to plank with anvil square nails

Horse and wagon, tailored top hat
long skirts and smelly bake pans
pantomime a civil dream of the New World
buried in these lost and ancient woods

A passing smile, a gentle wink
assure one and all that the Old Pioneers
stand near, very near - and tall
these Sunday actors never miss their beat

I too don an old coat and lift up the small prayer book
village locals enter once more with solemn glee
‘tis time again for choral celebration
as we hymn our waning humanity

crusty corn kernels of long long ago date
the silent circular shores of this deep deep abandoned lake

Iroquois, Huron, Ojibway and an occasional Cree
traded and traversed here
broken pots, chipped arrowheads, hollow tent pole holes

mark the spots where
sun-filled bellies once slept content
after frog-filled nights of merriment

twig fire sparks swirled up to sky
as popping kernels fall like flickering fire flies
into the cool abyss of that calm black water

marking time for all to witness

we must not forget or
mourn these simple times of long ago

woodland travelers found rest here

famished families found food here

long earred corn took root here
on these silent shores of this lake
so calm now and so deep

generation
after
germination

The fun story was sent by pal, GoldenBeest, way out there in Portland … was reading it the other day and think it’s as ‘relevant’ now as it was then …

‘For all of us who feel only the deepest love and affection for the way computers have enhanced our lives, read on. At a relatively recent computer expo (COMDEX), Bill Gates reportedly compared the computer industry with the auto industry and stated, “If GM had kept up with technology like the computer industry has, we would all be driving $25 dollar cars that got 1,000 miles to the gallon…”

In response to Bill’s comments, General Motors issued a press release stating: “If GM had developed technology like Microsoft, we would all be driving cars with the following characteristics:

1. For no reason whatsoever, your car would crash twice a day.

2. Every time they repainted the lines in the road, you would have to buy a new car.

3. Occasionally your car would die on the freeway for no reason. You would have to pull to the side of the road, close all of the windows, shut off the car, restart it, and reopen the windows before you could continue. For some reason you would simply accept this.

4. Occasionally, executing a maneuver such as a left turn would cause your car to shut down and refuse to restart, in which case you would have to reinstall the engine.

5. Macintosh would make a car that was powered by the sun, was reliable, five times as fast and twice as easy to drive - but would run on only five percent of the roads.

6. The oil, water temperature, and alternator warning lights would all be replaced by a single “This Car Has Performed an Illegal Operation” warning light.

7. The airbag system would ask “Are you sure?” before deploying.

8. Occasionally, for no reason whatsoever, your car would lock you out and refuse to let you in until you simultaneously lifted the door handle, turned the key and grabbed hold of the radio antenna.

9. Every time a new car was introduced car buyers would have to learn how to drive all over again because none of the controls would operate in the same manner as the old car.

10. You’d have to press the “Start” button to turn the engine “off”.’

… boys will be boys, no?

CORRECTION/SPOILER NOTICE: Apparently this ’story’ is FALSE, (though it doesn’t actually diminish the insight or humor … ) For more info about HOW this ‘rumor’ got started, see:

http://www.snopes.com/humor/jokes/autos.asp

………………………………………(’Rainbow’ by CanadadaPHOTOGRAPHY.blogspot.com)

Philip Pianovic, the famous retired poet of Warsaw, ran a hippie-style bed & breakfast outside the village of Grimsby in the southern province of Ontario in the country of Canada. From the middle of May to the middle of November he ran the B&B catering to the tourists of the increasingly fashionable Niagara wine district. He’d been doing it now for over 20 years since he had first immigrated in the late 70’s. He had lost two good wives over it, both hardworking pleasantly plump women, and had, in turn, gained four pleasantly plump precocious children. His four boys lived with him on the large maple-shadowed property with a riveting horizon view over Lake Ontario. During the season, Philip lived in the rambling central clapboard farmhouse while the children lived in three separate little cottages that he had built for them scattered about the place. The B&B arrangement was set up in such a way that they rented out the cottages on the weekends, mostly to American road trippers and to sightseers from Toronto. Philip’s children would happily move back into the farmhouse for the two or three nights always carefully preparing the cottages for the in-coming visitors before they moved over. No detail was too small. It was a game now as much as a way of life for them all. Who could create the most interesting cottage? How many photographs would the visitors take? To date, Gilly was winning hands down. Everyone photographed his little cottage at the back of the property down the cedar hedge laneway.

The entire place had the air of the poetic about it. Everyone said so.

Everyday at dawn Philip would let out the large lumbering Newfoundlander, Puzzler, and go around to the little houses to wake up his four boys. By the time they got over to the main house at seven, their breakfast would be hot on the table. Philip always cooked up a big hearty morning meal for his brood and any visiting guests.

There had been quite an influx of European visitors recently since the explosive debut of the Niagara Ice Wine Festival several years ago. Philip discovered that these tourists generally preferred to stay in the more traditional Victorian B&B’s run by the ex-pats up the North Shore Service road towards Niagara-on-the-Lake. Philip actually understood their ‘we-want-colonial-grandeur’ preference, and just continued on catering to the less demanding egalitarian simple-minded nature-loving touring North Americans.

Anders, his eldest son, now 19, lived beside the outdoor trampoline in the largest and most expensive of the little cottages called ‘Sunny One’. He was an enthusiastic sports nut and his cottage reflected his diverse water-sport interests. Surf boards and sailboats were jammed under the house frame. Paddles were criss-crossed beside the front door. ‘Sunny One’ was painted a vivid lemon yellow with ebony-black louvered shutters. A concrete leaf walkway that Anders had made out of a sunflower pod meandered from the cottage to the lake. It also had the best view. Anders had created a lot of additional features that made visitors want to return to it again and again. He’d built a queen-size box spring out of discarded barn-board in the attic for the waterbed. Created a mini spiral stairwell without an exterior handrail. Mirrored the little livingroom with tinted glass to add depth, and he’d even attached dried grapevines aroundthe bay window interwoven with jack o’lanterns to add festive atmosphere. The best feature however was the two-headed outdoor shower that he had hooked up behind the barn-board screen under the large maple tree near the trampoline. Many bums had faced out over the Lake through the years. The shower had steamy hot water flowing from its direct spray nozzles as well as a mosaic sunflower floor splash. He’d hung prisms in the branches for glamour. The shower was actually a favourite spot with all the guests within the B&B compound, not to mention a continual source of interest to the slow-poke beachcombers. Philip could rent out the whole ‘Sunflower’ package to an American couple for $250 U.S. per weekend. Easy. Needless to say, Anders took a great deal of pride in his little house. Even his assorted shiny hockey trophies mounted on the center beam added a novel touch to the eclectic interior décor. The whole spot had a marvelous madcap well-kept fun-feel about it.

Gilly, at 17, lived in the ramshackled cedar shake cottage down the cedar hedge laneway. ‘Peach Pod’, situated at the back of the property stood near the now empty peach sorting shed. Gilly was by all accounts a very gifted young artist. ‘Peach Pod’ had no view of the lake, but rather, had its windows facing out over the vast cultivated peach tree nursery that extended far up to the lip of the escarpment. It was the most desired cabin during June when the wafting floral scent of the orchard was at its most poignant and the soft ivory blooms were brain-embossing vibrant. Bees could be a problem though, especially later in the season, and Gilly had unfortunately developed an allergic reaction to their bites. He never complained, just popped another antihistamine, and told someone to listen to his speech for 30 minutes. If he started to slur, it was time to rush him up to the little medical clinic down the road in Grimsby. They only had to do that twice in all the years. ‘Peach Pod’ also had the best open-grate wood stove surrounded by bulging bookcases. Gilly kept the stove well maintained and primed at all times. It was the central topic of most of his conversations. He hated the cold with a passion and always kept the cabin warm and cozy. It was not uncommon to smell wifts of wood smoke late at night in the middle of August. His fingers had to be warm enough to draw his fanciful pre-raphealite portraits of the passing parade of guests that he would haphazardly tack up onto his cabin walls. There were sketches, folios and paintings everywhere. Gilly would cut down all his own firewood from the prunings and dead wood dragged in from the orchard. He was meticulous about this backbreaking job: the logs were never cut greater than 5″ in width, and were never longer than a foot in length. He would stack the wood creatively on the southeast side of the cottage so it would properly air dry over the season. His geometric woodpile was a sculptural thing of beauty. The guests always said so, and usually took several photographs from several different angles. Even the discarded trimmings were artfully arranged in a quixotic eye-catching teepee. Gilly was winning the competition by far again this year. Everyone said he was going to be famous, just like his father.

Michael, now 12, and Tom, at 9, lived in the smallest three-room red vinyl cottage, ‘Apple Shack’, beside the central farmhouse. Philip could keep an easy eye on them, and could shout out the window whenever their music or rough housing got too loud during the week. Naturally inquisitive explorers, these two healthy boys were always finding new treasures to add to their owner-proud front garden plot. Last week Michael had brought in a big hunk of trilobite rock that he had broken off from the limestone shale at Shandler’s Point. He had made a port-a-harness for Puzzler. The Newfoundlander was temporarily transformed into a turn-of-the-century workhorse as Michael marched alongside triumphant with his latest treasure. Tom, not to be outdone, had a fine collection of sword sticks and spoke shaved lances. After Michael had planted the stone, Tom had artfully latticed the exterior of thefront windows withsome of his finest sword creations even using a step ladder to get up there when no-one was looking. They were gaining in the competition this year, but weren’t quite ready yet. They wanted to win. They had even started wearing costumes in the hope that visitors would take more pictures. Tom had a grand billowing cape made from a discarded boat sail, and Michael had made a helmet with large holes for his eyes and nose from a discarded leaking sap tapping bucket. A pink toilet bowl cleaner jammed into the top added a certain regal flourish. Memorable lawn ornaments, the boys would freeze-frame when the clouds parted. Cameras were clicking.

All in all the Pianovics were a content and happy bunch.

Meals were an informal affair. Philip always had enough food in the two refrigerators in the house, and the rule was that they could eat whatever and whenever they liked, but the last eater always had to leave enough for the next food marauder. No one was to ever go short. It was all understood. They had to replace the milk pouch in the canister with the next and clip open the top, close the lids properly on the hamburger or hotdog toppings, unwrap the butter and wipe up any spills anywhere. Do their own dishes. Always leave the fresh poppy seed buns for the weekend breakfasts, and share any extras. It worked out well enough. Puzzler was, tangentially, a very happy dog.

Philip continued to write his poetry on the weekends when the central farmhouse was filled with his boys and the cottages were filled with eager guests. He would sit pensively on the screened-in verandah tying words together, twirling tongue teasers within his second language, while his boys ransacked the house and his guests settled in for their short stay. There would be many interruptions: keys, cars, directions, instructions, directives, counseling and even comforting. Philip found that these interruptions actually enhanced his poetry-making experience. He enjoyed these intrusive non-sequitors coming in from all quarters. When whatever issue or problem had been satisfactorily sorted, he would return refreshed to his poet mode and nook, and continue tinkering away creatively at new sounds linked to new symbols. He kept a scratch pad and pen handy on the verandah swing and just kept adding on bits when the spirit moved him. He had nearly 70 pages scribbled down at the moment, and the season was still young. It was only mid June.

The telephone rang. Anders took the call in the kitchen. It was another reservation for the up-coming weekend from a Miss Lucille Towe. She was a newcomer from Kingston, had never been to the region before, but had received a recommendation to stay there from Alec Demur, the poet from Vancouver nick-named ‘The Rowdy Acquiescent One’ aka T.R.A.O (spoken as Trao), who had visited two summers ago. He had suggested she try for the ‘Peach Pod’ cottage. “Unfortunately,” Anders explained, “‘Peach Pod’ is reserved for the weekend. All that was available was shared accommodation in the ‘Apple Shack’ with another single female tourist, Susie LeFleur from Montreal.” He added that there was quite a substantial savings in the rates if they shared. Almost half. Only $75 CDN each per night. There was a long silence from Lucille. Philip could hear Anders starting to oversell. He reached over and picked up the phone extension in the verandah. “Hello?” he charmed with his thickest baritone accent. “Can I help you?” Anders interjected, “That’s my father. He runs the place. You can talk to him. Dad, Trao recommended us to her.” He hung up and finished preparing his turbo submarine sandwich of ham, turkey and beef. He gave a quarter of it to Tom who was hovering nearby. Lucille asked, “I’m sorry but have you got anything cheaper? I’ll only be staying two nights, Friday and Saturday. I’m attending an Ice Wine conference in Grimsby on Saturday. It’s really a business trip, not pleasure, as much as I am interested in the area.” Philip considered the voice. “Well, we really don’thave that much available here, we can only sleep six comfortably in beds, but I might be able to squeeze you in at $30 a night on a cot somewhere if you are prepared to wing it a bit.” Lucille liked the sound of his voice too. “That sounds fine. I’ll fit in wherever. I just need a pillow for the night.” Philip replied, “No problem. We’ll find a spot for you.”

During the week everything went along as normal. The boys kept pretty much to themselves and their respective projects. Philip worked away on his poetry in the farmhouse. Thursday came and went, and Friday arrived bright and crisp. Philip awoke at dawn wondering where he was going to put Miss Lucille Towe. There had been no cancellations from any of the other reserved guests: all were coming. There really was no spare room. It was going to be another full house for the weekend. He drifted for a moment thinking how he might even plan a little extra entertainment for the group with perhaps a bonfire on the beach or a picnic at the back end of the orchard on Sunday. Then he returned to, where would he put her?At breakfast with the boys he raised the issue. They had to find room for Miss Lucille Towe. It was concluded that they would make up the empty peach sorting shed with a cot and comforter. Everyone would contribute three items from their cottage to make her feel at home. They could convert one of the sorting stalls into a make-shift 10×12 room. There was even a small window there that faced east towards the village of Grimsby; she would be able to see a tip of the lake. There was electricity. Gil had a spare lampshade. They could hook up the hose to give her a washbasin in one of the sap tapping buckets. Since Gilly’s cabin was rented to a repeat couple from Sedona, Arizona, she would need to come up to the farmhouse to share the john with the rest of the family. Michael was given the job to have that cleaned up. The pair from Arizona were a quiet artsy elderly couple and could keep an easy eye on Miss Lucille, they were friendly enough. So, it was all decided.

The boys put their assorted creative objects in the shed before heading off late again to school. Anders took over his biggest trophy, his kayak paddle and a more-or-less finished twisted-vine mirror frame. Gilly tacked up his striking portrait of Alec Demur aka Trao beside the window and left a spare drawing pad with a 3B pencil and pencil sharpener. Michael took over his well-thumbed copy of ‘A Natural History of Lake Ontario’ and put two of his favourite treasures on the window ledge: a flint chipped arrowhead and a found driftwood coconut shell. Tom took over a cluster of his bulrush wands dipped in yellow house paint and made a dramatic bouquet outside the front of the stall. Philip later added the finishing touches. He rolled open the small camp cot opposite the window so she could lie in bed and see out. He turned the mattress and made up the bed with fresh flannel sheets. He hung a hummingbird feeder off the maple justoutside the window. He put the lampshade over the bare bulb hanging in the middle of the room, painted the naked metal switch engine red, and put out three large clean lime green bath towels with a new bar of hand-made organic mint soap beside the bucket and the hose. He plugged in the tiny but efficient space heater, checking to make sure it was turned off. Then he rushed into the village to get more bacon for the weekend and a new batch of freshly baked poppy seed buns from the bakery.

By 6 o’clock ‘Chez Nous’ was full, except Miss Lucille had just called up saying that she was lost, she was up on the hills past the vineyards somewhere, phoning from the Esso station beside Carol’s Diner. Philip gave her simple turnaround directions and continued sitting on in the verandah, musing. Michael was tormenting Puzzler with a new harnessing contraption that threatened to involve his tail. Tom was cutting out banana blobs of felt to add onto his cape. Anders was adjusting the brace for his new slalom ski, tilting back and forth in the foot-hold, swaying left and right on the front lawn. He kept changing his forward front foot. He just couldn’t decide which was his stronger leg. Gilly was carefully sharpening his colouring pencils with an ancient Swiss army knife making a delicate perfect mound of swirling wood shavings on the center of the second tier of the front step.

The motorcycle was very loud as it rumbled up the loose gravel driveway towards the front of the farmhouse. A pleasantly plump woman in black leather turned off the engine and dismounted heavily. She lifted off her helmet putting it over the left handlebar. A cascade of ruby red hair fell voluptuously to her waist and she began slowly striding up to the house. The leather squeaked a bit between her legs. All had stopped what they were doing to watch this arrival. Philip put down his poetry scribbler and stood up in the verandah to watch her pass Anders who gave her a great big smile. As she neared the steps she said to Gilly, “I might upset your little pile there.” Gilly grinned and said it was all right. The steps sagged ominously under her heavy foot. The pile remained intact.

Philip opened the screen door as wide as he could. As she entered she said, “Hello. I’m Miss Lucille Towe.” He responded with a friendly chuckle, “Welcome to ‘Chez Nous’ Miss Lucille Towe. Or, should I say - Mistletoe?”

She giggled and nodded, her red hair swishing.The weekend had begun.

It is 5:30 AM

A white new moon plate is embossed, lower left

Onto a trembling shimmering pinky sky

We know the Sun is coming … just as we know

That the white moon is wedded to this Earth

I think of gravity.

This is the last new moon of May

Swirling around our planet

Pulling on Gaia

Creating slow tides and new growth. Pulling.

Pullling up and toward

I think of magnetic force.

That moon magnet to Earth.

Is it positive or negative? Or negative to positive?

Who is which, which is who?

Or, is it gravity, not magnets, alone, pulling on us?

What is it that pulls the tides and the plants UP?

I do not know. How this works.

The moon’s elliptical path is constant.

Speed and distance are constant. The same trajectory daily.

Whirling around this twirling Earth.

Does the moon twirl on its axis too?

Or does it travel inert?

I do not know. I know I really should.

And the Sun tipping the horizon now

A brilliant bead of fire, arching up

Turning the sky crimson where it touches

WHY do the earth and the moon not

Hurl towards the Sun’s greater gravity?

I do not know. I really do not know. But I know I really should.

We twirl, daily, in an elliptical orbit around the Sun

Speed and distance constant. The moon twirls on around us.

All twirl on fixed trajectories

In a precise gravitational geometry, a taut whirl of push and pull

Gravitas and Magnets. Push and Pull. Sun and Moon. Earth. And us.

All hurling through the vast heavenly hemispheres

… unimaged and unknown.

Admit it.

It remains a somewhat fantastic and mystifying miracle …

Even in our techno know-knot age and era

Admit it.

there’s a new pinhole in my heart

it’s so small no one can tell

but it’s there, a tiny hole

piercing my heart

it hurts

that little pinhole

it lets out light, it lets out love

it lets out what I am afraid to admit

that I care and feel

and want my heart to be full of you

from side to side

yet, instead

you have pricked me

and it hurts

Remember the power ‘black outs’ of last summer?

The rising ‘fuel’ prices of the past few years?

These ‘issues’ are connected … and affect us all.

Now - for an extrememly insightful look at who OWNS and CONTROLS the global food markets - comes a timely article in this weekend Toronto’s Globe & Mail newspaper by Sinclair Stewart & Paul Waldie, both veteran business journalists …

Read it quick before it gets ‘vaulted’ into the archives, and/or ‘locked down’ and available only to ’subscribers’. The comments section is equally as engaging and insightful.

Read it to UNDERSTAND your ROLE in this brewing fiasco. Save it for your soon-to-be starving GRANDCHILDREN:

http://www.reportonbusiness.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20080530.wcover0531/BNStory/Business/home

Excerpt: ” … The amount of fund money invested in commodity indexes has climbed from just $13-billion (U.S.) in 2003 to a staggering $260-billion in March, 2008, according to calculations based on regulatory filings. …”

Where is this money coming from? You & me.

Our pension funds, our mutual funds, our institutional investors.

UNDERSTAND your IMPACT on the FUTURE of the planet. Every dollar you spend DEFINES our HISTORY … Act NOW.