Primitive Figures


(internet photo)

Her voice, a gentle breeze
softly turns my ears.
Her eyes, dark waters,
submerge her hard earned wisdom.
A newsprint roll is tucked under an armpit.
Primitive figures on colorful cards she is selling,
dance behind dirty plastic.
She brushes stray hairs from her face.

I smile across our class, our heritage, our histories.
We are two feet apart, miles away from contact.
She lowers her eyes. I squirm in my casual trappings.

I offer money to purchase her cards. I talk too fast,
smile too broad. My rabbit-hopping heart cannot
keep up to my whirling dervish mind. The heavy air is
difficult to breathe.

She chants gratitude, over and over, head bowed.
I tell her, “It is nothing, really, no problem at all.”
I leave, my center hollow,
nothing to redeem me,
nothing at all.

Buried Artifact


(La-Venere-di Milo: internet photo)

Silt shifts; like a silk dress in a breeze,
creamy folds expose buried artifacts of a restless spirit.
Nubile naked truths tease.
Glimpses of a white shoulder, a bare thigh,
peep through spongy mud.
Shallow water sculpts seductively
over hidden treasure.
Patient stream erodes murky riverbed.
Venus arises.
Her polished eyes gleam.

Burnt Toast

Your reflection
looks me in the eye.
Stainless steel toaster
browning bread,
heats your memory.

I look away,
dark brooding clouds
hide the sunrise,
reflect my mood.

You no longer
move through my days.
We parted ways long ago,
yet here you are
grilling my morning,
warming my cheeks.

Light echoes of our
retreating love
reflect off
a shimmering appliance.

And Then It Rained


(internet photos)

(This post was inspired by the incredible, fierce storms that have been striking Calgary this summer.  The hail yesterday and today caused widespread flooding and damage.)

Purple and black,
bruised clouds
scud over the city.

they throw a tantrum,
hurling hail.

Nothing held back.

The dam is burst,
waters unleashed.
The dark nebulae
kick and spin,
stomp and roll.

Trees julienne, leaves shred,
sidewalks become a smorgasbord,
greens on ice.

August warped winter wonderland.

Chin held up in defiance,
the churlish horde moves on,
anger simmering.

Tossed salad neighbourhoods
left in their wake.



Patricia Randolph’s Madravenspeak: Killing Cecil the lion: A tipping point in exposing hunting’s rape of wildlife

Wisconsin Wildlife Ethic-Vote Our Wildlife



“The revulsion about the lion Cecil’s death is an indication of changing times.” — Thom Hartmann

Walter Palmer, Minneapolis area dentist, paid some guides to tie a carcass to their vehicle to bait a protected lion, a beloved mascot for Hwange National Park in Zimbabwe. He shined a spotlight on Cecil to shoot him at night, bow-hunting. What is not widely known by non-hunters is that bow-hunting, like trapping and hounding, causes an extremely cruel and torturous death. Palmer and his guides wounded the lion, but he was left to die slowly, killed 40 hours later by rifle. It is common once an animal has been wounded with an arrow to allow him or her to bleed out slowly, to weaken that animal for an easy kill a day or more later. Baiting, killing using lights, killing a father with a pride — this is extremely sick behavior. The Wisconsin…

View original post 916 more words