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| Lake Nipissing Spring Silken wind . . . whispering, caressing undulating waves. Fishing boats anchor in expectant rows, small Sea-Doo zigzags among serious fishers, gulls swoop and soar fixating on tender morsels. Inshore, toddlers frolic in warm shallows, chubby fingers grasping at shells and sunshine. Under the shade of maple and birch, picnic tables groan, yellow jonquils wave, saluting dapples of warmth falling through lofty branches. Mist tiptoes across the lake, adorning its surface in cobwebby finery. Winter-weary throngs converge on the boardwalk, savouring the late arrival of another Nipissing spring. |
| Of Trash and Treasures On long tables and old doors balanced on piles of bricks, we lay out thirty years of together and watch from behind sheer curtains as cars slow down, and chunky women in curlers and spandex squabble over knickknacks and plates, faded clothing, old books and dreams You go outside to take their money while I stand here, tears clouding my vision of you, shame-faced and solemn, haggling over the price of our best china pieces chipped now, their gold edges tarnished and stained, worthless as our wedding vows. |
| vigil Evergreens--lonely sentinels posted in stately silhouette against a winter sky, keeping a careful and constant eye out for elusive spring |
| Cinnamon Cinnamon dominates today, overriding but not completely obscuring yesterday’s lingering aromas; cloves, allspice, nutmeg, and a jumble of others. My nose and memory search to define, separate, and catalogue each sundry whiff. She bustles about the hot, steamy kitchen, eyes straying intermittently to the cuckoo on the wall, measuring the seconds before his footsteps clatter on the wooden steps. Another peek into the black bowels of her oven, the buns rising high and fragrant, crisscrossed with love and a deft hand. A wisp of damp hair escapes her house cap; smudgy reminders of a thousand meals dot the faded blue of her apron. Never still, eyes forever flitting, hands, forever smoothing, straightening, and making ready. I sit in the corner and watch, unaware that this cinnamon day will resurface again almost fifty years later, unblemished by the passage of time. |
| Check-out In splashes of blazing red you rip to shreds innocent lives exposing the wounds of the dead and dying destroying truth, twisting fact and fiction, slanting perception, till all that remains is the frenzy of hungry eyes and inquisitive minds pouncing upon your glossy display, slaves to the stink of your garish tabloid ink. |
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| Marlene's Poetry |
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