Filling the Air

 

Filling the air illustration

FILLING THE AIR                                Blogged Feb 13, 2023

 

H. W. Bryce

 

They arrive early, hate being late,

They barge through the door talking.

They fill the air with their words,

Including clusters of empty verbs,

And basketsful of personal nouns.

They make statements and announce

Items of non-news,

Profess to have suffered the blues,

And they fill the air with their own

Laughter

Especially to their own stale jokes

And no other words can

penetrate the fog

They ignore this clog.

 

They eat all thesnacks,

They eat up the meal

They claim the bottle

They brought is the

Best of the deal, then

They wheel on their heel

And talk into the night

Filling the air

With their words, which

Fly off to the sky like

Small little birds into the

Night, leaving hardly

A memory behind.

 

 

…and then they leave,

Like emperors of speech,

With flowing capes of

Synonyms and metaphors

Falling as of snowflakes

Dissolving without meaning,

 

And no one any the wiser

For the event.

 

They form into word clouds,

Rain down interpretations,

Throw wordy bric-a-bracs, weeeep,

Maintain they should be kept.

 

Changing cloud formations,

They sprinkle confidence

Like cinnamon on pumpkin pie

 

Claiming there iss no right

Only wrong, this cloud imitates

A gong

And then they are

gone

 

leaving words still floating

in the air and a babble of voices

dead on the ground

!!!

 

Image by narciso1 from Pixabay

 

Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Being there, Blogging, Busy busy, Choices, Decisions, Memories, Poem | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

22nd Street

 

22d St- city lights illustration

22nd STREET

 

H. W. Bryce

Waiting for the 22nd Street bus, I stood

standing at the clifflike hillside

on the escarpment one twilight eve,

purveying all down below:

 

City lights spread out below, shining bright,

Shimmering, twinkling, a reflection of the

Starry night. It’s a dream sight, and

You and I imagine loving life inside each

Shining star alight down there inside

The cityscape: loving mom, doting dad,

Two happy little children by the fireside,

Stretched out, boy with rover dog,

Daughter cuddling kitty cat…

Enduring peace, contentment.

Dreamlike…

 

Down the hill, into the city streets,

Lullabyed by screaming sirens,

Cop cars chasing a suspect criminal,

Ambulance attendees reviving an OD-er,

Homeless guys fighting over a sleeping bag,

A pair of shoes, one leaves shoeless, one shod…

 

Behind this window, a woman screams

As her man’s fist meets her face…

A child’s cry wails into the night…

 

Underneath a street light, a desp’rate man

Assaults a woman walking home from shift,

Tears at her clothes…takes off with her purse…

She lies in the spotlight of the street lamp,

Broken. The street light sputters…

 

Sirens, screams, cops and ambulances

Belie the peaceful vista down below,

Unheard up here on the hill,

Unheeded by the cozy ones whose

Lives are set…

 

The sounds of this “night sky”

Down below the starry night,

Down below, in the cityscape,

Starry lights in the music of the night,

Reflecting peace amongst the hidden frights.

 

Night Sky. City Lights.

 

22nd Street and city lights below,

All nestled midst the beauty of

Nature and the sea.

 

And the 22nd bus rumbled on,

With one wistful passenger also aboard.

A lifetime ago.

 

— —

 

—while watching a rerun of Vera, from 2011

 

—about the bus ride I took as darkness overcoated the city,

We drove along 22nd street, looking down,

City light atwinkling, apparently at peace.
I was a summer journalist at the Vancouver Sun.

 

Also, a lifetime later, my son rented a house in that area,

and I got to revisit that very vista.

Twinges. And still I could not write about it.

Finally, this.

 

 

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Being there, Life, Lonely, Lost, Magic, Memory, Moments, Poem, Remembering | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

TheFourth of Tomorrow

 

Fourth of tomorrow illustration

THE FOURTH OF TOMORROW

H. W. bryce

 

THIS GOES FOR Canada, too:

 

The First of July

 

Pale blu mini comp of Jun 12, 2022 – July 3, 2022

BECAUSE, AS I EXPECTED, GUN VIOLENCE.   ON THE 4TH (IN MINNESOTA) – SHOOTING INTO A PARADE

Apropos as of 28 Jan 2023 on the laying of murder charges against five black policement having beaten
Tyre Nichols___  to death. Memphis, Tennessee.

This in the midst of more mass shootings.

Just another week in the life of evil.

— —

 

Will guns ever be holstered? Will mass shooting never cease?

Will everyone’s life really matter? Will suffering

Of the victims convert the delusion of shooters

After the Fourth of Tomorrow?

 

How many centuries before a country matures?

How many lives must perish before lives really matter?

When will the gray matter apply its better power?

When will the clock tick on that glorious hour?

I see beyond the horizon, the sun beginning to shine

Brighter than before. I see Man’s soul beginning to Grow.

I have a vision – FOR THE DAYS beyond the hatred

I have a vision – of the death of the killings

I have a vision – of happier days to come

When goodnesses will add up to the sum

Of Peace, where differences are settled peacably

And no one is left feeling hurt.

 

I have a vision where the only guns will shoot water,

The only bullets will be heart filling love arrows.

I can see a day when the street of hate narrows

And we all see each other as persons, not creeps.

 

Oh, I dream of that day, that fourth of tomorrow,

The day that marks the end of sorrow.

 

Image by mariaamanda0140 from Pixabay

Pixabay License

Free to use under the Pixabay license
No attribution required

 

Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Advocacy, Birthday, Caring, Celebration, Choices, Dreams, Moments, News, Poem, What If | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

If I Could Choose

 

I I could swim with whales illustration

IF I COULD CHOOSE

 

H. W. Bryce

 

If I could choose, I’d swim with whales.

It must be so peaceful down there,

At the bottom of the sea.

It must be like touching eternity,

A place of perpetual peace.

It must be the place for me.

 

Oh, I might have to come up for air,

But the pull of the idylic would pull me back.

Oh, to swim with whales, to be so graceful,

To be so large that no one attacks you,

This would be bliss – away from Earthlings’

Petty slings and arrows; to be in so close-knit

A group would be divine. To feel that I

Would belong would comfort me, free me

To be the me I want to be. To be pulled

Along (as if important would be important

To me. And that that would not matter

but that it would count).

 

Yes. If I could choose, I would swim with whales.

A whale would never bail on his pod. He

Would never fight with God; he would never pick

On prawns; this gentle leviathon, content to be

Where his spirit never pales.

 

–like the bliss of a kiss, we’d cruise along with ease,

An example of community seldom seen above water,

Not bothered by the ill winds.

 

Ah, the sea, the reflection of the sky,

Tranquil under the storms raging above,

Doing no harm, just swimming, just to be,

Family first, togetherness always. Each

Member belonging, each doing his part,

Such as it ought to be, while still being free.

 

We would cruise with the tide, no need to hide.

I would feel like the groom escorting his bride;

I would be the little child, happy-go–lucky and free,

No responsibility, having to pay no fee.

 

And yet, being part of a pod would be such pride

The free ride would prompt me to give favours

Like a lottery winner doling out free dollars.

I would want to heal, if I could live with whales.

 

To be in such a space, I could never lose.

Yes, I’d swim with whales if I could choose.

 

— —

Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Dreams, Hope, Poem, What If | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Road Back

 

THE ROAD BACK

H. W. Bryce

The road back illustration

After a tragedy, after your fall,

The advice is cliché to be sure,

But so is the road to the trouble.

It’s Human Nature, and it has its flaws.

 

There are potholes on the road back,

But not so deep we can’t climb back;

There is the sky to keep our eye on

As incentive to keep us on track.

 

See? Already you are near the top,

Climb over the rim and walk on,

Sing a new song. Can’t sing?

Sing anyway, just don’t you stop.

 

Setbacks? We all get setbacks,

We all get them from time to time.
They come and they go, and just because.

Human Nature has its lacks. Sometimes it cracks.

 

For we are but Human and we have our flaws,

We make our mistakes, and we carry our scars.

Sometimes our troubles arrise from Free Will,

When ego gets ahead of Self with its claws.

 

The road back is bumpy, it twists, and it turns,

We lose our way and our hearts sorely yearn

To be released from our troubles and woes,

To be ripped from the thorns, be given a rose.

 

Yes, the road back is arduous and long.

We must atone for what we have done wrong,

We must earn our way back to your hearts,

Find a way to earn the right to belong.

 

Perhaps you will find that one little change

Can alter your life in a very big way,

Learn how to give instead of to take,

To give the Other his choice, his own fair chance.

 

Being back may not be perfection,

But it will be accepted with affection,

Faux pas and sins can be forgiven

For repentence on the road, no longer driven.

 

See? Already you are at the top,

Climb over the rim and walk on,

Sing a new song. Can’t sing?

Sing anyway, just don’t you stop.

 

There are potholes on the road back,

But not so deep we can’t climb back;

There is the sky to keep our eye on

As incentive to keep us on track.

 

Image Pexels from Pixabay

 

And Human Nature carries its scars.

 

 

Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Alzheimer's, Angels, Beauty, Elderly, Fellowship, Grand parents, Hard time, Helping, Helpless, Lonely, Poem | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Not Even a Nurse

 

Not even a nurse illustration

Not even a nurse

H. W. Bryce

Not even a nurse could do as well

Blu mini comp bk of Aug 29-15

 

The little old lady teetered out of her room into the hallway. Call her Edna.

Her clothes were askew, her stare intense. She was going somwhere and by God she was going to get there.

Her short-step waddle was uncertain at best. She looked like she desperately needed support, or she was going to fall on her face. She held her arms out to the side like a tightrope walker’s balance beams; they carved rotating figure eights with each wobbly step.

Several residents passed her by, practically gliding on their walkers, chatting. Two wheelchair residents were chugging along erratic pathways not entirely of their choosing.

There were no care aides in sight; they were in another room with another resident. The duty nurse was dealing with a mini crisis down the hall beside her nurses’ station. Other care aides were tending other residents in the same area.

So there was no one to intercept the waddling, teetering Edna.

There was, however, among the throngs at the nursing station, a young woman dressed in a semi-uniform; she wore a uniform top, with simple grey slacks. She took note of Edna; it was hard not to. Call her Steph.

“Hello Edna,” Steph crooned. “Where is your walker?”

Edna blinked up at her. “I don’t know. Perhaps he’s following me. Back there. Somewhere. He gets lost.”

Well come on then, let’s go find shall we?”

“Yes, okay.”

“He might be lonely,” Steph suggested.

“Well, he might be.” Edna chortled. “He’s so darn slow.”

“I KNOW! Here Edna, take my arm.”

They looped arms and Steph got Edna turned around to face the direction of Edna’s room.

Not even a nurse could have worked so smoothly.

Steph towered over the little lady. She looked down. “I heard you could sing.”

Edna brighted up and straightened up. “Yes. I used to sing in the choir.”

Her voice didn’t indicate that she could sing; it was a weak voice, a frail, little voice.

“Well, let’s sing then,” Steph said.

Edna cast a cheeky look at Steph. “Do you know any Pete Seeger?”

“Pete Seeger? Really?”

“Oh yes. He was my favourite.”

“Yes, I heard you were once a hippy.”

Edna chortled. “Oh yes. I remember those days.”

“Yes? Which Pete Seeger song do you love?”

“Where have all the flowers gone.”

“I know that one. It’s beautiful.”

“Oh yes. We used to sing that all the time. In the choir.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. It was a modern choir.”

“I’ll start then, shall I?”

Steph simply opened her mouth and out flowed a mellow alto voice.

 

Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the flowers gone?…

 

Edna picked up with her sweet, sweet soprano, and their voices paired like an angel’s prayer of praise.

 

Young girls have picked them everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?

The odd pair turned and positively danced into Edna’s room, leaving the hauntingly beautiful music hanging in the hallway.

Not even a nurse could have done so well.

For Steph was not a nurse. She was not even a care aide.

Steph was with Recreation.

 

-30-

 

Free photo: Silhouettes, Cohesion, Women, Old – Free Image on …

pixabay.com640 × 452Search by image

 

Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Advocacy, Alzheimer's, Angels, Author, Blogging, Grandmas, Hard time, Heart, Helping, Lonely, Lost, Memories, Moments | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

At the Crossroads

 

AT THE CROSSROADS

 

H. W. Bryce

 

At the crossroads of last year and the new year,

I stand looking back, looking forward.

Which shall I be? Last year’s old man, all

Worn out and disillusioned, distraught,

 

Or the New Year baby, alll hope and energy,

Everything new and sparkling, dripping with faith.

 

Last year’s new tracks became familiar ruts,

Confidence wore down by ifs, ands and buts.

Next year’s trail is yet to be broken, through

The long grasses, thick forests, raging streams

And high peak mountains. Through it all, reams

Of chances. Do I take this chance or that?

Do I need a steel-lined hat? Is my compass true?

 

Standing at the crossroads of last year and next year,

In that nebulous, silent traffic stop of Time,

On the eve of Night, or Break of New Day,

Not knowing to be nostalgic or chance that continuum of Time,

To be captive in my habits, or to set new rhythms – to rhyme,

To play it safe or dare to face my fear, and all of that

With but a nanosecond to decide,

 

To admit to my weaknesses, confess my wrongs,

To play the fiddle and listen to the gongs,

Or hum my OHMs and own my pride, take that ride,

Chance that wave, make new life songs…

 

I know you find it difficult to imagine such a world

Where Love is offered in spite of hate aswirl,

But there are still good people left in this crazy

Troubled world, good things are being done,

People are still having fun.

So go ahead, my friend, Imagine. Set your mind to

Imagination, ride the bumpy ride and take the crossroad

To the right, and help to build that brave new world.

 

Leave the mundane rut-filled, troubled time,

Set new pathways, invite your friends

Hold out your hand, and I will take your hand,

And we will help to lead the way to that

Imagined new way of living, loving, helping

Each other out, in good times, and in bad.

 

But, true to its nature, Time awaits no one,

And so I am drawn into the future, willingly

Or unwillingly, and so, I decide to go, yes,

Willingly, into that waiting future of my life.

 

With hopeful expectancy and pregnant thoughts.

 

So go ahead and imagine. Imagination will

Take you to where you need to go. It will.

If you can imagine it, it can happen.

Learning new traffic patterns—

 

Hey look. Young people, and old, are still falling

in love. Nuses ae still braving the virus,

Hour by hour, doctors are still doctoring each case.

 

There are revivals in embattled USA

of the old random acts of kindness, eh!

 

Countless people are still taking lost folks in,

Shelter from the storm, respite from the war.

 

Yes, my friend, you, too, may dream, so go right ahead

And imagine. Imagine that better day and make your bed.

 

Countless acts of bravery under duress are

Being made each and every day. Police are still

Protecting, children are still childering, helpful

Hands are still helping, loving hearts are still loving,

People are still seeing you, and you still matter,

And you still have love in your heart to scatter,

 

Yes, and a helping hand is still more powerful than

A fist, an encouraging word is still more helpful

Than a dressing down, music is still a healing

Force, more powerful than any storm awheeling.

 

So go ahead my friend, dream. Dream big. Yes,

Go ahead, Imagine. Imagine that magic world

Beyond the road to peace. Go ahead, imagine.

Yes, you have that right. The future can be bright.

 

Imagine!

 

Image by Stefan from Pixabay

 

Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Alzheimer's, Author, Choices, Lost, Moments, Poem | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment