Golden Flower 1996

Your golden presence announced far out on the dunes,
In a silent language only a seeker with a hunch,
Would perhaps know the mysteries of that land,

Some would search deeper,
But you shone like a beacon,
Summoning all who were willing to be your saviour,

One would climb the grassy soft dunes,

Those pale yellow petals began to capture more brilliance,
And direct me to your stress,
What a beautiful vision finally revealed,

Those wonderful hands would save,
And coerce out this trapped sunflower from the hard soil,
Cradling it into a piece of canvas,
And knowing, "there is a new home for you now",

That team of bullies and corrupt politicians,
Selfishly taking and never giving back,
Pathing over more of Sea Island for another runway,
Their trampling and destruction on the wildflower meadows and dunes,
Would leave nothing even for the birds and insects,

Golden Flower became another well-wisher,
Displaying throughout this glorious summer in my garden now,

Sometimes one could imagine,
Its friends of the garden world,
All those magnificent flowery heads nodding in greetings,
Leaves of all shapes leaf shaking, as people would with their hands,
A mischievous gust of wind would set in motion; a group hug, or bow or curtsey,
Hydrangeas and sweet peas would talk in an impish play,
The roses and peonies in their beds fading, but still attractive,

Golden flower still stood proud and grateful,
Following the sun throughout the day,
And always turning,
To thank me for my kind gesture.

Gold River Fall 2006

Vancouver Island in the fall of 2006, was another interesting, artistic journey. After leaving Campbell River behind we drove along the highway until we reached the small town of Gold River. Usually there were four people to each vehicle and we stopped at many of the scenic rest stops and enjoyed the views. The small river valley and falls around Gold River even in late fall was so picturesque. There were mushrooms all around us so I painted them along with the pine and cedar forests. Occasionally the sun would come through and light up the landscape. Some of the other compositions looked cooler and some had warmth; but the mushrooms always had a colourful and terrestrial quality to them.

The Snows of Goldstream Parklands 1995

On that day,
The landscape dictated to the painters,
To see more in this land,

Distant forms and dreamy illusions materialized,
My reality and frozen thoughts,
Left the bleak flats unaltered,

The snows relentlessly fell,
And would adventually cease,
Leaving this landscape changed once more,

Are you a mere sequence of colour and change?,

Or is it upon leaving this location,
Just the atmosphere created by time,

Erase all these beautiful visuals I would proclaim!,

But never our memories,
And Art work of that day.

First Beautiful Blossom 1990

As if the bloom would remind all,
A Spring is delightful,
The thorns dared to pierce that sensual moment,
Only a flowery lapel adornment,
Its rival,
That beautiful Nootka Rosebush,
Dressed to the height of another spring season,
I would never forget the fragrance,
So perfumed and inviting
Those sweet honeybees,
And delicate winged butterflies,
Thought so too,
Even the pastel pinks and circus of greenery,
Remains until this day,
Another memory and image so perfect.

Hawks Hollow 2002

In November of 2002, I had completed a hike around Deas Island Regional Park. Sometimes when there's a deluge of rain and the park becomes flooded, I'll still paint by using the straps of my paint bags. While I'm standing, the water dish and the watercolour trays will hang against my body. With the pad of watercolour paper in front of me; the painting is completed quite efficiently. The results are surprisingly nice and this small composition at Hawks Hollow is quite appealing.

Domesticity Doesn't Suit You Black-Eyed Susan 1993

(the ode)
I wonder sometimes when I glance at your intrepidity,
Hope your pleased and happy in your indoor land,
You posed stoically,
And one week now,
Please don't sprout legs and walk back off,
To that wildflower field,
That earth tone carpet with its lushes weave,
May satisfy you into believing,
It is the dark soil of the earth in which you came from,

I don't like seeming selfish,
But isn't all Art derived from that feeling?,
Otherwise nothing would be created,

All those wonderful paintings from your life,
Then time,
And the light,
Made even more,
Oh,
That dreaded change which is inevitable,

And on that certain morning,
Your dessicated blossoms and falling petals,
Now left that indication,
Sorry Black-Eyed Susan,
You may have faded into the bow of defeat,
But her vivid beauty on this canvas,
Still provoked a revision and immediate respect,
I will always see in my mind's eye.

Our Lodgings Near Grice Bay 2003

All the weary travellers,
Safe in this structure so sparse but practicable,
The bay is so serene,
Even the ravens call out to us in an invitation to rejoice,
On this sojourn,
With this eclectic group of artist,
We trooped all over Long Beach and the forest coves,
Agreeing later to part ways and paint,
Our visions so different,
But this Pacific Rim Park so appealing,
And the end result those works similar,
I hope all is sated,
At the highway diner we greeted again,
Our feelings of the day displayed in paint,
Meares Island has seen the tears of the disheartened,
Mighty protesters fending Meares's sanctity against those callous loggers,
The greedy only leave a selfish legacy and the savaging of that beautiful land.

Tulips and Pansies 1996

Your premier surprised my vision that morning,
When your delicate shoots sprung to life,

The soft tilled soil nurtured and hardened your inevitable arrival,

Many skunks in their black and white coats gleamed in the moon light,
Timidly leaving those plants bulbs unscathed,

And the warmth of the strengthening sun released you,
To another spring and you sprung surprisingly,

Perhaps the quarrelsome racoons had a deal with you,

To leave the artist in that dreamland space,
Within those glass enclosures some beauty,

Oh, yes I'll paint that,

I will paint anything,

For the need to express is one of the joys of life,
I would like to believe for the living,
And the feeling of those wonderful hands,
The time is now in which they will create,

Now the sumptuous petals of the tulips,
Caress the dainty; almost butterfly like ones of the pansies,

And keeping with tradition a coin for luck,

The fresh water lovingly poured,

And two weeks of your flourish for all to enjoy.

Spring Flowers of Manning Park 1997

Those early birds greeted me in a chorus of song,
Quite a fetching tribute to another early morning visitor,
I painted elsewhere but gathered and loved the selection,
Wildflower fields brimming with the wild geraniums,
Harebells,
And lupine,
Off in the distance,
Meadows shimmering with yellow buttercups,
I couldn't reach for the stream was fast moving,
The warmth of the sun would send those chills from winter back to that place unknown,
Now the butterflies and insects from their night time torpor,
Would begin to warm back to life,
On the perimeters of the meadows,
The wild deer would shyly graze,
On the sweet grasses and shepherd's purse,
And at the cabin,
My familiar glass vase made a sturdy home,
For that days harvest,
I almost worshipped and praised for their beauty,
And the painting; which soon followed.

Fruit and Veggie Station 1979

We unloaded the fixings to the kitchen tent,
Meat station waved over to the fruit and veggie ones,
The bugs paraded below the pretty wicker tables and sent,
Sweet wishes something would drop in fun,

Animals outside could smell the food,
Some squirrels would play with our minds,
The racoon would mosey on in always in a mood,
And look frightening with their dark gazes in search of a find,

Everything looked paintable one could say,
And so much to choose from but never a real labour,
That still life looked more alive today,
Accompanying the salmon and steaks with all its simple flavours,

That bay at Porteau Cove swarmed with more campers seeking fun,
Ants would line up expecting to be rewarded by someone,
Burners are all on and the cooking has just begun,
Caramelize and basting the fish and meats almost done,

While everything on this make shift party had taking place,
What hours of fun and everyones completely fed,
We will stay till the dusk shines no more light for us to trace,
This oil painting of fruit and veggie station all has been read.

Tranquility on Long Beach 1986

This open-air watercolour painting I did at Long Beach in Pacific Rim National Park is still memorable. After my long hike from one edge of the beach straight across the firm sand to nearly the other side. On exploring that area I came upon lots of sanddollars, starfish and even jelly fish; which unfortunately never made it through the last storm. One can collect shells and check out the tidal pools. For stranded fish and marine creatures, waiting for the next storm to release them back into the Pacific Ocean. The logs strewn about the higher grounds close to the forest, made a great place for me to paint and relax.

Boundary Bay Cannery X11 Revisited 1989

She sparkled after that tantalizing storm of hail,

I sat hunched but not broken,

But painted an homage to the form,

The beams and planks all sighed in relief,

Also the roof and sidings expelled the soaking back into the slough,

We all waited for and prepared once more,

For Expression,

Only the time will reveal the moment,

Her supports looked rattled but familiar,

Those waves still badger all but licked in a delicious rhythm,

And now the salty breeze returned to awaken back all who dared to remember.

The Water Colours of Ocean Storm 2000

We visited often this beautiful wreckage,
Perhaps the epitaph,
Of a life so once serene,
We would explore that desolate shore,
There was a feeling they belonged just to Neptune,
The sea god would display his hoard of the lost,

Ocean Storm would move sometimes towards the dunes,
Then play somedays with the waves,
Those tricksters lurked in form below our feet,
Could it be the crabs and starfish shifting her form mischievously,
Greasing the paveway with the kelp along the pebbles,

I wondered what form her wooden curves appeared like,
But only now her inners remain and lived on many of my canvases,

On that certain morning all was different,
Cumulus clouds were in the unsettling sky taunting the mortals below,
An eye glared to earth and enticed everything beneath,
That all is calm,
But in fact we were in amidst of the storm,

Ocean Storm no longer was there but returned back to her watery grave,
A sad reality but as it ought to have been,
The essence of her soul would now reclaim once more her beautiful lost form.

As the Light Shifted 1996

Those beautiful wildflowers of Langley lived many times, in quite a lot of my compositions. I remember during a break from that watercolour, the Wildflowers of Langley 1996. The sun began to set behind the row of large pine trees along our property line. My studio darkened rapidly. And on a whim; I created this almost abstract painting with its sketchy qualities.

Spring Daffodils of Hazelmere 1988

The vendors along the road side with their colourful signs of directions,
Would summon the prospected buyers to lurch off the highways,
Into the make shift parking spots,

Looking at those yellow flowers of spring,
Elastic and pretty,
Saying, "each bundles ten dollars!"

With that certain squeaking sound from the stems,
Tightly bundled together and ready for the sale,

We just left and drove on past and greeted the sweet campbell river,
All grey today,
The banks delicately festooned with the late march snowfall,

Peeping through,
Those stubborn daffodils would not be silenced,
Into another sleep,
Those bobbing pale petals,
With their orangey-yellow trumpets,

Stood proud and erect,
Ready for the selection and pickings,
By all who would venture along the rivers bank,

We love the hunt for the wild daffodils,
And those vendors had arrived earlier in the quiet dawn,
To grab all the abundant Spring yellowy gifts,

I'm so happy some flowers eluded their greedy snatches,

Their vehicles left tracks of chaos and hurry,
Which muddied that snowy dike trail,
But their funny footprints showed a higgledy-piggledy dance of confusion,
Which probably the herons and kingfishers chuckled at, high up in the cottonwoods.

Hi Friends:I've been so busy maintaining my different projects.I'm so especially fond of this Blog-site the most; a Virtual Art Gallery.Here's more...

The Watercolour Memories of Cypress Bowl 1985

That image faded into a wash of distant pines and firs,
Only my vivid memory remained,
The keeper of my dreams and the silent witness,
Would be those stoic pines and timid firs,
They'll all smile back from their dizzying heights,
Whom amongst you saw a man revealing his inner emotions?,
Those luxurious hues spread veraciously on canvas,
That elusive ideal image cried out as a continuous birth,
Somewhat like that of an unknown new being,
Born into a natural world,
Articulating their presence their here,
The sounds in which the baby needs to be nurtured,
Oh, those views with their impressions,
Sending those soft colour of washes reveling to the command,
Of a personal representation,
Thanks to the Heavens I would think to myself,
That day the earth radiated all that warmth,
And created the mirage only that medium could manage,
To bring forth in the soft treatment and emotions of that day at Cypress Bowl,
I still tremble with that certain Feeling of Art,
Which one has to create in their own style,
Each tree reached to the Heavens,
Upon venturing back along that secret gravel trail,
At the bowl those trees would greet the tired traveller with his gear,
And all the growth different now but those feelings still familiar and nearer.

Wild Yellow Marsh Irises along the Nicomekl River 1996

We all plunged down along the soft lushes banks in the spring of '96,
Traversing into the shallows near the rivers edge,
As the blood hounds wallowed clumsily and jostled into our bodies,

Only the greenish-grey waters of the Nicomekl gently kissed our heels,
The painting party ventured out with individual bags of colour and liquid expressions,
And lay claim to their particular views which I found everyone especially breathtaking,

An open-aired joyous interpretation tantalized us into silence,
And the work of that quickening day begun,
A rocking motion created by the breeze moved the bag perched in the centre of my easel,

The tree swallows visited our sight,
With playful aerial dances they especially glided by our hands,
Curious to the motions and perhaps wanting to assist in dappling a wing into the palette,
And leaving their mark on the canvas board,

I wondered if they would accidentally fly through the composition,
Into a make believe world of hope and beauty,

They played and fed on the insects and made sweet tweaking sounds on every swoop,

Hours past by and marsh irises and the river appeared and lived on that surface now,
One would never want a day like that to end but the clocks ticking on,
And the inevitable task of packing up began,

Some of the other members would destroy their own moment with every critic,
I, on the other hand loved that painting and change nothing,
As it was the study of a moment along the Nicomekl,
On a perfect Spring day.

Giant Cedars of Cathedral Grove 1994

I am drawn to your sweet scent,
Collapsing to your foot in one of Gods many earthly creations,
All these many towering altars encouraged me to pray,

We all worshipped in the ways we were taught by the wise,
All this wonderful Still Life,
We the Good still obey,

But the bad I see them hiding behind those other trunks,
They'll never be saved if they even believe,

We chose a different path as to avoid their frightening glances,

What is this feeling that captivates my curiosity?,

I believe it was on that wet day,

Knowledge,

And upon leaving this living sanctuary,
I ventured back to the world of toil and living.

Boundary Bay Cannery 1989

Just last week I walked by that walking trail in Surrey. Where the slough meets the estuary and the low tide reveals the mudflats. The presence of that beautiful Cannery can still be felt there. What a shame they had demolished such an interesting historical landmark.

This sensitive watercolour which I painted at the side of the trail years ago. Still captured the uniqueness of the wooden structure, and the many storms which it had too endure. At least the elements spared the Cannery and left it with dignity.

Those corrupt politicians never understood its meaning and certain greedy people wanted an unobstructed view.


Of...



Nothingness.

Tweedsmuir Park of 1988 meets Digital Art

On some of the compositions which appear quite sketchy, I've decided to enhance the image by using digital art. For example in this Tweedsmuir Park painting in late summer; the sky looked too sepia so I felt the aquamarine would make the image stand out more. I personally don't find the paint program of a computer exciting, but in time I'm getting used to that technology. A brush still dipped in pigment and applied by the artist is so much more beautiful, with the lavished brush strokes visible. It just has that human touch which is so unique, and thus the painting has Soul.

The Black-Eyed Susan Wild Daisies 1993

You're so wild,

The heat haze of this marshland will motion your heads to nod,

Reddish-orange and yellow-orangey colours are so beautiful,

An announcement once more that summer is at its height,

These daisies of the sun were collected with such joy,

Then soon after in the studio painted with respect,

It seems to me they'll always be drenched with sunlight,

As the petals almost worship and appear like many brilliant Suns.

One Dreams in the Skeena River Valley 1990

You may not really have existed in the realm of that day,
But I created my own reality,
The forced blossoms of those wildflowers shimmered in that warm spring breeze,

Oh, you Skeena,
Your waters travel and flow eventually emerging once more into Hecate Strait,

My journey there that spring so long ago,
An uneventful and dear fond memories of recollection,

Those smooth roads and bridges of freedom,
Would praise each visitor,
You have held onto your wildness and silent talk,
And one has heard the ancient breath sigh,

Many more passages to discover,

For the vision of the Artist in us all to reveal,

I would leave with this painting wet and sticking with insects and floating seeds,
Giving the tooth of the canvas more substance,
And reveling always in that journey of exploration,
Rather than the arrival; has always intrigued my thoughts.

Tofino 1983

Back in 1983 my friends and myself left the south terminal of Sea Island by float plane heading for Pacific Rim National Park. It was enjoyable and we whale watched, fished, painted and the wildlife was so incredible. Times sure have changed there now in Tofino; as it seems overpopulation has created many water shortage issues. They're still in the process of completing their new and larger water reservoir. I've been back to Tofino many times and the whole area is basically in a rainforest located on Vancouver Island.

Young Maple Tree 1993

They would'nt give you a chance to grow in that lot,
Eventually it would become your muddy gravesite,
Another green space destroyed without conscience,

But I know what I must do,

A replanted saviour,

Safe place for you to grow,

Even around these urban eyesores,
I know of the many protected parks,
No one would dare disturb you now,

It lives now in Lighthouse Park,

Thrives uninterrupted with its beautiful growth,
Gives a home to the animals,
And shade to the park visitors,

As well as the air,

To all whom wish to breathe and respect life.

Wildflowers of Langley 1996

When I was hiking at Campbell River Park I came upon a wildflower field.

It was so beautiful and I began to pick the wild harebells, phlox, milkweed, and queen anne's lace.

This watercolour painting in a sturdy glass vase captured that moment; and those wildflowers I still remember how wonderful they smelt.

The Seated Pretty Little Girl in a Blue Jumper 1995

This pretty little girl is so smart,

Cute,

Well behaved,

Posed in the seat for me so patiently,

A lovely child,

And she is now a young woman.

Winter at Lupin Creek 1995

When I went to Vancouver Island in the winter of 1995, I stopped off at Strathcona Provincial Park. I've known about Lupin Creek and the snow was wet, sticky and waist deep in some of the drifts. The accumulation of snow along the banks of this beautiful creek never stopped me from venturing over it and down to the creek side. This oil painting was done quickly. As it was cold and with the wind picking up, became much colder with the wind chill. I'm pleased with this painting and feel it has expressive energy. In the clear and reflective waters they contained lots of leaf material. At Spring and Summer one can find salamanders, frogs, small crayfish, and salmon fry. The surrounding forest has all the visitors from the stellar blue jays, redheaded woodpeckers, owls, and the songbirds all sweetly singing high-up in the oaks and maple trees. Eventually the waters of the creek cascade over Lupin Falls.

About the Sails 2005

I feel your invisible force across my weathered face,
Ever changing elements,
A power only seen when your presence is tethered,
Could that be merely a cerebral thought,
The cloth buckles and wails and shows what its catch would embody,
People have created the colours so unique,
But my palette would blush from within its many underlayers of hues,
All together shimmering and worn by the moist particals of motion,
I love the speed in which you drive the vessels,
The marriage of the rigging, mast and booms; along with the dancing, flowing drappery,
Would appear to be the only movement on the ocean,
Perhaps instantaneous are the Sails,
And on that worrying shore,
Only your motionless adornment remains.

Wild Rabbits of Richmond 2009

Exquisite wild rabbits dashed about the land,
If only those heartless people loved and respected their pets,
Instead they found their cuteness very short-lived,

Every living creature grows to adulthood,
Some people treat others in the same way,
Casting them out to fend for themselves,

But the cruel have even thrown away their babies,

Some humans behave like animals,

The warmth of the day overwhelmed me,
I dared not to rest as a dream would begin,

A sudden fear came upon me as I hopped around,
Finding my form no long familiar,
But transformed from a Man to a Rabbit,

I was now in that nightmare chased and badgered into anguish,
The others somehow that moment; in this cloudy dreamland were impartial,
No one cared but fed on leftover red berries and greens,
Ignorant munching and we all very alike,
Except the colours of our fur were of different shades,

I, trapped in that body of a bunny,
And now been chosen for culling and I cared,
If they only knew how human I once were,

We're not worthless but living beings,

The rest had been hit about the head,
Shot at,
Or shocked into intrepidity,
"Run bunnies run!",
I squealed in rabbit talk,
"To our burrows",
But it was to late,

A smash to the back of my head,
The tears along my eyes awakened me to a moist conclusion,
And my sealed lids began to lift,
That parkland in Richmond materialized into a mirage of reality,
My head hit back to the trunk of the tree,
I had dreamt upon moments earlier.

Dusk at Beacon Hill Park 2001

Desperate shades of reflective light,
Bounced playfully,
Turning all which would reciprocate the game,

That soft orangey glow,
Played like a sequence of trembling colours on the waters of the pond,
The oak leaves saluted the flickering light,

Only the people and ducks knew dusk had arrived,

A time of reflection and the closure which would ensue,

The air now was delicious and cooler and one could breathe,
A better composition resulted from that fleeting realm of time,

The atmosphere soon had more changes,
Midnight blues would exchange greedy embraces with the hues of life,
Longer shadows emerged distorting the faded landscape,

And all that is Alive would prepare for eventide.

Peace Amongst the Island of Saturna 2003

The congregation of these Souls not lost,
But as adventurers seeking the same dreamy consequences,

The pretty view a shock to the earthbound hiker,
An hour trek to the bluff left many breathless but without any regrets,
Every ration was consumed with almost religious ritual,

People paired up in a protective compromise,
Which is the silence to their vulnerability; perhaps warding off demons,
Most are good and all were seeking peace and connection to life,

The Artists happily search the area in the perfect early morning light,
Capturing that moment as a reflection for all time,

Sunworshippers absorbed the rays of heat,
With exposed sunblocked skin in their colourful suits,

Many hikers were rewarded with the beautiful view of the Islands of the Gulf,
Moments later they would be replaced with other visitors wearing different apparels,
Somewhat like that quickening light of the day; which changed the landscape,

The small cove protected the overnight boaters in a restful haven,

And in the lower pastures and wildflower fields,
Feral horses would roam and graze on the sweet grasses and wildflowers,

All was perfect that day,

The movement was in a slow transcendental rhythm,

To the kaleidoscope of that island.

Finn Slough 1978

Moment of silence and contemplation,
I've lived here many years so long ago,
A community of tranquility,
A reality somewhat would many like to know,

For some quaint time in that village,
Which shares the Frasers passage,
My house filled with memories viewed and enjoyed by selective visitors,
Please don't envy or admire the quaintness,

In the seventies she floated defying the tides,
And played with buoyant anticipation with each ebb and flow,
She now stands on her six beautiful legs,
To the greedy "No" I would not sell my abode,

I have known of her embrace towards the wreckage and tidal ducks,
Their journey I look too with fondness and not despair,
The brave adventurers would kayak sometimes pass my sundeck,
My make shift garden with pots of generosity,
Plenty to feed the family and more,

The neighbours would share stories and adventures,
Now corrupt politicians try to lie and swindle us out of our homes,
We love our water accessible village,
They'll only see waterfront land; what a bunch of greedy flippers,
And we pay taxes and know to stand up for what we adore,

A friendly couple said " hello" many years don't you know,
We're still writing and sharing memories,
They call it sweetly the painters village at the slough,
I along with them discovered many more Artists painting,
Along our dike and lovely ones too,

Many have moved and I miss them wouldn't you,
My home has been renovated with such loving care,
But it 's pontoon-barge base and hidden recess remains for me,
The foundation of what was once so dear to me,
I love my Finn Slough; the time there never faded and memories which I hold onto.

To The Picnic 1992

Charades on the middle-arm where the waters venture and meet,
The Straits call their salty waters to greet the Frasers flow,
Lovers tie their sailboats and stake them securely to the beach,
The man will walk and search for that ideal picnic site,

Friends just prepare to entertain one another,
Visitors seek out this parks accomodations,
Everyone is happy and alive,
All seems calm and serene,

Even the loud engine surge from the seaplane taxiing,
Never stirred anyone to look,
Distance and the breeze will disperse that sound,
Its terminal floating on a liquid runway,
No one really cares about them,

The cormorants surefooted,
Cling on their floating places,
They're special and oil their feathers,
During preening they'll digest their last feed then hunt once more,

As every living being nows is at peace,
An orchestration to direct the day becomes unique,
Every chapter is different on that beach,
But the stories become much more similar,

After the picnic,
The woman languid happily in the warm westerly breeze,
One could paint, scribe, or strum the mandolin,
The play on ones senses would be quite exquisite now on this beach.

The Clouds which Shroud 2008

You distant clouds high up in the atmosphere,
Slowly with the curvature of the earth come into my consciousness,
Are you ready to encapsulate this sphere,
Remembering once many many springs and the sweet fragrance of Mother Earth,
Will trigger a fondness from the Heavens,
I below would throw the soft blanket over my form protecting me from the unknown,
I really wonder what damage you could inflict on the blue body of the planet below,
The shuttering alder leaves beautifully dance with the breeze,
You Artist rest from the ache in your neck,
Each tier of the clouds rolling gently by,
That invisible force I wish would lift me too; high into the sky,
One could imagine to reach up and taste the delectable soft meringues,
A flash of the sunlight would challenge the opening,
But another fluffy saviour surely would fill that space,
One can dream in a sequence and explore the Clouds which Shroud,
Only the Alder and it's towering friends have seen this game,
In the Woodlands still unnamed.

The Stage of Life 2002

Beacon Hill Park,
Your dormancy once eluded the visitor,
Warm Spring days with the dappled pastel colours,
The cascade of petals,
Only your blossoms remain in a lost space,
Each gust of the westerly winds,
Showered and praised the lovers of nature and life,
A sweet accent and fragrance for that certain memory,
The need to feed,
Some wait to be fed,
That beautiful swan,
The feathers white and bold,
Somehow the pintails, mallards and squirrels know,
Everyone is alive and come to absorb the details of another spring,
Rebirth for the coming of artistic things,
Summer is waiting impatiently for it's searing expanse,
Save the shortened spring days,
And saddening decay of age,
They've begun to go to seed,
But other summer flowering entities take the stage,
Appearing for their awakening show,
And our pleasures of that cherished day,
Our play is sure to go.

Mortuary Pole Stanley Park 1978

When you drive through Stanley park after a couple of kilometers a group of totem poles will greet the park visitors. One I especially enjoy visiting is the chief skedan mortuary pole which I painted back in 1978. The original I believe is back in the museum for preservation and this replica completed back in the early 1960's is still beautiful. It's one of the smaller totems with a coffin at the top hidden behind a face carving. It was painted garishly throughout the years, but I'm happy they painted it back to its earth tone colours.

Shades in the Park of Gray 2002

That gray morning with the layers of wine and the auburn foliage,
With the furtive days of winter behind hopefully,
Even the harlequin ducks and mallards would mock the visitors,
With their quacking of "see you soon and don't be a stranger?!?",

Only the resident coyote with its coat all tawny and ragged,
Trying to blend into that landscape knows,
The silky grays would somehow distort by the tints of sunlight,
Its heat and light blocked out by the stubborn low clouds,

I would proclaim, "leave you persistent winter,
My body still aches from your chills",
That season this year reared more snow,
Challenging the artist with frostbitten fingers,
And numb lost dreams,

At last the warmth and the giving light from the shy sun,
Would defeat those graying days,
Quit being so somber park along the Fraser river,
Only the sensual waters know how to tease your inhabitants,

Sloughs play the game,
And the frolic begins with the tidal ducks,
Caressing them gently throughout the channels,
As the cedar bridges and walkways aid the visitors,
Whom become the show,

It seems somewhat the playful tidal ducks and their relations,
All sparkling beauties call out to one another,
With winged excitement and sloppy landings,
More come to the park of gray,

Probably to watch the humans with their gray faces and empty stares,
It's better they don't know the bobbing spectacles,
Floating happily at their watery places,
In their colorful feathered outfits,
Bring the coming of spring to that park dressed in gray.

Taylor Meadows 1993

Friendly spirits please summon me back to Garibaldi Park,
I remember in 1972 my first encounter with those mountains,
In those days just many close friends,
Now many decades later and wonderful years spent up there accumulating,

That unkempt gravel and mud trail would challenge the hiking enthusiast in us all,
I promised that trail would never defeat me but only greet me,
Now the yearly pilgrimage is with my family,
We traverse upwards with such ease knowing each bend,

Send me into this vision of serenity I would proclaim in silence,
As an older man the ancient soul which dwells in my being,
Would urge me to explore another facet amongst this explosive beauty,
The wildflowers are generous and each family member too,

I knew even at a tender age,
The knowledge of creativity and the hunger to express,
Can be present in all people along with the beauty of everything,
Perhaps the foundation of all of the Arts,

The weeks up in that park would urge me to return,
Eventually the many paintings of our adventures at Black Tusk would grow,
From each yearly vantage point all would be different,
And from the long hike; your splendid first vision begins in Taylor Meadows.

Mud flats 2005

I strain as my vision sends me forward into the vast distance,
The breakers have subsided,
And I see the mud flats teaming with hunters,
All privileged to bide for the probe,
Elegant beaks with unique shellfish techniques,
Even the bald eagles lull and socialize further out,
Where the seas force to draw more of the flats is futile,
I have walked and ventured out onto that slippery surface,
Hoping to catch perhaps a clearer image of my objective,
But that stubborn Vancouver Island and it's many islands of the gulf,
Are still a mere mirage all longing to claim a moment of presence,
In the Artists hopes,
I would paint quicker,
The tide rushes back to shore mercilessly,
Everything is lovely and alive,
The kelp and shore vegetation worry if their haven will be permanent,
Only the silky proceeding waters bubble and squelch,
The tease of flow has won,
At last the umber sands of mud in their watery spaces,
Begin the parade to reconfigure back to a jigsaw of change,
And later the reveal of new muddy islands,
With the familiar washes and streams seeking to drain,
One could challenge the waters of this Strait,
To put the mud flats exactly right back to precision.

Land of the Three Wild Crocuses 2009

We all feel sometimes like giants,
Going back to one of my memories,
A life time of many drawn back years,
To when a mortal would be small,

That dream one would write down,
Personal adventures to share and read back,
I who was a miniature human in a world of giants,
My obstacles around me huge,
That fantasy land where one would search for others,
Do you believe me?

And when other giants and their giant dogs,
Explore the parklands and with clumsy intentions,
The awakening blossoms of the wild crocuses trembled in concern,

If they only knew the land of the littlest beings,
Lay beneath their clumsy treading,
I took shelter in that comforting cocoon,
Soft purplish petals with their orangey-yellow stamens,
In appearance a shroud of warmth protecting me from all harm,

We shiver as the artic winds dig deeper into our bodies,
Indiscriminately others would shiver merely to know,
But I remain warm in my subtle armature of expressive colour,
I had to leave my greatest discovery that day,
Knowing I would come back to sit,

I would move back into another world,
Uncertain if I was now a giant but knowing more,
It drew me nearer and I painted and almost worshipped,
These treasures of very early spring,

Please don't tread on them I would wish,
They stood ready for the praise,
The others never even noticed the beauty below their feet,
Some others I've seen with a cruel swipe,
The wildflowers preview destroyed in an instant,
Their Spring arrival shortened and lost forever,

I wonder if they knew to leave beauty for others to enjoy,
The giants amongst us all compared to those crocuses,
Our lifes are precious too,
I dread the damage of not seeing them anymore,
The prelude that something larger than us may have destroyed them,
And in relation to us that our lifes soon may be irrelevant.

Sloughs along the Fraser 1992

Surrounding the cormorants and fish eagles,
So experts in their food capture,
Please squabble quietly; we all thought to ourselves,

Only an image like that which makes you creative,
Awakes the memories of a certain peace,

We stroke the oars of our open boats,
Effortlessly throughout this sleepy slough,
The community still in slumber or a state of neglect,

We promised to be very quiet as not to awaken any of those inhabitants,
They do not work and their boats and floating pavilions,
Merely envelope their empty and selfish existences,

Nature is still so alive and everything within its boundaries works,
Even the Artists,
Us all in motion on our discovery of a new vision,
Work to capture the quality of our momentary lifes,

Every member respectfully,
Creates with a personal interpretation,
What is felt and with the freedom and elegant technique of medium,
Many new compositions are ready for constructive criticism,

The currents on the outskirts of this awakening slough,
Ebbed in relation to time; only the Fraser swift and persistent,
Whisked away our artistic party down stream to venture,
We later discovered to another unknown village floating on borrowed time.

Dance of the Seagrass and Waves 2008

My hands would slice a path through the frigid waters,
Seagrasses may tolerate the motion,
Only knowing a dance would ensue,

The tidal ducks fight the frolic,
Playfull to the weight and currents of the ocean,
Only the grasses cavort and wiggle,

The little children lose themselves,
And with playful games challenge each surge,
Seagrass holds the muddy dance floor,

Our human forms enjoy the bathe,
Sometimes vulnerable as the waters play with our senses,
The sea could be your most formidable partner,

Loving every moment that the brush splashes colour onto canvas,
Not a care the water splashes in chorus to an artists emotions,
Only the seagrass mimics the lushes touch of a brush; as to kiss the watery surface,

Hold fast to the battle we are defeated,
The water always is the victor as the tide flows indiscriminately,
Drowning the verdant greens within their pale umber solutions,

We will always become saddened,
When the thoughtless pollute our waters with their waste,
Then the seagrasses no longer can prepare for their next dance.

Mount Baker from Steveston Spring 2006

I decided one morning to finally paint this view of Mount Baker, from the South Arm of the Fraser river. Mount Baker, especially in the morning when the sun has just risen, will cast a pinkish glow.
The reddish sunrise reflected in the clouds, sky, and down upon that snowy extinct volcano, will create some of the most beautiful mornings in spring. Just looking at our Coast Range mountains to the distant Cascade Range ones; I'm sure many people living on the West Coast have used those different mountain ranges to orientate themselves while travelling around.

Holding Hands 2004

The Hands that hold,
Hands which know,

There are Hands which reach out,
Many more will seek out,

Artistic beautiful Hands which paint,
Writers Hands I adore their language which they make,

Some Hands can sculpt the other Hand,
Respect also to musicians and dancers Hands which aid,

Hands of the baby which are new and sometimes emulate,
The aging Hands have lived to show,

Everyones Hands are unique,
Some Hands will sign the silence of speech,

Some Hands I dread could destroy,
I love the many more Hands that meet to greet,

Either the right or left Hand can help the needy,
Even the ones which are not adorned are pleasing,

Only the Hands that hold,
Are the Hands which will know.

Floating Salvage Yard 1997

Relics abused and disregarded,
Longing to be recognized once more,
We all feel attractive in our heydays,
Of splendid Beauty,
With our Handsome Images.

Only our aging presence will suggest who we once were,
Where there's a saying,
Even when painting a portrait,
Especially a young woman,
The model should be twenty-one.

Her beauty is formed and she will give good face,
And one feels the height of a persons attractiveness,
Reaches the glorious age of Twenty-four.

Unfortunately the disrespect and disregard many good people have to endure,
By the meanness of others,
May cruelly age and ravish that mortal into a living fossil of hardship,
But ones beautiful Soul will never be tarnished by the heartless.

Perhaps those rusted dilapidated hulks,
Fish trollers, ancient ferries and other floating dreams,
At there berths of despair,
With some tender loving care,
May surface to float on their usage,
Rather than castaways sinking to the depths of someones belongings.

Please don't make them a living reef,
And just another chance to operate once more,
On these floating molecules of hope.

Mountain Ash 2008

Last summer when I went to Vancouver Island I visited the beautiful quaint Village of Sayward. The drive was long but well worth it and we set up camp at the campground. This pretty oil of the Mountain Ash with the clusters of the reddish-orange rowanberries, always reminds me of the great time we spent there. Johnson Strait was always teaming with lots of activity and we explored the rainforest around Saywards estuary.

Weepers of the Willows 1993

Send me bounding out of this land,
I once saw a spirit,
I shutter to know why your mournful cries swept amongst the dying leaves,
Small pendulum and extraordinaire,

Willows of this ancient bank,
The river swift and hid and knows,
The body of the solemn all lost,
But at last your soul I have found and grow to woe,

Please may I save and release you,
A shroud which awaits you,
God is forgiving and will bless the mortal,
You have been absolved and express in that place which you will rest,

I have remembered the deeds of their gone byways,
My kin and I would play amongst the dunes of sand,
These monuments of land which drift and would travel ,
Hearing those cries once more as the willow will force,
That entity which I fought many, many decades ago,
Worried itself away and could not steal my Soul,

Now the insolent boat clubs tread,
The ancestral place your people worshipped you to Rest,
Your remains searched for but eluded,
But the willows voice never ceased and divulged,

A journey of reincarnation awaits you,
Or perhaps a prophet in your next life will venture you away,
I like to believe to a better place than here,
The decaying leaves only cast a layer of uncertainty,

That life vessel which I suppose you chose,
A mysterious Dol-porpoise all waiting,
Along the middle-arm it eloquently swam on its peaceful journey,
Your Soul, in which now will go,

Have you now transported yourself back to a different plane?
You live once more and a peace fills my hopes,
Your watery journey has lead you back to your ancestors,
As the weeping from the willows no longer can be heard.

Blackberry Pickers at Ladysmith 2001

When I was on Vancouver Island in late September 2001 I visited a park in the town of Ladysmith. An opening adjacent to some of the pines revealed a couple of acres of the blackberry bush. Their long and thorny canes grabbed and made tearing sounds at my clothes as I brushed by with my painting things in hand. I found a place soon after and began to paint this oil. Late in the morning berry pickers showed up with buckets which they began to fill up; they'd be part of this composition now. From the forest two playful chipmunks showed up and like tight-rope walkers entertained me. They avoided the thorns and with their little paws held those dark purple fruit and munched away. The robins and wrens naturally didn't want to lose out; as they'd want to have their fill too. I never forgot the sweet smell of the ripening blackberry which permeated this area of the park and my clothes.

The Oak Street Bridge 1993

I love this view of the Fraser River that is represented in this pretty oil. These structures all situated near one another were used by my ancestors, relatives and even myself. That interurban trestle bridge from the early 20th century is the way people from the other municipalities would travel closer; at the many nearby stations they would board a trolley car then a bus and finally reach Vancouver. In 1959 it all ended and the attractive Oak Street Bridge was soon open for use, people would travel now in their vehicles. All still remains except for Bridgepoint Public Market, where I shopped for my produce, it was built in the late 1980's and abandoned in 1992. Around 2001 its History was Lost and demolished and a casino was built; it attracts some undesirable elements of society and looks unfinished. An eyesore alongside the Fraser River which many people never look at or talk about anymore. I'm sure after it has served its purpose that property will be flipped, then torn down, hopefully something beautiful rises again on that site.