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.