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.