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.