Winter, Sometimes a Wonderland

Today is one of those rare winter days where the air is dry enough that walking is enjoyable.

The sky is an intense blue, clear with only a sparing wisp of cloud to the north over Fredericton. There has been so little breeze in the woods that the firs and spruce still hold the snow from Tuesday night.

In the clearing where there has been drifting, the snow has taken on the patterns of sand washed in wind and wave, gentle ripples and dimples on the sparkling surface.

Running zigzag across the drive and into the browse, is the chaotic meandering prints of the many snowshoe hare. The very same marauding denizen of the summer garden, the very same that has destroyed all hope of springtime tulip blooms, and keeps the pole beans, which have the ability to reach heights over 30 feet, moderately stunted well into summer.

The red fox was on the prowl early this morning, the delicate foot prints, carefully placed in the snow indicate that it was on the hunt for the hare or perhaps it was partridge whose print was also visible in various locales.

The poor partridge, a bird which has the inclination to hide in the lowest limbs of the evergreens during a snow, can easily become entombed in a snowfall that, if heavy enough, can not dig itself out from under, the frozen remains are there for the spring cleaning by the ravens and turkey vultures that are becoming more plentiful as the years pass. The remaining partridge are the fortunate ones who go to produce sizable broods of cute little chicks hidden in the nests against fallen logs. Who, when you stumble upon the area, are then seen dragging the 'broken wing' well away from the nest site.

Upon closer inspection of the trails in the snow, there is the sign of the red squirrel, tiny clawed paw prints, then a tunnel dug into the snowbank, which leads to some yet undiscovered maze and likely a stash of forgotten food.

The area around the bird feeder is active, chickadees and nuthatches dashing in and out, a quiet cacophony of chirps and whirs, grabbing the best sunflower seeds and flying into the snarl of the sleeping wisteria vine and returning for more. All the while ignoring the whistle of the grey jays and the screech of the blues whose when provoked by each other can become quite rowdy leaving pulled feathers for the collecting.

It's time to feed them all again and the tamer red squirrels, who will come when you call "George", are expecting a treat of bread with peanut butter. A prized treat, that if they are not quick to take it, is lost to the jays, who will inevitably follow the reds to see where it is going to be hidden and will steal it away, if given even half a chance.

6 February 2009
---

Stuff

the everyday detritus
the stuff of living

magazines and papers
laundry and dishes

piles of stuff stacked
in corners
on tables
under beds

boxed and bagged
bundled and buried

the stuff, the mess,
debris of what was

holding sadness in the remnants
of failures and lost ideals
the symbols of ruins of the past

dig into the piles
i dare you to dig
and sift through it
the burial site
the ruins of the life that was

© 13 February 2009
Cynthia Ryder
--

The Nightmare at (insert name of department store here)

with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore

'Twas a nightmare at (inset name of department store here), all through the boutique,
not a brassiere to be had, to fit my physique.

The panties were flung in a bin by the cash,
sorting and sifting and fondling the stash,
were hausfraus with children in Keds,
and visions of pole-dances stuck in their heads.

The big mammas in the kerchiefs

had snagged some new briefs.

In the very back corner there was barely a spatter
of nylons and hosiery and other such matter.

The garters were skimpy, lacey and crass;

best ignored if you aren’t showing ass.

The lighting fluorescent cast a glow

giving lack-lustre gleam to the objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
full wall racks and displays of my favorite gear.

With a little lace there and lycra in here

the fanciful bras were all over there.

I looked at the black from Brazil,

and the pink and the brown with the frill.

All the lovelies from Olga and Lucy,

oh, the colours that all seemed so juicy.

A myriad of choices and style,

regarding each one with a smile

I started my quest without looking back

by pawing the structures on the very first rack.

There was 32A and a 36C

a 34B and a 38D

and the ghastly wad

was 44OMFG.

There was lavender and cream,

The red lace was a dream.

Seamless and streamlined.

Spandex and unlined.

For under a t-shirt

and those that convert

For strapless and backless

and those that compress

Lifting and separating

and for moms that are mating

Crossing the heart for hours on end

for some without doubt can be a godsend

18 hours of Playtex

and pieces of latex,

The divine little structures for aisles.

with patience and practice I gathered my piles

Stuffing bras in the change room

I flirted with doom.

What I had held in my hand with glee,

that I hoped would lift more than esprit,

did not fit, so I lifted another

and tried and oh bother.

Again and again and once more

I hang the rejects on the door.

Every bra that looked like it just might,

some looked plain bad, and some were a fright.

With dismay as I tried on the last

I hoped and then muttered “oh blast,

it’s built for a comic book hero.”

With me it scored less than zero.

It had tin tits type firmness

and supports in excess.

I tossed it aside and proclaimed in disgust

“there’s not one thing here to fit my fine bust”.

I had tried at least 50 brassieres

and knew now it was time for the tears,

the sales girl was cross at the mess

50 bras to resort and address.

But we heard her exclaim, as we walked out of sight,
” A 34-quad-D, good fugging luck and good night!!!"

Had the misfortune of bra shopping last month, turns out that I'm either very picky or very hard to fit. Not their fault

Challenged to remember you
there is daily electronic shrine worship
with photographs, notes and mementos
the effort is reduce the regrets
abolish the lingering fears
that were symbols of you

daily you are present
the gift of your desire
quietly celebrated
held sacred in my mind
secret joy and silent love

© 4 February 2009
Cynthia Ryder

--

surprising sensual drifts
escape
playing on fears
need
penned to page
guilt
lusty gusts of prose
capture
paint abstract pictures
clearly
idealized playtime
desire
works everytime
only
in the mind


© 21 January 2009
Cynthia Ryder
--

dog in the manger

for nearly 10 years I tried
to make you happy and
rallied behind you in support

for nearly 10 years I tried
to keep you happy by
ignoring your subtle abuses
and a multitude of excuses

for nearly 10 years I tried
to change you, forgetting
this one important fact
we can only change ourselves

after nearly 10 years I leapt
at making the changes,
a chance for happiness

you couldn't abide that leap
if I wasn't going to be with you
suffering alongside you
then you would ensure
that I would find myself alone

you started to work,
ironically at last,
to destroy those
that would stand with me
you started a campaign
of noise and blame
cutting remarks heaped guilt
on the newly chosen old love

now nearly 10 years later,
I know what you wrought
and what you have brought
upon your own dismal life

if you thought you suffered
at my hands those years ago
you must feel that those
were joyous times compared
to what you now endure

I am happy for you now
that you made your own way

and like a dog hoarding hay
eventually you starved
your lack of resourcefulness
and your petty jealousies
held you back as we succeeded
simply by waiting you out
by waiting learned the truth
now I know what you said
and I suffer you gladly no more

6 January 2009
Cynthia Ryder
--

Note: time is a healer of many wounds, and this one in particular, now that I know what caused the festering mess, is quickly getting better.
--

that last night together,
in the seat of power over millions,
i swore and then vowed
that this would be the last
time that i would watch
from a window,
watch you leave,
drive away into your world
without me knowing
when or even if.
in that moment at the window
seeing you slowly turning
to the right onto
the late night street
of the capitol,
a spark of an idea,
all that remains is your decision

© 29 December 2008
Cynthia Ryder
--