The Plight of a Bumblebee

Bombus subterraneus (Short-haired Bumblebee (Belgian High Ardennes).
James Lindsey image, Ecology of Commanster.

…the Short-haired Bumblebee…a casualty of war

Here – near to my Canadian home, I look forward to their annual arrival and watch their fuzzy selves hover-skip from flower to flower. I enjoy their delicate quest and watch for some while their gentle buzzing about. If I am lucky they willingly pose for the camera. Sometimes the bumbles may dart at low level making their way to another signal they have received. I wonder what this language is?

Colourful, large and fuzzy…their work is considerably important to all humanity. They are of the kind…the pollinators…without them there would be no crops, no wildflowers. Honeybees too are important, but bumbles can fly in cooler temperatures and operate with lower light levels. Honeybees and associated beekeeping was declared a war essential and beeswax was used to replace petroleum products to waterproof ammunition and as a replacement for sugar, which was rationed.

A non-compliant bumblebee (upper left) flies towards the camera at Ross Bay Cemetery, Victoria, B.C.
P. Ferguson image, March 2019.

However, for Short-haired bumblebees in the United Kingdom, the Second World War meant their extinction due to the loss of habitat for the creation of Victory Gardens – the great Dig for Victory campaign. Food shortages led to a massive program to create allotments for the production of food and with the loss of hedges and many wildflower stands this species was doomed in the United Kingdom. The bumblebee’s habitat further declined after the Second World War ended.

Dig For Victory

The digging of allotments in Britain turned considerable patches of land into food producing bounties. Waste-lands, castle moats, golf courses, sports fields, railway lands, apartment rooftops, backyards, ornamental gardens and lawns fell to the shovel, hoe and cultivator. In 1943 it was estimated that 1,400,000 allotments were growing food across the countryside, the cities and in the suburbs. Some of the best known London victory gardens were established at the Tower, Hyde Park, the Albert Memorial and Buckingham Palace.

A hovering bumble providing its profile for the camera at Ross Bay Cemetery, Victoria, B.C.
P. Ferguson image, March 2019.

Considerable information brochures were produced to encourage potential growers, these Dig for Victory brochures include, Vegetable Production, Better Fruit, Potato Growing in Allotments, Roof and Window-box Gardening, Garden Pests, Making the Most of Small Plots, Manure and Growmore bulletins entitled Preserved from the Garden, Pests and Diseases and Dung Must Not Be Wasted.

Films were also produced to encourage the rationed citizenry to dig…to plant…to harvest. Amongst these titles, Dig for Victory, Children’s Allotment Gardens, Compost Heaps for Feeding, and Blitz on Bugs.

Dig for Victory. Ministry of Information. Imperial War Museum

An April 2013 Daily Mail article by Dave Goulson documents his travel to New Zealand with botanist Mike Hanley where they collected a Short-haired bumblebee…a descendant of one of the Victorian United Kingdom bumblebees sent to New Zealand to pollinate their crops. Their quest, to reintroduce the short haired bumblebee to the United Kingdom commenced in 2003. His work further notes the extinction of two other types of bumblebees…Cullum’s Bumblebee and the Apple Bumblebee. Sadly, these two species of bumbles are believed to be forever lost to this shared planet Earth. Goulson further notes 25 extant species of bumbles. Ten years ago, in May 2012, the first Short-haired bumblebees were reintroduced to the United Kingdom. Long may they buzz about.

For further information see the Bumblebee Conservation Trust established by Dave Goulson and/or his book, A Sting in the Tale (2013).

On and On

Hot air balloons over farmer's fields.
Hot air balloons above Ypres, Belgium.
P. Ferguson image, September 2005.

Today I Walk Around

Is that more important than my red balloon?
(Pooh to Christopher Robin: The Briefcase of Important Things)

My briefcase, if I were to have one once again, would be filled with colours to be inflated for the sheer enjoyment of a smile across one’s face. Simple things and yet please hold my hand for every balloon needs a string to stay grounded (Wald Wassermann) else things get out of hand. And so, it is to be a selection of six – white, green, orange, red, yellow with blue, blue with yellow…ribbons…a string to a hand…to remain grounded for hope – to let go for higher aspirations. And yet we have matchsticks and petrol cans. Have you got some time for me…that it could come to this?

Girl with balloon.
In the style of Banksy. Girl and red heart balloon.
P. Ferguson image, March 2022.

Despatches from the briefcase…important papers moving between departments and across borders. Told and told again, each night five to six…six to seven. Once there was a wall…and there they were floating before the wall’s tumbling…what if? Bright colours to the horizon – dreams for tomorrow no menace intended and yet it has come. The balloons were loosed…look to one red heart from the hand of Banksy, a red balloon for Pooh…to dine on simple pleasures. Important papers…well important…but more important than forever being hopeful? Balloon on the ground, fun to bounce into the sky and watch its mirth as it flutters across the horizon.

Berlin Wall fragment at the Imperial War Museum, London, England.
Change Your Life. Fragment from the Berlin Wall. Imperial War Museum, London, England.
P. Ferguson image, November 2019.

Naive is it for six balloons it is. I choose my colours from 1983…the hook remains, ideas, words having endured. This concert, those gathered, sing along. Once I found a balloon, today I have six…I think of you as each colour, with hopeful aspirations but what of the dreiundneunzig others? Can I pick their favorite colours to help make things right? Do they need a ribbon – a string to become grounded…on and on?

Winnie the Pooh: But what should happen if you forget about me?
Young Christopher Robin: I won’t ever forget about you, Pooh.
I promise. Not even when I’m a hundred.
Winnie the Pooh: How old will I be then?
Young Christopher Robin: Ninety-nine. Silly old bear.
Winnie the Pooh: Hm. Ninety-nine.

99 Jahre Krieg ließen keinen Platz für Sieger
[99 years of war have left no place for winners]
Perhaps you’re thinking about me right now?

A selection of six colourful balloons.
For six balloons it is…perhaps others will follow?
P. Ferguson image, March 2022.

Frozen Bees

Wicres Route De La Basse German Military Cemetery, France.
P. Ferguson image, September 2007.

False Peace

Tuesday…oh gosh…the cold…willing myself towards coffee hopeful of a fireplace (that I already know is not there)…the beverage (you are [I am] about to enjoy is extremely hot) turns to near iced coffee. Mitts, wooly hats do little to hold my warmth…and from a film watched days before returns one line from Frau Behnke…They fell…like bees in the freezing cold. I know this day is truly not that bad but cold bites my person now – a steady chomp on stilling the circulation…as blood ebbs slowly and extremities crave its life warmth. Like bees in the freezing cold…(the line describes the fallen) it is one of the sustaining lines from my first viewing of Babylon Berlin (Season 1: Episode 3 ~36:07).

German Remembrance wreath returns to the earth near Hawthorne Crater, Somme, France.
P. Ferguson image, September 2006.

Often, I have written about my desire to find the peace in my wanderings of conflict as I search for healing, memory and remembrance one step at a time. Frau Behnke’s words will affect this search, my thoughts forever edited to include this voice. I will reappraise my footsteps…ask more questions on the trail…what will appear with her words as reminder?

Remembrance at German Fricourt Cemetery.
Cast iron remembrance at Fricourt German Military Cemetery.
P. Ferguson image, September 2006.

Frau Behnke speaks to Inspector Rath of her Helmut lost to the Great War

Behnke
Were you in the war?

Rath
I followed my brother to the front. Then I came back alone.

Behnke
So, you know what it’s like to wake up in the morning…alone.
To hate the silence and the birds too. All that false peace.

German Great War graves at Langemarck.
Langemarck…44,061 German soldier burials…25,000 soldiers buried in a mass grave.
P. Ferguson image, September 2004.

…false peace…an important reminder, for any day, that no matter how we sculpt and paint the past for easier digestion hurt remains within the deep and supple layers of our engineering of the decay. My encounter with Behnke’s past on this cold frozen bee day…reminds me that, within the peace I search, remain the percussions of conflict. The wounds remain somewhere in society…with persons and landscapes…in words and perceptions. Silence…birds…tranquility…birdsong all I find pleasant…and yet this day I am re-reminded…what one finds gentle is another one’s nightmare.

Oh gosh it is cold…I sip the iced blend once hot, but like frozen bees the blend has fallen prey to this day’s reality.

Four mourning figures by Professor Emil Kreiger, 1956.
Guard figures, solitary in their memories, at Langemarck German Military Cemetery, Belgium.
P. Ferguson image, September 2004.

Creating Comes From Memory

The path of old coal…reclaimed in nature.
P. Ferguson, August 2017.

Something Inside Yourself

It’s near the end of the month…time to write…yet once again the all-perplexing question, during all too many similar days…what? Where is that resonance…the reminder…the unlikely encounter…re-visiting…an awakening of sorts? One sage line provides the day.

In 1981 I wrote my last university exam having spent a semester engaged in what I thought to be the only film studies course offered in the department. Time has been unkind…though the teaching remains somewhere within my ether my ability to recall my professor’s name has diminished. All I have is Barry. I really must find out…likely not too difficult…perhaps I will call this week*.

Eyes open on the trail…simple pleasures with the marks of those who have been before.
P. Ferguson image, April 2020.

The course…simple enough…a comparison of Australian and Japanese film with a once a week visit to Cinecenta Theatre where I immerse myself within the screen…perhaps popcorn…no doubt popcorn. Then off to class to engage with others in the questions and discussions posed by our leader…our sensei…Such rewards!

Leaving the course’s final exam, I suggested to my father that I will need to return. So distraught thinking there was no possibility that I had found my way with this exam. The prof prefaced his test document with his insight about answers…there is no right or wrong…write the way you feel…

A container ship…near two years before the release of America Boxed In.
P. Ferguson image, April 2020.

Now, near 41 years later, I return to these roots…Let’s re-engage…let’s recall the Japanese films and one director in particular – what does Akira Kurosawa say…his great advice to aspiring filmmakers?…if you genuinely want to make films, then write screenplays. All you need to write a script is paper and pencil…It’s only through writing scripts that you learn specifics about the structure of film and what cinema is. That’s what I tell them, but they still won’t write. They find writing too hard.” As I continue to watch the video, I ponder they still won’t write.

I can write.

Kurosawa continues,…have the patience to write one word at a time…I often say that creating comes from memory. Memory is the source for your creation…you can’t create unless you have something inside yourself.

And so, I write…one word at a time.

One day onboard…watching the sun on the horizon until the ship appeared…waiting for the right moment.
P. Ferguson image, December 2018.

Something inside yourself? I still have these days…

I thought my challenge, during these days of the morphing spiked menace, to be memory…but the opposite is true, the challenge is the desire for new memory (because I cannot travel). I find that time away from place has left me wanting for the feel of these landscapes. I yearn for the turf, the stone, the trail.

With Kurosawa’s thoughts…I today choose to remember an evening classroom of 1981, discussing film…creating…reading…real-life experience…there is no right or wrong…one word at a time – memories give me voice…today’s images memories of voice – one instance at a time.

Carnarvon Road lacrosse box…reminder of younger days – still there is something in its fractures..
P. Ferguson image, April 2020.

Part II (25 January 2022)

*And so I called…perhaps I would soon have a name to this Barry? The phone rings…the answering voice of the line…Sandra…feels my request not too difficult…Soon my day brightens with a simple email including outlines of two film courses (one each semester) led by Barrie McLean! HA 367: A more specialized investigation into cinema with attention to the use of myth and symbol…

Again in that darkened room…waiting for the first scene…soundtrack, titles, cuts, movement…today there is more…a name to a memory…the name of the adventurer…whose voice of myth and symbol prompted this writer’s desire to dig a little deeper. Write what you feel…roll credits…discussion…something inside yourself…all the time seeking something more.

Akira Kurosawa on Screenwriting.

Olden Mouse Folk

The Bailey family Christmas tree.
The Bailey family Christmas tree decorated with Christmas. The goodly mouse Wantmore was nearby.

Mouse Oneziss

Uncle Munchabit was a woodland mouse most prone to avoiding urban environments. But today was different…today was near Christmastime day. Having found with age the need to rekindle with family he and Aunt Cheesetwist chose to visit nephew Wantmore at his palatial attic across the field, across the street in the town of Kemmelberry.

Munchabit and Cheesetwist, after gifting some Christmastime treats to their neighbours (the mice liked and adopted this non-mice custom), left their warm treeroot home tail to nose. It was a most wintry Christmastime with just the slightest bit of snow on the ground, but for mousefeet, of an age, Munchabit found the tromping scurry a bit on the frosty iced side of comfort. The distance to the non-mice home was not far for non-mice but for one furry, tailed friend the journey was a frozening one.

Munchabit
Munchabit needed much steadiness.

Cheesetwist was used to Munchabit and his ways. Always prepared she carried encouragements and promises of what might be found on the other side. It steadied Munchabit who needed much steadiness. Cheestwist cautioned him about non-mice creatures…not all of them are our friends. Best to move unobserved…we can work out friendly associations later…but Munchabit fretted…there are the nightly flight owls and woof woofy dogs and then of course the non-squeak noises to fret and imperil upon. Nevertheless, Munchabit followed Cheesetwist’s lead who knowingly turned her mouse whiskers towards her love to remind him, all is well…only several more scurries to go and we will be there…keep your cap on, your mittens dry and your mouse foot boots out of colden puddles.

At Wantmore’s home the non-mice had recently bashed about the attic in search of light and twinkle to address the tree below. Wantmore wondered indeed…if not known to these furless creatures how is it that they have left the cheesiest cheese-berry ball on a saucer near my home? Excited as he was for this tasty bit of dairy gourmet and berries, Wantmore would soon become aware of aunt and uncle on the sill…it would be the familiar tapping tap rap that could only be his oneziss (as mice families are known).

Cheesetwist was a much calmer mouse than Munchabit.
Cheesetwist sat within the Christmas keeping a close eye on dear Munchabit.

For Munchabit the wall and drainpipe climb was a difficult one…naturally so for one elder mouse whose procurement of tasty delights beguiled his name. Cheesetwist helped Munchabit to the glass pane, and together they knocked their gentle mouse morse knock and soon a beaming Wantmore appeared. Squeaking with glee the mice ran in tail to nose circles as Ascalon the cat viewed from a short distance. Munchabit looked upwards at precisely the wrong moment. Mew. Having completed 12 circles, Munchabit froze in wide eyed expression at the larger whiskered one. Mew. Cheestwist instantly concerned observed as Wantmore pattered forward in his knowing way of his home and asked kitty, Would you like a bit of Christmas kibble? Ascalon, Mew, purred and stretched…all was saved. Munchabit now defrosted but still rather shattered by his mouse fright attempted to listen as Wantmore reminded them of the need for continued caution in the non-mice home (author’s note: there are no mousetraps in the non-mice Bailey family home).

Together the oneziss family climbed into Wantmore’s trunk of antiquity…a true heritage home. Munchabit loved the aging scarlet tunic for its colour and warmth but desired to chew greatly upon the old leather scabbard until Wantmore reminded him of the hurt it carried within. The medal was of no importance to Munchabit, he could not see himself in the silvery mirror but its ribbon he often thought might provide a lovely scarf for a chilled mouseling. Together they chewed on the best of Christmastime food crumbs, as Wantmore had been gathering from his non-mice family down below. All were well jolly and after chatting of the bear Threadbare and viewing Wantmore’s latest non-mice picture installation they sat together in mouse bound comfort as gentle non-mice voices rose in Christmas song and harmony.

Ascalon the kitten.
Ascalon the kitten sat near to Christmas while Wantmore sat perched behind.

Soon the kitten Ascalon dropped down the still open hatch to be with his dependents as the goodly mice in the attic softly hummed in harmony Christmas tunes of the olden mouse folk…soon it would be Christmastime day with mouse oneziss and non-mice family…a jolly great day indeed…as Ascalon found the need to cuddle with his non-mice family and Clarence Bailey mused I wonder if another cheeseball is needed?

Merry Christmas to one and all…mouse and non-mice!

All images by P. Ferguson, December 2021

Generations of High Water

Floodwaters at Fort Langley.
P. Ferguson image, November 2021.

Ready for these times to get better

A provincial state of emergency was declared 17 November 2021 at 1:15 pm.

All our days – an earlier generation of high water with the ’48 Flood – and this day’s high water – the flood of British Columbia 2021. People helping people, filling sandbags, finding comforts, waiting, hope, worry, searching amidst the loss, new friends, the military is here (or has returned). Stop the water…move the people…save the livestock….save the sturgeon, evacuate, evacuate…find higher ground as sirens wail their haunting scream. In the worst of times the best of us found.

Signs of our times…Flooded Road.
P. Ferguson image, November 2021.

I saw the high water of a nearby river racing on its corrosive path to the coast…scarce below the bridge…its strength evident by the inertia of its live edge. How much has it taken as it seeks its larger familiar on this misnamed planet?

Floodwaters. Trans-Canada Highway at Whatcom Road, Abbotsford,
P. Ferguson image, November 2021.

Today I recognize some while has passed since I last wrote or spoke about historic waters…The Drainage of Sumas Lake…The Politics of Water. Some while since I last examined the black and white photo prints of the Vedder Canal and the dredges of the J.W. Pike Dredging Company at work. Some while since I read of Premier Oliver and his team or the returned soldier work crews. Some while since I studied the Sumas Reclaimed Lands foldout brochure…and some while since I considered the impact of removing a lake that the Semá:th peoples had known since time immemorial.

Sandbags along the roadside.
P. Ferguson image, November 2021.

Rather than attempt to rewrite this previous work…I turn instead to these days of constant turmoil and impact. One event after the other…we are tired…we yearn for new days of peace…no pandemics…no contempt of our kind…no wrath of nature. Just one day to find our feet. No more variants, no more atmospheric rivers, no more anxieties…hand in hand together…these lands…these waters…and I’m ready for the times to get better.

Doc Watson. Ready for the Times to Get Better. Written by Allen Reynolds.

Soar in the Light

Soaring within the storm. Gulls find their flight.
P. Ferguson image, December 2006.

Obscurum per Obscurius

Black and white tiles across the floor…just one block…and a few others – a diagonal path to our window of illumination where I will soar in the light. Resplendent is this beauty, this art of creation, drawing our story, finding our talent, the arc of vision and artistic joy.

The pondering way…finding joy.
P. Ferguson image, December 2006.

I enjoy this pondering way…seeking for one film more…finding the joy in something slightly unusual to my usual fare. Perhaps some work is not all loved by critics but then this is the work they do…we can find for ourselves…our own voice in these moving images. One bad pan – another finds beauty…one bad score another finds harmony.

Another finds beauty…another finds harmony.
P. Ferguson image, December 2006.

Once sneering towards the operatic…but what wisdom comes with age…perhaps gentle ears finding joy in the sound of balanced voices. What joy is this but my own and what more can there be save perhaps the joy shared with others. These works are someone’s work…their work…their effort…so much easier to cast shadows then light…bring me the light, we will shine, we will soar.

Bring me the light…we are soaring
P. Ferguson image, December 2006

There have been a few moving visions within my window these past few weeks. Unimportant what they are, more important that this salience has allowed these few words. White and black tiles…just one more step…to the window. Hold on to our one joy…33 rpm…obscurum per obscurius, this is the pearl…as one are three…as one are four…we have voice…we have gesture…we have expression…we have movement…we are soaring.

Pearl Fishers duet. Jussi Bjorling and Robert Merrill.

No Flypast This Day

Soldier’s Corner…the Victoria War Memorial.
P. Ferguson image, 11 November 2021.

The day seems to bring few words and then…

I slip upon mon tete my hat from Juno Beach, place the camera bag over my shoulder and adjust my poppy. It is time to take up the trail.

I start the walk towards the memorial. This day it wants to rain…it wants the cold…elements I do not care for, (but others endured and so will I – this is truly not that bad – it is the years upon my person finding their edge). I continue to turn the corners towards my destination. Perching myself beside one large and familiar tree I wait…I watch…near 90 minutes as the crowd fills the view before me. Few programs, we are told, were produced…we were not expecting such a large crowd. It is with this voice I see them…on this day from before…those familiar edged faces here amongst the gathering, on these same grounds, about these same trees we stood…today…just different faces…some I will try to remember.

Sentries this day.
P. Ferguson image, 11 November 2021.

In my soft eyed way my eyes close as the black beret of a Desert Rat returns…the aged sailor whose cap of the Atlantic, like him, is no longer with us and the elder swagger of the pilot whose awards danced swing mounted from his chest. Many I knew to speak to…to share, sometimes once a year, sometimes often, tea and beverages, biscuits, kindness, laughter and heartfelt reminiscences. At our gathering this day I would welcome services canteens brimming with coffees and teas, a warm biscuit…follow the queue…wait your turn…will the rations shorten today’s supplies…I return to my perch of today.

The cold and the damp and still we came.
P. Ferguson image, 11 November 2021.

Umbrellas break open reaching above persons, keeping mother, junior and dad dry, The leaves are my overhang for the day as solitary twigs break away finding my Juno topper on regular intervals…squirrels or birds they have voice too (hmm). The colours on my immediate horizon now mostly dark, but colour is welcome. Blooms of floral print…abstractions and single red flowers on these bumbershoots, caps and lapels and so it begins. The camera is on – the snaps will follow.

And No Birds Sang…nature’s flypast.
P. Ferguson image, 11 November 2021.

There is no flypast this day but in the distance a gathering of birds finds flight attempting to find direction for themselves…Not so out of place methinks, as we struggle with all before us this day, and still we came. I am reminded in this flight And No Birds Sang. My eyes reopen, the birds now gone perhaps upon a perch to sit and bring birdsong…we can hope.

From my perch the camera is on…the snaps will follow,
P. Ferguson image, 11 November 2021.

I listen to new homage in voice and benediction. The padre finds his words this day…ones I appreciate for the seemingly way of finding truth from caricature of words and heart. The lament , the bugle, wreath and poppies remain with me…and then…we can go.

Sentries, wreaths, poppies and memorial. The camera finds the places…
P. Ferguson image. 11 November 2021.

The droplets find their way to our persons as I linger below my tree but soon advance on soldier’s corner. I feel the damp, the cold…and the ache has returned…soon I will need to find the comfort of a chair. As I return to the path, back to hearth I still think upon what words this day? Today I have felt I have not contributed as much as usual…other doors will open and I as I wander…a bit of upward lift…a passing woman smiles and provides two thumbs up…I smile as we pass…I think its the hat…Juno Beach…Normandy…France. What days she knows I wonder of this beach and its stories and soon words will come with this day…this fable of birds and self.

The good cap from Juno Beach. The camera bag from across Gallipoli and the Western Front.
P. Ferguson image, 11 November 2021.

I arrive at hearth and home and remove Juno…take from my shoulder the camera bag and soon find my thumb has found the needle point of a poppy pin. A small droplet of life delivers itself to my surface…deep red in colour…and in this small bit of hurt I find the birds have sung…I have found my way this day…they gave their all…and indeed….I have remembered.

The Lights Aren’t On

Lone pumpkin in an urban garden.
P. Ferguson image, October 2021.

All My Joys and Regrets

Sometimes you walk to write…and bring a camera too…just in case those images of fall might work for this night. And so, I wander about the Thanksgiving homes…a Hayes Carll tune within my head. I sense the streetscapes and homes quieter than normal…still…pandemic and all…cars are in front of homes…people at the table. The turkey and all…good chatter. In seeking the colour in the leaves I happen to see one family at the table…it’s good to see as I wander on past the crescent moon.

Always above us wherever we are in the night
P. Ferguson image, October 2021.

My earlier night comprised a new tradition…turkey bangers and mash, with poultry gravy, stuffing with additional carrots and celery, fine cranberries (albeit tinned but with whole berries too). Pretty darn good with a single dark brew stout Guinness. Rounded off with pumpkin pie and whipped cream (albeit the squishy kind that froths from a can)…it amuses me.

New traditions…the grapes amuse me (and they need to be eaten).
P. Ferguson image, October 2021.

But there is seriousness in this wander…forty days past…since you were last here. The walk makes it easier when you know all this – you get it all. When we walk past those that have been a long time before. Natural witnesses to our days…we still find thanks in the giving. We find a way.

Colour in the trees and a little light in the shadows.
P. Ferguson image, October 2021

It’s getting darker and I have managed a few blocks, a few thoughts and a few pics. Most of all I think to myself what words will come from these snippets that lurk? I round the corner to make another turn…stop by the flowers…those big Dahlia things I believe they are. Walk past a girl with a single red balloon and on to a little home where I hermit a bit…waiting…and as I come nearer to the corner I look to my windows but still…the lights aren’t on.

Hayes Carll: You Get It All, 2021.

Lyrics:

All my tame and all my wild
All my man and all my child
All my faults and all my scars
All my sometimes lucky stars
All my joys and my regrets
All my old Guy Clark cassettes
I knew the night we met that you’d get it all

All my lows and all my highs
All my truth and all my lies
All my rights and all my wrongs
All my ‘From now on’ love songs
All my future all my roots
All my worn out cowboy boots
I kick off in the hall, you get it all

And I’d rather drive you crazy, being more than you can stand
Than to let you try to love half a man
All my cards are on the table and darlin’ it’s your call
I’m all in so lose or win you get it all

All my ‘will be’ all my ‘was’
All my cloudy Texas dust
All my humble, all my braggin’
All my on and off the wagon
All my be your place to hide
All my always on your side
All my catch you when you fall, you get it all

And I’d rather drive you crazy, being more than you can stand
Than to let you try to love half a man
All my cards are on the table and darlin’ it’s your call
But I’m all in so lose or win you get it all

All my blessin’ all my curse
All my better all my worse
From the chapel to the hearse, you get it all
Yeah you do

Bears and Rabbits Forever

Once there was a lonely bear…
P. Ferguson image, September 2021.

There You Are My Only One

Once there was a lonely bear
Who stepped outside his dim lit lair
Just to go…somewhere

Bear puttered to Nearby Stream
To see outlook inside a dream
And closed his eyes amidst the green

The noise in the day…sometimes too, the night…toss and turn of things to do – between this land and continent. Hours of wondering…texts and calls…Skype and Zoom…Drifting between things… finding the day’s amusement – of someone’s arrival not so long ago but longer ago than we might admit. My best friend you are…here to care…here to be…but sometimes oh so far away.

We chat when we can…texting too…we make it work.
P. Ferguson image, September 2021.

But rabbit sat beside the shore
Bear had not seen this before
Here along…but heretofore

Rabbit asked as rabbits can
How come too glum the rabbit began
And bear confused…you understand

We make it work…finding blue rabbits and beeping bears. Finding one amusement in the British Museum to bring it home one Christmas year (December 2014)…and then letting you know its for you to find her mate…same venue…different year (March 2017)…we make it work.

A King…a Queen…sat for awhile apart.
R. Ferguson image, September 2021.

No one ever asked him this
Outside here amidst the mist
Where bears and rabbits co-exist

Two creatures found each this day
Then chose to dance the night away
Unaware of different kind…they love…they play

Endless showings of this day’s work…wondering what is, what if, what id? Wizards and dragons…crystal squirrels and weeping Buddhas…running mice and golf balls too and don’t forget the just for fun. There you are my only one…so near to your special day…so far apart…this my heartfelt gift…tranquility amidst the noise…bears and rabbits forever.

Bears and Rabbit Forever.
Bears and Rabbits Forever.
P. Ferguson image, September 2021.
Love Actually (2003). Always at the Arrivals Gate…wishing for a singleton red balloon…happiness with life.

Happy Birthday my special friend!