Margot Page Vancouver Island artist

Margot Page's beautiful enamelling on steel work comes in a wide variety of sizes, shapes, and custom designs.

You can see a wide variety of her work at the Imagine That! artisans' design shop in downtown Duncan, the City of Totems, on Vancouver Island.

Visit Margot Page, Enamalling on Steel

My Winter Garden

Flower Basket, watercolour by Donna Hogan

SEO AN T’AITE MU DHEIREADH The ultimate place (Gaelic)

you were the soft sad music tangled in the branches

quivering in the deep shade of alder and birch

beneath Ben Nevis


you were the sun slanting through clouds

spinning mist on the hills

steaming from the nets coiled by Loch Coruisk


you were the sharp scent of bog-myrtle

the silver shimmer of reeds in the marsh

the jewels of primrose and tormentil scattered through the meadow


the ridge is dark and desolate now

the burn a jagged scar slashed into granite

its cold life seeping into the peat


now you are gone

cattle are lowing in the glen

restive for the uncropped sweetness of the highlands

the herring fleet is hostage in the harbour

the savage ransom of the sea refused


now you are gone

there will be no respite of grain

there will be no satisfaction of salmon

the hearth is dank and grey


like thrift to the cliff face

I cling to the vision of your homecoming

grief foaming 'round fingers of rock

my spirit reckless as the gannets

plunging through sea spume

soaring over the headlands


~ by Yvonne MacKenzie

Judi Pedder on Vancouver Island

Lake District Memory, by Judi Pedder

The Westray Lament, by Manuel Erickson

© 1992 Manuel Erickson

To my parents, Nellie and Harry Erickson, and to coal miners everywhere

Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do-
And twenty-six miners died.

Inside the Westray mine lies disaster,
Coal dust an'methane wait there t'blow;
Friends, brothers, husbands go down t'gether,
Fear grips their hearts when they're b'low.

One Friday night the miners descended
Into the coal mine two miles down:
They'd felt the last of sunshine's caresses,
They'd heard the last of love's sweet sounds.

Deep in the mine the coal gas is workin',
Hissin' an' sizzlin' inside the veins;
Men are destroyed where they stand a-workin'
Others are killed where they had lain.*

Twenty-six friends, brothers an' husbands
Lie in the Westray shattered an' torn;
Fifteen the draegermen haul to the surface,
Ten an' another stay unfound.

Inside the Westray mine lie eleven,
Quiet an' still like the darkness within;
Flood all the tunnels to make it safe! but
Eleven men ask: "What? Again?"

Now that the Westray mine is a-flooded,
No one can see the bad errors made;
Evidence gone an' no answers given-
Buried where eleven laid.

Twenty-six ghosts from inside the Westray
Say to the bosses who decide:
"You didn't listen to our warnin's,
Loved ones're alone now that we've died."

Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do—
And twenty-six miners died.


* When working in a small space, it is sometimes necessary to lie down.


~ by Manuel Erickson

PS. Manuel has composed music for his ballad. To receive a copyrighted copy, please email him with your request at pilot80@shaw.ca

Remembering the Westray Mining Disaster

Robert Benoit sings and plays guitars and bass on the Merle Travis classic, Dark as a Dungeon. The photographs are of various North American coal mining disasters including the Westray Mine tragedy of 1992 in which 26 miners lost their lives in Plymouth, Nova Scotia.

Read more about the Westray Mining Disaster at Wikipedia

New Year! poetry by Charles Van Gorkom

Who goes there?
Twenty Twelve, you say,
and how do you come?
do you come with flames
or with flowers?

Are those your people rioting,
your guns blazing,
your missiles streaking,
your drones assassinating,
your bombs exploding?
Or do you come quietly in peace,
your children playing safely in the streets,
fear and hunger banished from your families,
fathers working and mothers bearing
another child of joy?

Twenty Twelve, you may pass
with clean hands and a pure heart,
with a voice that sings
with the stars, with the dawn,
and with love in sun's rising.

I know,
I can't stop you however you come,
but I will sing,
my peace will bless,
I will embrace you with hands that are clean,
a heart that is pure,
and with love in sun's rising.

~ by charles van gorkom

Life is not art

"Of course, life is not art: it is not the perfect photograph, the idyllic landscape, the majestic brush stroke or the clear delineation of hues. It is a sloppy, complicated obstacle course run by less-than-perfect individuals who can't control their environment or those in their orbit, and inevitably lose their tempers when they cannot maintain control."

~ Phil Hall

Life is not art, collage by Ron Greenaway

Mission Aborted, poetry by Susan Christensen

We’ll all make it, now.
Our raging river’s lure is strong now.
Its restful, clear, upstream beds beckon us on.

Through the wilder eddies at the water’s edge,
Too tired and beaten to brave the deepest current just yet
As it surges around the bend, we slow a while. But,
The storm swollen torrent tries to pull us back towards
Mother Sea.

There! Over there! The eddy seems quieter, gentler
And the surface of the threatening sky is barely broken.
A brief haven before the last energy-draining mile.

Destiny draws me on.
Just a little further now.
I know it in my bones.
Just to make it to the home stream.
Just to make my life-giving deposit.
Then forever rest.
Fulfillment lures me.

Just a few minutes of calm water. Surely the danger is past.
Vague watered-down memories lurk near my mind’s surface.
Mammoth netted ships pirating our juveniles on the high seas;
More blockades of nets seining us as we milled around,
Awaiting the right timing to dart to our deaths.
Huge denizens of the deep,
Orcas, herding us-- scooping up my brothers
As we closed on the river’s mouth.

We understand about safety in numbers. But,
Our numbers have been decimated.
This last frantic dash through the river
Has a naked feel
As we doggedly strive upstream.

Eagles, now, join the gulls. Forced near the surface,
Senses are jarred by their ravenous shrieks.
This ancient river path has been scoured and gouged
Making smoothed boulders with whirl hollows down here.
Deceptively, deeply quiet down here.
Even the gulls no longer jeer us over here.

I feel it strongly now. My few brethren and I,
Drained by hunger, drawn by destiny.
Our mission.
Our reason for being.
Pass on life.
Carry life to safe shores—that we might live again.
The cycle closes in on us.

Onwards! Back into the rapid froth. It’s time!
Time to struggle upstream. I’m not finished yet.

The dark-visaged man with his toque pulled down
And his collar pulled up, sharpens his focus
Against the water’s glare. Ah!
A good big one. This one won’t get away!

With a smooth, practiced swing of the long handled net
He raises the unsuspecting fish
Just as it skirts the curve of the boulder.

This one is a good size. And full of life, thrashing
As it hangs suspended in the air.
Taking extra care with his footing,
He clambers over the wet rocks with his catch held high.

This makes seventeen this morning, he smiles,
Thwacking it over the back of its head;
He throws it onto the pile of still twitching dead.

The family will be pleased.


~ by Susan Christensen