Read more about the Westray Mining Disaster at Wikipedia
A community of artists living and working on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
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
Read more about the Westray Mining Disaster at Wikipedia
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
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
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
Monday, January 2, 2012
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
~ Phil Hall
Life is not art, collage by Ron Greenaway
Sunday, January 1, 2012
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
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
Friday, December 23, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Vancouver Island Simple Abundance
This is a photo of some kelp I saw up at Tofino last month. I saw
Sarah's quote in her book "Simple Abundance" and thought it fit very nicely.
I wrote and asked her if I could use her quote and she graciously agreed-nice huh?
You never know until you try!
Merry Christmas!
…… Susan Miller aka "Beach Hauntress"
Sarah's quote in her book "Simple Abundance" and thought it fit very nicely.
I wrote and asked her if I could use her quote and she graciously agreed-nice huh?
You never know until you try!
Merry Christmas!
…… Susan Miller aka "Beach Hauntress"
Monday, December 5, 2011
Charles Van Gorkom, on Vancouver Island
After 43 years up north in the Smithers area, we have moved to Chemainus to spend the last years of our lives. I am a bootmaker/poet.
hikingbootshandcrafted.com and my poetry blog is www.rainforestsoul.blogspot.com. My graphic arts are in remission, Never-the-less, I have joined the Cowichan Valley Arts Council. I am impressed with the world-class quality of all the arts in this valley!
My first time living on the Island, I have written a poem giving my first impressions, and if you deem it worthy, I would like to post it on the cafe blog.
Impressions Of Vancouver Island
Rough unfinished wood,
rain forests mantled with thick green moss
encircled by the Pacific.
Art hanging everywhere,
world class crafts on shelves tucked
into every crook in the narrow roads,
murmuring voices of sea and wind,
Live acoustic guitar,
smells of coffee and baking
in coffee shops with live music,
on an island world to itself
seceeded from the mainland
more than a hundred years ago.
Who knew?
No one could be told who
would care anywhere,
so the secret government
by acclamation went unspoken,
unelected, undefined by declarations,
orations and constitutions,
defended by the isolation,
the winters with no tourists,
and expense of ferry trips
off island.
Unheralded, but accepted,
since it has been mutually agreed
a casual association with the rest of Canada
can be advantageous for secret trade.
~ Charles Van Gorkom, bootmaker/poet
Other poetry shared by Charles in the Cafe includes:
I cannot thank you enough Charles for your poetry contributions to the Cafe. These shared moments on nature and the nature of things always fascinate me.
Ron Greenaway
hikingbootshandcrafted.com and my poetry blog is www.rainforestsoul.blogspot.com. My graphic arts are in remission, Never-the-less, I have joined the Cowichan Valley Arts Council. I am impressed with the world-class quality of all the arts in this valley!
My first time living on the Island, I have written a poem giving my first impressions, and if you deem it worthy, I would like to post it on the cafe blog.
Impressions Of Vancouver Island
Rough unfinished wood,
rain forests mantled with thick green moss
encircled by the Pacific.
Art hanging everywhere,
world class crafts on shelves tucked
into every crook in the narrow roads,
murmuring voices of sea and wind,
Live acoustic guitar,
smells of coffee and baking
in coffee shops with live music,
on an island world to itself
seceeded from the mainland
more than a hundred years ago.
Who knew?
No one could be told who
would care anywhere,
so the secret government
by acclamation went unspoken,
unelected, undefined by declarations,
orations and constitutions,
defended by the isolation,
the winters with no tourists,
and expense of ferry trips
off island.
Unheralded, but accepted,
since it has been mutually agreed
a casual association with the rest of Canada
can be advantageous for secret trade.
~ Charles Van Gorkom, bootmaker/poet
Other poetry shared by Charles in the Cafe includes:
I cannot thank you enough Charles for your poetry contributions to the Cafe. These shared moments on nature and the nature of things always fascinate me.
Ron Greenaway
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Doors, poetry by Rojan Zét
Late evening, calling done, supper
cold, music stopped, silent house,
I open Door to dark night.
Moon stands in half, black between trees,
Car's sound moves east, Light marks positions,
Dark whispers, "Come." Air wraps cold arms
around me, carries me down Ladder, sets
my feet on Ground.
Deer rustles up Bank, Trail gathers me and
I am blinded moving only my feet toward the
water, only my feet, my feet moving toward
Water, across Pavement, touching Sand, and
Light's sharp glance stabbing off a wave
almost fells me. Stumbling, I move along
Beach to the shelter of walls under Dock and
to the leaf-hidden stair of fifty-seven steps.
The silent habitations of neighbours pass by
marking each pace's distance from my own not
paying attention, letting nature find a course
for me. Only one outcry from behind some wall
and I am at mailboxes where I stop to pick fennel
and maybe think of her once, then back up Ladder
to where the fridge hums and I stand stripping
seeds from small branches, collecting them in
an empty film canister behind closed doors.
Rojan Zét
cold, music stopped, silent house,
I open Door to dark night.
Moon stands in half, black between trees,
Car's sound moves east, Light marks positions,
Dark whispers, "Come." Air wraps cold arms
around me, carries me down Ladder, sets
my feet on Ground.
Deer rustles up Bank, Trail gathers me and
I am blinded moving only my feet toward the
water, only my feet, my feet moving toward
Water, across Pavement, touching Sand, and
Light's sharp glance stabbing off a wave
almost fells me. Stumbling, I move along
Beach to the shelter of walls under Dock and
to the leaf-hidden stair of fifty-seven steps.
The silent habitations of neighbours pass by
marking each pace's distance from my own not
paying attention, letting nature find a course
for me. Only one outcry from behind some wall
and I am at mailboxes where I stop to pick fennel
and maybe think of her once, then back up Ladder
to where the fridge hums and I stand stripping
seeds from small branches, collecting them in
an empty film canister behind closed doors.
Rojan Zét
Friday, December 2, 2011
Judi Pedder, painter
Profile of an Artist
Judi Pedder takes inspiration from scenes witnessed while traveling in Canada and England. They reflect her strong connection to earth and its natural beauty, and her need for wide open peaceful spaces. Born under the sign of Pisces, she has a particular affinity for beaches, the ocean and smaller bodies of water, which frequently appear in her work.
House plants and gardening offer a closer and intimate perspective of nature's wonders. Her flowers are never shown in formal arrangements - she prefers the 'before picking' state and frequently starts with the main subject, adding/growing the leaves and buds as she sees where they are needed. Many of her 'flower portraits' have evolved from various garden and studio tours as well as from her own garden.
She works in watercolours and finds pure joy in the flow of water plus pigment - "there's no other medium that can do what watercolour does best - if you are brave enough to let it! The variety in my work often comes from my intent, my choice of support, or paper, for that particular piece.
My work on Masa paper is acknowledged, widely recognized and always brings questions, hence the recent production of my DVD “Preparing and Painting on Masa Paper” - a complete step-by-step workshop with 3 paintings shown from drawing to signature. It is available on line, from my gallery/studio in Comox, or by mail."
Judi began her formal art training with a scholarship to the Ipswich School of Art, England, studying a diverse range of subjects. She moved to Canada in 1966 where family and employment took precedence over pure art pursuits until the 1990s when Judi decided to indulge her admiration of watercolours by studying with several accomplished instructors. Her work has been exhibited since 1995 and hangs in Johannesburg, Chicago, Budapest, Calgary, Albuquerque & many Ontario & BC cities.
Judi Pedder arrived in Comox on Vancouver Island on May 1, 2006 where she set up a gallery/studio for the dual purposes of painting and conducting classes or workshops.
Contact:
317 Torrence Road, Comox, BC V9M 1A6
Phone: 250-339-7081
Email: judipedder@shaw.ca
See more information and artwork by Judi Pedder at: www.judipedder.com
Moderators note:
Judi has given permission to publish some pictures of her art work on the the Cowichan Valley Arts Café.
To date this includes:
Judi Pedder takes inspiration from scenes witnessed while traveling in Canada and England. They reflect her strong connection to earth and its natural beauty, and her need for wide open peaceful spaces. Born under the sign of Pisces, she has a particular affinity for beaches, the ocean and smaller bodies of water, which frequently appear in her work.House plants and gardening offer a closer and intimate perspective of nature's wonders. Her flowers are never shown in formal arrangements - she prefers the 'before picking' state and frequently starts with the main subject, adding/growing the leaves and buds as she sees where they are needed. Many of her 'flower portraits' have evolved from various garden and studio tours as well as from her own garden.
She works in watercolours and finds pure joy in the flow of water plus pigment - "there's no other medium that can do what watercolour does best - if you are brave enough to let it! The variety in my work often comes from my intent, my choice of support, or paper, for that particular piece.
My work on Masa paper is acknowledged, widely recognized and always brings questions, hence the recent production of my DVD “Preparing and Painting on Masa Paper” - a complete step-by-step workshop with 3 paintings shown from drawing to signature. It is available on line, from my gallery/studio in Comox, or by mail."
Judi began her formal art training with a scholarship to the Ipswich School of Art, England, studying a diverse range of subjects. She moved to Canada in 1966 where family and employment took precedence over pure art pursuits until the 1990s when Judi decided to indulge her admiration of watercolours by studying with several accomplished instructors. Her work has been exhibited since 1995 and hangs in Johannesburg, Chicago, Budapest, Calgary, Albuquerque & many Ontario & BC cities.
Judi Pedder arrived in Comox on Vancouver Island on May 1, 2006 where she set up a gallery/studio for the dual purposes of painting and conducting classes or workshops.
Contact:
317 Torrence Road, Comox, BC V9M 1A6
Phone: 250-339-7081
Email: judipedder@shaw.ca
See more information and artwork by Judi Pedder at: www.judipedder.com
Moderators note:
Judi has given permission to publish some pictures of her art work on the the Cowichan Valley Arts Café.
To date this includes:
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Juniper Islet, by Yvonne MacKenzie
the cure for sadness
is to embrace all existence
like the beloved
at Juniper Islet the heart cries out in delirium
oh my love
as frosted lips gently brush the forehead
sea wind loosening the clasp of winter’s wrap
and slipping back the hood so the land can kiss your eyes
at Juniper Islet
cedar limbs shiver in the crystalline silence
shrugging powder-white robes
onto a pillow of emerald moss
the scriven track of geese on a snowbound log
is the first stanza of a poem taking flight
an invitation
to open your arms
and join the dance of earth and sky
skirts of light sweeping over the waves
revolving in the stateroom of the soul
pulling you closer to center
is to embrace all existence
like the beloved
at Juniper Islet the heart cries out in delirium
oh my love
as frosted lips gently brush the forehead
sea wind loosening the clasp of winter’s wrap
and slipping back the hood so the land can kiss your eyes
at Juniper Islet
cedar limbs shiver in the crystalline silence
shrugging powder-white robes
onto a pillow of emerald moss
the scriven track of geese on a snowbound log
is the first stanza of a poem taking flight
an invitation
to open your arms
and join the dance of earth and sky
skirts of light sweeping over the waves
revolving in the stateroom of the soul
pulling you closer to center
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Cara McCandless, Singer, Songwriter
Profile of an Artist
Here's the Story…
Cara's musical beginnings were in her family's kitchen on cold winter nights in Southern Manitoba. With a group of musicians jamming late into the night warmed by a woodstove and by the sound of music. Those beginning's lead her to British Columbia's Cowichan Valley for inspiration and to be closer to her family. Cara is the daughter of charismatic Celtic Tenor and banjo player Chuck McCandless who raised Cara on bluegrass, traditional Celtic, folk, blues, and rock & roll. Cara's ear was being exercised even before she began walking. Cara played clarinet in concert band from grade 3 to grade 12 all the while following her Father from town to town, show to show, festival to festival, slowly getting a feel for her future. It wasn't until after graduating high school that Cara picked up a guitar and soon after wrote her first song, which has lead to a repertoire of 70 plus original songs. Cara's folk/grunge style is deep and edgy so don't let her bubble gum looks fool you. Cara will reach into your soul and the lyrics she sings will invite you into hers. Cara's self-taught guitar style is unique and combines flawlessly with her "sultry-soul thick voice" -Monday Magazine, Victoria. Cara's original compositions are true stories penned through life's experiences and accompanied with musicality that creates a picture in the listener's mind.
So Far in the Biz…
Cara has toured Western Canada as a backup singer for "YellowbellY" and has fine-tuned her stage presence since her first show 20 years ago. In 2000 Cara was a winner of 100.3 The Q's radio contest, "Rocktoria" that enabled her to record three songs with a producer and gain radio airplay to a "pop" audience. Staying true to her roots, Cara has returned to folk music and is back where she belongs. Cara is currently playing bass with "The McCandless Family Band" and is waiting the release of their debut recording "Up Yer Glass" which is due out in late 2010.
What's on the Horizon…
Cara is going to continue to perform and gain exposure for the release of her own debut album "In the Sun" coming soon in 2011. Cara plans to tour Folk Festivals across Canada and with those experiences Cara will continue to write songs of loss, love, and longing. "Cara's Beth Orton/ Natalie Merchant style is as radio ready as it is challenging."-Mike Devlin, Times Colonist, Victoria.
Learn more about Cara McCandless and listen to more of her great tunes at www.reverbnation.com/caramccandlessinfo
Contact: caramccandless@hotmail.com
Here's the Story…
Cara's musical beginnings were in her family's kitchen on cold winter nights in Southern Manitoba. With a group of musicians jamming late into the night warmed by a woodstove and by the sound of music. Those beginning's lead her to British Columbia's Cowichan Valley for inspiration and to be closer to her family. Cara is the daughter of charismatic Celtic Tenor and banjo player Chuck McCandless who raised Cara on bluegrass, traditional Celtic, folk, blues, and rock & roll. Cara's ear was being exercised even before she began walking. Cara played clarinet in concert band from grade 3 to grade 12 all the while following her Father from town to town, show to show, festival to festival, slowly getting a feel for her future. It wasn't until after graduating high school that Cara picked up a guitar and soon after wrote her first song, which has lead to a repertoire of 70 plus original songs. Cara's folk/grunge style is deep and edgy so don't let her bubble gum looks fool you. Cara will reach into your soul and the lyrics she sings will invite you into hers. Cara's self-taught guitar style is unique and combines flawlessly with her "sultry-soul thick voice" -Monday Magazine, Victoria. Cara's original compositions are true stories penned through life's experiences and accompanied with musicality that creates a picture in the listener's mind.
| Turn up your speakers, click "Play" and listen to "No Escape" by Cara McCandless |
So Far in the Biz…
Cara has toured Western Canada as a backup singer for "YellowbellY" and has fine-tuned her stage presence since her first show 20 years ago. In 2000 Cara was a winner of 100.3 The Q's radio contest, "Rocktoria" that enabled her to record three songs with a producer and gain radio airplay to a "pop" audience. Staying true to her roots, Cara has returned to folk music and is back where she belongs. Cara is currently playing bass with "The McCandless Family Band" and is waiting the release of their debut recording "Up Yer Glass" which is due out in late 2010.
What's on the Horizon…
Cara is going to continue to perform and gain exposure for the release of her own debut album "In the Sun" coming soon in 2011. Cara plans to tour Folk Festivals across Canada and with those experiences Cara will continue to write songs of loss, love, and longing. "Cara's Beth Orton/ Natalie Merchant style is as radio ready as it is challenging."-Mike Devlin, Times Colonist, Victoria.
Learn more about Cara McCandless and listen to more of her great tunes at www.reverbnation.com/caramccandlessinfo
Contact: caramccandless@hotmail.com
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Guardians of the North, by Susan Christensen
Panic in the air.
Did you hear that?
What do you mean, Don't be silly?
Hey! Why're you slapping at Me?
Ohhh, God! Run! Get in the truck!
For heaven's sake! It's only a few
Black fly bites! Ooow!
What's that thundering?
Look! On the horizon, over there!
It's caribou.
Stampeding...
Running for their lives!
What a God-forsaken land.
Not fit for man nor beast!
No. A pristine wilderness
Untouched by man.
A delicately balanced ecosystem.
Guarded from despoiling
by God's
tiniest
warriors.
~ By Susan Christensen
Did you hear that?
What do you mean, Don't be silly?
Hey! Why're you slapping at Me?
Ohhh, God! Run! Get in the truck!
For heaven's sake! It's only a few
Black fly bites! Ooow!
What's that thundering?
Look! On the horizon, over there!
It's caribou.
Stampeding...
Running for their lives!
What a God-forsaken land.
Not fit for man nor beast!
No. A pristine wilderness
Untouched by man.
A delicately balanced ecosystem.
Guarded from despoiling
by God's
tiniest
warriors.
~ By Susan Christensen
Monday, November 7, 2011
Micki Findlay, Vancouver Island photographer
Profile of an Artist
Micki Findlay is an award-winning, freestyle 'photo-artist' who has a passion for the arts which include the theater, music and computer graphics. She was to discover, later on in life, that she possessed a love for photography after receiving a digital
camera from her husband as a gift.
With a keen eye for artistic detail, and putting her graphic art skills to work, she lovingly pours hours into her craft to perfect it, while bringing a contemporary, unique, artsy feel to her images. She has a knack for bringing her images 'to life' with her post-processing techniques and use of vibrant colours.
Photography runs in her family…her mother was, at one time, the official photographer for the Canadian Armed Forces. Micki recalls having to pose for hundreds of photos until her jaw hurt from smiling.
Her late and great Aunt Ella had been a professional black & white photographer, back when colour film had not yet been developed, so to speak.
Micki feels very blessed in life, appreciating the talents God has given her and the magnificent beauty in the world He created. She believes it a privilege to capture some of that beauty and to share it with others for their enjoyment. Living on breathtaking Vancouver Island, BC, Canada, she is never at a loss for inspiration.
Micki is known as 'The Singing Photographer' due to her ongoing involvement in music. At six years old she was performing and competing in music festivals as a vocalist and pianist and continued to do so throughout her teen years. At 17 years of age, she was chosen to compete at the BC Finals where she won first place two years consecutively. She was then chosen to represent Canada in various competitions throughout the British Isles with The Royal Conservatory Choir from Victoria, BC.
She runs her own singing telegram business called 'Tickleberry Telegrams'.
Micki is co-creator in an online shop called A2Sea Creations. It features unique, beach-inspired treasures, handcrafted on the west coast of Vancouver Island, BC.
Micki Findlay is an award-winning, freestyle 'photo-artist' who has a passion for the arts which include the theater, music and computer graphics. She was to discover, later on in life, that she possessed a love for photography after receiving a digital
camera from her husband as a gift.
With a keen eye for artistic detail, and putting her graphic art skills to work, she lovingly pours hours into her craft to perfect it, while bringing a contemporary, unique, artsy feel to her images. She has a knack for bringing her images 'to life' with her post-processing techniques and use of vibrant colours.
Photography runs in her family…her mother was, at one time, the official photographer for the Canadian Armed Forces. Micki recalls having to pose for hundreds of photos until her jaw hurt from smiling.
Her late and great Aunt Ella had been a professional black & white photographer, back when colour film had not yet been developed, so to speak.
Micki feels very blessed in life, appreciating the talents God has given her and the magnificent beauty in the world He created. She believes it a privilege to capture some of that beauty and to share it with others for their enjoyment. Living on breathtaking Vancouver Island, BC, Canada, she is never at a loss for inspiration.
Micki is known as 'The Singing Photographer' due to her ongoing involvement in music. At six years old she was performing and competing in music festivals as a vocalist and pianist and continued to do so throughout her teen years. At 17 years of age, she was chosen to compete at the BC Finals where she won first place two years consecutively. She was then chosen to represent Canada in various competitions throughout the British Isles with The Royal Conservatory Choir from Victoria, BC.
She runs her own singing telegram business called 'Tickleberry Telegrams'.
Micki is co-creator in an online shop called A2Sea Creations. It features unique, beach-inspired treasures, handcrafted on the west coast of Vancouver Island, BC.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Meander, poetry by Rojan Zét
Like a flower
right in the middle
your figure appeared
carrying out trash...
a good sign I thought
and so appropriate.
One quick word left
me there centered to
continue with a sigh
on my rocky circuit
leaving at your waiting
threshold for someone
a foil-wrapped delivery
silently unfolding.
Rojan Zét
right in the middle
your figure appeared
carrying out trash...
a good sign I thought
and so appropriate.
One quick word left
me there centered to
continue with a sigh
on my rocky circuit
leaving at your waiting
threshold for someone
a foil-wrapped delivery
silently unfolding.
Rojan Zét
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Donna Hogan, watercolours
Donna Hogan is on the road again. She loves the road and the road loves her back.
Her continuing contributions to the Café site include:
On the road again, it's great
Her continuing contributions to the Café site include:
Monday, October 10, 2011
I don’t know if you were looking
poetry by Manuel Erickson
I don’t know if you were looking:
You’d put me in a carriage
and pushed it to St. Clair and Oakwood
Did you see me look up
at the lady wearing a beret
in the bright red-green-white Sweet Caporal ad
painted on the drugstore’s brick wall?
She sparkled in the sun and smiled
I giggled
I thought she was you
People appeared. They
leaned under the carriage hood, cooing
I smelled their smoke and heard your voice
Street cars clanged their bells at car drivers
I jiggled as you pushed the carriage
over cracks in the sidewalk
I felt warm and wet and it took a long time
to get home
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Rock Balancing on Vancouver Island
photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville
"Rock balancing is an art, discipline, or hobby depending upon the intent of the practitioner in which rocks are balanced on top of one another in various positions; these scenes may then be photographed."
~ wikipedia
...leprechauns show thyselves
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Fools Rush In, poetry by Yvonne MacKenzie
gathered in solemn assembly
the celestial chorus are busy shining halos
and rehearsing their mission
meanwhile
god whistles a happy tune
and the fool comes yipping round her heels
panting with glee
unlike the measured tread of angels
fools rush in to the arms of the beloved
turning cartwheels through the mud
and jumping off the dock with their clothes on
guided by joy
the fool steps from the boat
and glides across the waves
with no thought of separation from source
joined to all creation
she dances on the edge of the abyss
the vastness of her love
entangled with the limbs of the sky
her heart heeds the instinct of birds
soaring upward through the clouds
never doubting for an instant
God’s will for wings
Yvonne MacKenzie
the celestial chorus are busy shining halos
and rehearsing their mission
meanwhile
god whistles a happy tune
and the fool comes yipping round her heels
panting with glee
unlike the measured tread of angels
fools rush in to the arms of the beloved
turning cartwheels through the mud
and jumping off the dock with their clothes on
guided by joy
the fool steps from the boat
and glides across the waves
with no thought of separation from source
joined to all creation
she dances on the edge of the abyss
the vastness of her love
entangled with the limbs of the sky
her heart heeds the instinct of birds
soaring upward through the clouds
never doubting for an instant
God’s will for wings
Yvonne MacKenzie
Monday, September 26, 2011
Ride Vancouver Island
Digital collage by Ron Greenaway inspired by the poem of Rojan Zét titled "Tomato".
"Ride this flow", digital collage by Ron Greenaway
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Tomato, poetry by Rojan Zét
Through watered eyes soaring, my
jacket billowed roaring to clouds
behind Pre-voh with glances quick
and wondering, perfumed sound thundering.
Airbrush tresses round me flowing,
wind has found me, weaves the going
and the coming swift below me.
Black tar-zipped lines evaporate;
pavement fur, oaks, undulate. Spokes
winding over pebble squeals and
shots from pipes decelerating,
staccato nails around a curving track
tangent to the Queen's circle attack
speed ascending, the road bending.
Clutchless fastshift, loud and snorting,
red and gleaming chrome sun sporting lake
and island gliding by, heart in my
outstretched hand, leather on the fly,
ready now, completely mine wanting to
go, take me higher, off the stand,
and ride this flow, anytime.
Rojan Zét
jacket billowed roaring to clouds
behind Pre-voh with glances quick
and wondering, perfumed sound thundering.
Airbrush tresses round me flowing,
wind has found me, weaves the going
and the coming swift below me.
Black tar-zipped lines evaporate;
pavement fur, oaks, undulate. Spokes
winding over pebble squeals and
shots from pipes decelerating,
staccato nails around a curving track
tangent to the Queen's circle attack
speed ascending, the road bending.
Clutchless fastshift, loud and snorting,
red and gleaming chrome sun sporting lake
and island gliding by, heart in my
outstretched hand, leather on the fly,
ready now, completely mine wanting to
go, take me higher, off the stand,
and ride this flow, anytime.
Rojan Zét
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Vancouver Island Bunny
You can run but you can't hide.
photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville
photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville
Friday, September 2, 2011
Mary Donlan
Profile of an Artist
Mary Donlan is a painter based in Campbell River on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada.
She was born in Grimsby, Ontario and earned a B.F.A. at the University of Western Ontario where she studied under Patterson Ewen. Mary lived in London for 20 years where she was a member of the artist-run Forest City Gallery. While living in London she was introduced to the work of many terrific local artists. She moved to Vancouver Island in 2007 where she started the SeedBed series which is an ongoing body of art.
Mary paints in the tradition of abstract expressionism with a collage aesthetic. Mary is developing her painterly vocabulary is based on the plant world – forests and garden are her favourite places.
The intention of Mary's work is to express the creative process. “In my paintings I aim for the effect of layered images, fragments, occurrences. I see the process of layering, merging, shaping and synthesizing as simulating the creative process.”
For more information and to see more of Mary's art please visit Mary Donlan's website at : www.marydonlan.ca
Seedbed Collage 12
 SeedBed 18 |
 SeedBed 17 |
Mary Donlan is a painter based in Campbell River on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada.
She was born in Grimsby, Ontario and earned a B.F.A. at the University of Western Ontario where she studied under Patterson Ewen. Mary lived in London for 20 years where she was a member of the artist-run Forest City Gallery. While living in London she was introduced to the work of many terrific local artists. She moved to Vancouver Island in 2007 where she started the SeedBed series which is an ongoing body of art.
Mary paints in the tradition of abstract expressionism with a collage aesthetic. Mary is developing her painterly vocabulary is based on the plant world – forests and garden are her favourite places.
The intention of Mary's work is to express the creative process. “In my paintings I aim for the effect of layered images, fragments, occurrences. I see the process of layering, merging, shaping and synthesizing as simulating the creative process.”
For more information and to see more of Mary's art please visit Mary Donlan's website at : www.marydonlan.ca
Seedbed Collage 12
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Ro Jan Z8, Beachcomber
Profile of an Artist
A Turtle Islander, most comfortable near salt water, raised on Lulu Island, formed by coastlines.... The snaking shore leads me on, ever onward, to the sound of white noise, surf, a pounding in my ears - tinnitis some call it, but after a while you get used to it and listen to the differences in its pitch, its frequency, its tone, and imagine the encoded signals, communications from another dimension - secret messages. Along the way there are findings, curiosities to discover. Ideas slide across sand and patterns emerge. The substitionary principle appears and shape-shifting begins. Dark shadows flit across the periphery of my vision. Then it becomes harder to determine the bad from the good, the right from the wrong, true from false, and slowly the trust-informed child becomes the bewildered skeptic, careful and reclusive. Recursion. What is it we can believe? Who is it we can trust? The weather changes. Rolling mist separates us from clear sky and puts me in a damp fog. The fire smoke rises into a falling rain seeking the elusive glass ball.
There are metal ones too, found half-way up the west coast of Vancouver Island near Cougar Annie's outpost where I caressed the cheeks of enormous glazed rocks, wept at the suffering evident in their gashed and shattered sides, and kissed them. I joined their private celebration, one white man and a black bear crashing their party but could I really feel uninvited to find myself at this gathering? No, I felt welcome, privileged and humbled to be allowed entry to such a grand ballroom, in such exclusive company, led by Nature herself and no other human contact except the jettisoned remnants of hemispheric sea-traffic under the foreshore trees beneath the bluest skies, in the clearest air - walking on land built by rain and drifting wood, to join the dance with these stones.
Most people don't know I have operated cranes, lived in a cave under the road in Gibraltar, sailed an ice-covered 87' ketch in the north Atlantic, graduated with an English degree from one of Canada's top universities without taking a Shakespeare course, written a skit in Pin-Yin Mandarin, and worked up and down the BC coast as a lightkeeper. Actually there's an awful lot people don't know, and many who don't care so it all works out in the end. We live, we die, someone else lives and dies. There's the sea, here's the shore, a perfect fit, there's no money involved. We just walk over it all and find what we look for, with no reason to continue when our innocence is finally and completely lost. Fractals. Ah, but what is this life? What is life for, for me, for you? That my dear, is the question. And then to live it well, this is something we humans have yet to learn, yet to discover, yet to find, yet to search for. It may be something we have simply lost. Some of us have begun looking, finding our balance, and keep hoping....
Are You In My Tribe?
The tribe I belong to is based in mutuality, reciprocity, and equilateral co-operation. It is a shared potluck group meant for all, not just for the rich or for the poor, for the fat or for the skinny, and recognizes that one person's time is not worth more or less than another's, it does not require weekend retreats for money beyond costs. This tribe is line-of-sight - within touching distance - it values respect, sensitivity, understanding, and justice, freely given from one to another without need for profit, and is based on willing exchange of experience and knowledge. The people of this tribe are connected to mother earth with the understanding that physical health relates to harmony with the natural world, that spiritual health relates to harmony with the universe, and that emotional health relates to harmony with the self and others. Each member is respected for their work in bringing community a little closer to such a reality. Are you in? Pattern recognition.
Rojan is a Cowichan Valley resident and believes poetry has the ability to reveal significant truth. As a visual artist, Rojan embraces the deliberation poetic thinking brings to a subject including text as a medium but feels the art really lies in the thinking, in the reflection, perhaps even more so than in the writing about it. As such, text becomes data, and writing - nothing more than observations for a theory, as though we are the sensors for Spirit beyond ourselves, antennae as it were - articulating and identifying sensory input for a universal cognition. Evidence.
No longer at one of the Pillars of Hercules in a cave under a road, or isolated at some remote coastal outpost contemplating the potential offered by cereal-box promises, this passive observer remains pre-occupied with the state of being, and of being Human, realizing the rise of another potential - the successful Human Inadequate (imposed failure of authentic self-actualization for increasing numbers of social stake-holders). In his struggling with form and content, Rojan has produced six chapbooks of poems, short stories, and personal essays, and is always at work on another text, presentation, image, or song while making music in efforts at preserving sanity in a broken world gradually realizing who the bad guys really are, and it's not who they want you to think. Rojan's words and images can be found at www dot rojan dot freeservers dot com.
A Turtle Islander, most comfortable near salt water, raised on Lulu Island, formed by coastlines.... The snaking shore leads me on, ever onward, to the sound of white noise, surf, a pounding in my ears - tinnitis some call it, but after a while you get used to it and listen to the differences in its pitch, its frequency, its tone, and imagine the encoded signals, communications from another dimension - secret messages. Along the way there are findings, curiosities to discover. Ideas slide across sand and patterns emerge. The substitionary principle appears and shape-shifting begins. Dark shadows flit across the periphery of my vision. Then it becomes harder to determine the bad from the good, the right from the wrong, true from false, and slowly the trust-informed child becomes the bewildered skeptic, careful and reclusive. Recursion. What is it we can believe? Who is it we can trust? The weather changes. Rolling mist separates us from clear sky and puts me in a damp fog. The fire smoke rises into a falling rain seeking the elusive glass ball.
There are metal ones too, found half-way up the west coast of Vancouver Island near Cougar Annie's outpost where I caressed the cheeks of enormous glazed rocks, wept at the suffering evident in their gashed and shattered sides, and kissed them. I joined their private celebration, one white man and a black bear crashing their party but could I really feel uninvited to find myself at this gathering? No, I felt welcome, privileged and humbled to be allowed entry to such a grand ballroom, in such exclusive company, led by Nature herself and no other human contact except the jettisoned remnants of hemispheric sea-traffic under the foreshore trees beneath the bluest skies, in the clearest air - walking on land built by rain and drifting wood, to join the dance with these stones.
Most people don't know I have operated cranes, lived in a cave under the road in Gibraltar, sailed an ice-covered 87' ketch in the north Atlantic, graduated with an English degree from one of Canada's top universities without taking a Shakespeare course, written a skit in Pin-Yin Mandarin, and worked up and down the BC coast as a lightkeeper. Actually there's an awful lot people don't know, and many who don't care so it all works out in the end. We live, we die, someone else lives and dies. There's the sea, here's the shore, a perfect fit, there's no money involved. We just walk over it all and find what we look for, with no reason to continue when our innocence is finally and completely lost. Fractals. Ah, but what is this life? What is life for, for me, for you? That my dear, is the question. And then to live it well, this is something we humans have yet to learn, yet to discover, yet to find, yet to search for. It may be something we have simply lost. Some of us have begun looking, finding our balance, and keep hoping....
Are You In My Tribe?
The tribe I belong to is based in mutuality, reciprocity, and equilateral co-operation. It is a shared potluck group meant for all, not just for the rich or for the poor, for the fat or for the skinny, and recognizes that one person's time is not worth more or less than another's, it does not require weekend retreats for money beyond costs. This tribe is line-of-sight - within touching distance - it values respect, sensitivity, understanding, and justice, freely given from one to another without need for profit, and is based on willing exchange of experience and knowledge. The people of this tribe are connected to mother earth with the understanding that physical health relates to harmony with the natural world, that spiritual health relates to harmony with the universe, and that emotional health relates to harmony with the self and others. Each member is respected for their work in bringing community a little closer to such a reality. Are you in? Pattern recognition.
Rojan is a Cowichan Valley resident and believes poetry has the ability to reveal significant truth. As a visual artist, Rojan embraces the deliberation poetic thinking brings to a subject including text as a medium but feels the art really lies in the thinking, in the reflection, perhaps even more so than in the writing about it. As such, text becomes data, and writing - nothing more than observations for a theory, as though we are the sensors for Spirit beyond ourselves, antennae as it were - articulating and identifying sensory input for a universal cognition. Evidence.
No longer at one of the Pillars of Hercules in a cave under a road, or isolated at some remote coastal outpost contemplating the potential offered by cereal-box promises, this passive observer remains pre-occupied with the state of being, and of being Human, realizing the rise of another potential - the successful Human Inadequate (imposed failure of authentic self-actualization for increasing numbers of social stake-holders). In his struggling with form and content, Rojan has produced six chapbooks of poems, short stories, and personal essays, and is always at work on another text, presentation, image, or song while making music in efforts at preserving sanity in a broken world gradually realizing who the bad guys really are, and it's not who they want you to think. Rojan's words and images can be found at www dot rojan dot freeservers dot com.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Two Contrasting Poems
1
and look across the gap
© 2007 Manuel Erickson
I don't want to remember the Kinsol:
I want to walk on its curve, smell its wood beams,
hear its creaks in the wind.
I want to stand in the middle,
listen to the rumble of Koksilah's rapids below;
I want to know the cuff-linked
architects who designed it,
the bearded, rough workers who built it,
the stripe-hatted train crews who drove smoky locies across it;
I don't want to look at
a mere replacement:
smaller, narrower, less sturdy
and know that it severs me
from my history, culture, tradition:
no replacement can "be" the Kinsol Trestle.
I want to walk on the Kinsol
like the hikers from near and far
who gather at each unapproachable end—
and look across the gap.
2
closing the gap
© 2011 Manuel Erickson
I don't need to remember the Kinsol:
I can walk on its curve, smell its wood beams,
hear its creaks in the wind.
When I stand in the middle
I hear the sweet music of Koksilah's rapids below;
in my imagination I know the cuff-linked
architects who designed it,
the bearded, rough workers who built it,
the stripe-hatted train crews who drove smoky locies across it;
for this is no mere replacement:
though narrower, it is not less sturdy;
this trestle joins me
to my history, culture, tradition:
this is the Kinsol Trestle.
I walked on the Kinsol with a crowd of thousands,
joined hikers and bikers from near and far
gathered at each closed-in gap,
shared smiles, laughter, chatter and happiness
as we walked from one end to the other.
and look across the gap
© 2007 Manuel Erickson
I don't want to remember the Kinsol:
I want to walk on its curve, smell its wood beams,
hear its creaks in the wind.
I want to stand in the middle,
listen to the rumble of Koksilah's rapids below;
I want to know the cuff-linked
architects who designed it,
the bearded, rough workers who built it,
the stripe-hatted train crews who drove smoky locies across it;
I don't want to look at
a mere replacement:
smaller, narrower, less sturdy
and know that it severs me
from my history, culture, tradition:
no replacement can "be" the Kinsol Trestle.
I want to walk on the Kinsol
like the hikers from near and far
who gather at each unapproachable end—
and look across the gap.
2
closing the gap
© 2011 Manuel Erickson
I don't need to remember the Kinsol:
I can walk on its curve, smell its wood beams,
hear its creaks in the wind.
When I stand in the middle
I hear the sweet music of Koksilah's rapids below;
in my imagination I know the cuff-linked
architects who designed it,
the bearded, rough workers who built it,
the stripe-hatted train crews who drove smoky locies across it;
for this is no mere replacement:
though narrower, it is not less sturdy;
this trestle joins me
to my history, culture, tradition:
this is the Kinsol Trestle.
I walked on the Kinsol with a crowd of thousands,
joined hikers and bikers from near and far
gathered at each closed-in gap,
shared smiles, laughter, chatter and happiness
as we walked from one end to the other.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Gone Fishin' , poetry by Rojan Zét
You can wait 'til it's too late for visits. Light a candle by your bed and
watch how the light flickers. Think of times you've been together,
maybe times you shared a beer.
When I'd visit he would always have a word of cheer for me, take my
hand, and grip it warmly, though it might have been a year or more
since last we'd hugged each other.
Sometimes I would show him pictures of the places where I'd been and
sitting on the bed he'd wonder, "how's your Mom," or, "how's your
brother." Always he would be so grateful for the smallest little thing and
thank me, thank you, thanks for coming when we finished visiting.
I thought I saw the candle flicker just before I fell asleep, then dreamed
that it was he who travelled while I slept and breathed so deep. He went
before me gap-toothed, and hollow faced, this man with twinkle in his
eyes, for whom I'd smuggled garlic sausage and raw onion.
There he was out on the ocean,
gently rocking on the sea,
sunlight sparkled while he dallied
on his boat just big enough for three.
I heard a strike, the line went zing,
he hooked a big one, let it run,
and stood to see it flashing golden
in the evening's setting sun.
He played with it and when about
a half an hour or so had passed,
he brought that fish up to the boat,
gaffed it in and made a cast again
and soon another fish lay thumping
on the floor but still he stood
and when the third fish found its mates
there wishing for the deep blue sea, he
folded up his rod and said, "If someone
asks just tell them God and I've
gone fishin'."
Late that night I tossed and turned. While I'd slept the flame had
burned to cold and dark. There was no doubt - in early morning light
I saw - the flick'ring candl'd flickered out.
Rojan Zét
watch how the light flickers. Think of times you've been together,
maybe times you shared a beer.
When I'd visit he would always have a word of cheer for me, take my
hand, and grip it warmly, though it might have been a year or more
since last we'd hugged each other.
Sometimes I would show him pictures of the places where I'd been and
sitting on the bed he'd wonder, "how's your Mom," or, "how's your
brother." Always he would be so grateful for the smallest little thing and
thank me, thank you, thanks for coming when we finished visiting.
I thought I saw the candle flicker just before I fell asleep, then dreamed
that it was he who travelled while I slept and breathed so deep. He went
before me gap-toothed, and hollow faced, this man with twinkle in his
eyes, for whom I'd smuggled garlic sausage and raw onion.
There he was out on the ocean,
gently rocking on the sea,
sunlight sparkled while he dallied
on his boat just big enough for three.
I heard a strike, the line went zing,
he hooked a big one, let it run,
and stood to see it flashing golden
in the evening's setting sun.
He played with it and when about
a half an hour or so had passed,
he brought that fish up to the boat,
gaffed it in and made a cast again
and soon another fish lay thumping
on the floor but still he stood
and when the third fish found its mates
there wishing for the deep blue sea, he
folded up his rod and said, "If someone
asks just tell them God and I've
gone fishin'."
Late that night I tossed and turned. While I'd slept the flame had
burned to cold and dark. There was no doubt - in early morning light
I saw - the flick'ring candl'd flickered out.
Rojan Zét
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