We are looking for the most stunning images of trees in Qualicum Beach.
Show us their strength, their beauty, their significance.
Contest Rules:
Photo must be taken within the municipal boundary of Qualicum Beach. See https://maps.qualicumbeach.com/qbgis/ to locate if you’re within town boundaries.
Photo must clearly be of a tree, a part of a tree, or a grouping of the same tree.
The tree(s) must be in a natural setting, not in plant pots or indoors.
Photos must have been taken within the last 12 months.
Photos must be in full colour with no watermarks, and no larger than 20 megabytes.
Photos must have been taken ethically, without harm to the subject or environment.
LOVE IN THE TIME OF COVID-19: Spoken Word from Quarantine by Andre Hirsch Todorovich
(Videographer: Vaysha Hirsch Todorovich)
We exist, we thrive, all space and all time
Illumination of all that we find
Within our cells, within our deepest wells
A Source sustained through pandemic infection
Win or lose paradigms no longer fit the picture
Safe-guarding people from breath failure
Old and young deathly ill from COVID-19
Quarantine and separate, remembering real living
Human wildfire dividing all green spirits
How to survive if not through each other
Exchanging love transcends all race and mother tongues
The answer, the synergy, awareness of all as one
People, faces, all around our earth are crying
Call on humanity, remember we are One
Within, without, stand apart, we were born to transcend
We live and die, but share the right to defend
Clockwork blossoms follow cycles of our seasons
Rise and bloom with purpose and wisdom
Interconscious tribes, save our quarantined families
All choices add up to our unified survival
And everyone impacts the world-wide viral
Contracting COVID could absolutely weaponize us
Harming ones we adore, too close, too soon, harming more…
In isolation we grow the flower of compassion
Human ninety-eight percent, same DNA metabolism
Ears to hear, eyes to see, same desire for what lies within
Sharing interdependence from a distance…
And there is no price for indispensable members
All space, all time, so mote it be, our hearts won’t die
Transcend all limiting definitions
Yes, it’s the highest good, the good of all, according to free will
Thus harming none, thus growing, thus harvesting
Thus breathing without viral-filters
An end to isolation, nears imagination, open with kindness
We’re all together in this realization
The world unfurls for us, unlimited united nations…
Safely, all heroic first-responders, nurses, farmers, grocery workers and food-train drivers
Safely, all scientists, doctors, governors, friends and family who fight the virus
Safely, all news media, musicians, writers, artists, comedians and morale-boosters
Safely, all quarantined, banging pots, zooming and playing instruments through this crisis
We exist, we thrive, all space and all time
Illumination of all that we find
Within our cells, within our deepest wells
It Matters by Peter K. Kuhrt (age 79)
Does it really matter, how far we’ve gone astray? Should we really care, how we will fare someday? Our world the way we know it, has changed down to the core With evil and betrayal, will there be love no more? And does it really matter, if brother kills his kin? Has God become so silent, that we must live in sin? My brothers and my sisters, in hope let us unite! Trust our great creator, for he will set things right! It matters that we realize, we need to love each other And don’t be fooled by those who say It doesn’t really matter!
Sitting at the beach by Shirlene Donnelly
Gentle waves, contradicting each other – playing for direction Remnants of trees on the sand – outstretched – crumbling back to earth Pebbles, rocks – an endless variety of textures, shapes and colors Ocean – expansive and in constant motion Cotton ball clouds hugging the mountain tops Soaring gulls – riding the air currents, crying out their freedom – there’s always a Jonathan Livingston Seagull, perfecting the art of flight Distant children’s voices, readily and easily in the moment – the ‘now’ we often seem to strive for Alone – and yet not – The distant mountains envelop us with their strength – The water calms the breathing as the breeze gives welcome relief from the harshness of the sun I’m so small, but I am also part of all those things – the water, the mountain, the cloud, the tree, the voices of the children, the soaring gull, the gentle breeze – the ever-changing scene of life the ultimate now, this sweet moment in time. All is well.
Untitled by Shelby Bell (Kwalikum Secondary Student)
1. The simple pleasures Ordinarily ordinary Cups of coffees at cafes With conversions flowing over Laughter and smiles with those you love So precious and tender Between classes having rowdy hallway interactions The comedic technical slip of the lip or class clown distractions Grabbing milk at the grocery store Leaving with crackers, bananas, and detergent Handshakes with cubical pals Lunch dates with the gals All in a normal day The simple pleasures Stripped away Each left rubbed raw The cherished events Sweat stained jerseys and joyous smiles after the game Making a wish to just blow away Uniting two people to come together as one Throwing up hats with diplomas fiercely gripped The simple pleasures The cherished moments The celebratory days All stripped away Each left rubbed raw Day by day Over and over Stripping and rubbing Until There is nothing more left to take Stripping and rubbing Oh how it aches 2. Heavy The caving of my back Slouching of my shoulders And bowing of my head All stem from the overwhelming dread Unable to do anything Avoiding confrontation and rehabilitation Lying in bed
Blankets of silence setting the tone Motionless upon appearance Restless upon realization First annoyance pokes and provokes As dread consistently convokes Melting my mind away Desperately calling for the pleasant parts to stay Alas I cannot have it my way I lie awake as the concept of time continues to shuffle along Uneasy that everything is wrong Just waiting until sleep takes me away A soothing pause before another exhausting day
The Miracle at Qualicum Beach by Lina Janeski (age 12)
The waves rippled over the sea as gently as can be. The eagles beady eye looked down from his tree. It was a miracle as you can see and the starfish liked to play hide and seek. In the tide pools tiny sculpins darted back and forth. The crabs scuttled all along the sandy shore. It was a miracle as you can see
the ribbons of kelp drifted aimlessly. The seagulls never ceased to croak and caw. Whatever you saw you would stare at in awe. It was a miracle as you can see Qualicum Beach was like a land of fantasy!
Tea Time by Patrick J.A. Brownrigg
A clear blue sky above our heads And buds and blossoms in the flower beds The birds are singing and building a nest The feeling of spring is here in the West.
The afternoon we’ve waited for With a proper tea for two (or more) The table is ready, freshly laid With Limoge china on a cloth displayed
Silverware is polished bright Cream and sugar, what a sight! What to wear, a fancy hat? What could be any better than that?
The kettle has boiled, steaming still, The teapot warmed, ready to fill. Earl Grey or Lapsang Soochong Neither one is right or wrong
Some would choose a black Ceylon While others for Chamomile would long, Doesn’t really matter which So long as the cream is nice and rich!
Sit up straight and smooth your skirt Adjust your hat, a touch of flirt Now it’s time to plate the cakes So proud that you had freshly baked.
Colourful linen napkins to fold And a cake stand that is very old Would that Grandma this scene to see A smile on her face and me on her knee
Humming birds and butterflies Floating about up in the skies Time my lady now says grace Clasping hands all glove’d in lace
We’ve done our best and set the scene And as a result it’s fit for a queen But it’s just us two, thee and me We’re ready now for our afternoon tea
listen..... by MEL McLachlan
Birds aren’t competing with traffic noise and, sadly, the joyous sounds of children joggers bikers and walkers are missing the sounds of silence — still plugged into their selfish isolating micro-world unlike any other burst of spring we cannot /must not ignore the now, as a beautiful view on a morning hike –we may never pass this way again and we can’t dismiss the rigid distance yearning for an embrace
AFTER OWLS: A SEPTEMBER DAWN IN THE HERITAGE FOREST by John Smith
Furled among the ghost-grey trees the morning mist stands motionless. Two barred owls, an hour or so before the dawn, had called their last. Unanswered yet, the sound still prowls along the narrow avenues.
Sprawled within the undergrowth a prehistoric Sitka Spruce’s massive stump and moss-greened roots seem all that’s left; yet a ghostly silhouette of its ancient grandeur faintly imprints on the mist.
A silent pathway, undefined
as a deer-trail, tunnels the dark, its destiny uncertain. Then, through the thrall of slow ground mist which lifts and lingers, there appears, transfixed, a child at the gate.
The warming sunrise fires the trees, the deep green roofs of Douglas fir and leafy clumps on silver branched Hemlock are suffused with sun. The haze, engulfed, now saunters off, elusive wisps amidst the trees.
The trail, embellished now by dusty sunlight’s crazy patterns, is guarded by the Sitka’s hulk – a stronghold from whose crumbling walls hints of mysterious travelers are surveyed as they journey by.
An eagle intercepts the sun – black lightning flickers through the trees. Betrayed by its shadow, its shrill cry breaks the silence after owls. The cycle is closed. The child runs, unbound, to play in the forest.
The Trees of Second Avenue by Judy Hipkin
The night is velvet: dark, intense, yet soft Beneath a fingernail of moon aloft. And echoing that moon, along the street The lamps unspool a pathway for my feet. Along that path, both generous and wide The trees of Second Avenue reside. This summer night, those trees are whispering Of what the seasons wheeling by will bring. Those crisp autumnal days that lie ahead: The golden light, the smell of baking bread, The trick-or-treaters gathering their sweets, With dogs in tutus earning doggie treats. The trees shrug off October colour now. A season over, time to take a bow. Then winter sends a gift of filigree Adorning branches stripped to tracery. With care the many strings of lights are placed. With pride the avenue of trees is graced. The night falls, and the street’s a festive sight Transformed into a promenade of light. And suddenly, it’s spring! Each tree will sport The wherewithal to pay each other court: They choose to don a modest cloak of pearl, A sea of froth to make the heart uncurl, Or, filled with joie de vivre, see them prink, As glorious flamingos, flaming pink. In summer, more excitement is the goal: The avenue takes on a public role. The trees play host to pipers, grads and art, A jazz ensemble or a crafters’ mart. Look! Cadillacs and Mustangs, Edsels too, Six hundred classic beauties all on view. And oh! the flowers! Fairest of the fair
In great profusion, colour everywhere! Tonight is velvet: dark, intense, yet soft Beneath a fingernail of moon aloft. A sound, besides my homeward footsteps, steals Into the night, a sigh of skateboard wheels. In rhythm with the trees’ nocturnal song A graceful boy glides effortlessly along. I smile; he passes lightly as the breeze That plays upon the avenue of trees.
It’s a Bit of a Reach by Ramona Jones
While waiting to die, find something to do, So life will distract, the impossible you From feeling alone with billions together Braving feared fire, storm lashing weather There’s a shore for each beach, a place to alight High tide, low banked, cresting over hindsight Pick up the refuse, we cannot all disappear Smile high to the sky, a shell for the ear Look up, listen close, there’s the true treasure Not caring for money in any great measure Turned to plastic and smoke, something so blue Made to distract the impossible you From the beach and waves and all who live there Beachcombers, fishers, sea creatures, fair I cast my words out, needing something to do Not waiting to die, while reaching for you.
Birthday in Covid-19 by Barbara Botham
The plan to have a nice dinner cooked by sister Ev with maybe a few friends turned into a picnic one day early responding to the whims of Mother Nature, the log long enough to accommodate us four with the required gap, no food sharing, that didn’t prevent an age cake-topping appearing on a rock between us, the candle obligingly holding the flames for the photograph while the two male voices grunted the odd word of the birthday song that Ev sang in a warning voice to encourage them to join in, while I giggled delightedly at the memorable scene while the sealions sang louder than the three, roaring from the jagged boulders, draping languidly in the sun or rising mightily to outdo each other in din, or sliding into the water to frolic and dive their fur gleaming like wet balloons shining silver to replicate the colour my hair will soon become without access to my hairdresser so I will join the myriad of old heads that will shock us all as we age overnight displaying truly that we are the oldest demographic in Canada, me being told to act my age by my active three-year-younger sister as I negotiate the enormous boulders to get a better look or find a seat for a while before walking to the fish processing store to pick up a salmon and shiny white birthday stone from the beach which required more high jinks to maneuver across boulders to access, proving aging – all things being equal – can obey directions even while I become truly ensconced in my eighth decade of experiencing the joys of mother earth and all her inhabitants.
PRAYER BLESSING FOR ISOLATION by Barbara Botham
May your home always be big enough to hold all opinions expressed there. May their validity always be acknowledged and may there be space enough for each opinion to inhabit its own zone and may there be a space where opinions meet and converse. May your ceiling always be high enough to allow all ideas to rise unfettered. May those ideas always be viewed with calmness and receptiveness allowing for reasonable debate, built upon, or offered gentle redirection. May all of the emotions, occurrences, glances, expressions, both internal and external, sit upon a solid foundation of respect, with enough pockets to hold all the ideas, opinions, humour, love, joy and everything else that resides in the residence. May the only infection in your home be laughter, always close enough to the surface to be able to blossom at every appropriate moment, helping to relieve all hearts, and sweeten our isolation. May love rise into every height, slip into every crack, drip into every foundation, whirl into every thought, so that, when the time is right, it serves to lighten our soul by finding softness in the present moment, and as we look back. May all the above be achieved by each of us, not with a mask, nor kid gloves, nor full body armour, but with an open heart, a smiling heart, a soft heart. May we all recognise that love is at the core of everything. May we live it.
oh qualicum by Stan Leecups
our ancient home for eons here my peoples roam among the deer and spray sea-foam our lives and cheer on beaches known
My Qualicum Beach Paradise by George Olsen
There is a perfect locale in Canada, in which we can live in peace This Eden is in Qualicum Beach, where new wonders never cease
Perfection abounds in this domain, where it is my choice to live The reasons why I call this area paradise, I will now to you give
Residents here are friendly, with a smile you will always be greeted To a sincere display of their friendship, you will always be treated
An aura of serene tranquility, permeates this friendly community I rate Qualicum Beach as my utopia, it’s heaven on earth for me
The splendor of nature is seen everywhere, the scenery is supreme Mountain vistas and ocean views, are only a part of nature’s scheme
Eagles soaring high in the sky, a myriad of song birds with their song The geese, the ducks, the gulls and deer, to this idyllic paradise belong
I moved to the Qualicum Beach community, just several months ago Having gone through a traumatic experience, my spirit was very low
Due to the tranquility and the friendliness, that all around me abound An inspiring mode of retirement living, I have now definitely found
What I have located is utter perfection, a contented life before me now lies I will live a lifestyle of tranquility here in my Qualicum Beach paradise
The Boardwalk by Jeanne Brownell
Birds calling out, Eagles landing. Seals playing in the waves. Herons patiently fishing in the sand. There are children-laughing, building castles-parents nearby. So easy to walk on the boardwalk. Stop to let people go by, have their space and greet them. Take deep breaths-smell the clean ocean air. Walk in with my walker-stretch my legs-have conversations with John. When it’s time to go home I feel invigorated by the clean cool air and at the same time rested and calm.
Qualicum Beach Poetry by Betty De Bruin
Introduction Qualicum Beach is many things. Not just a pretty little town Where early spring flowers pop up And cherry trees bloom as if by magic. It is a place of gathering Meeting friends and colleagues Enjoy concerts and plays As well as a world class museum to visit. It depicts a way of life In which I am privileged to live. Nature here moves one, as these poems depict This sentiments (?) living in Qualicum Beach.
Dogwood Trees Along Highway 19 – Victoria to Qualicum Beach Jewels among jade Form petals, open wide To let the light filter through. Masses of green boughs Faces turned towards the sky Praising in silent adoration Speechless and yet speaking so many words Each time I see a dogwood among the pines.
Eagles Perched high on a bare branch Silhouetted against grey sky
Dives with speed Disappears Soars above me Beckoning me to fly Above life’s clouds To maintain Stability Where else but in Qualicum Beach
Walking Along the Beach (Dedicated to my late husband Len who died in 2011) Wind rippled through the grass Back and forth Like waves crashing upon the shore Brown otter slithering Upon the logs. Blues lines with whitecaps swelling From the distance Ships looming Grotesque like monsters riding the crest. Cold air, wind blowing in our faces Hairs flying like swirling wires Arms clasped around me Sheltering and protection Outward unity But Tumultuous pounding Of my heart as if it will break Those moments of closeness and unity.
IN MY BLOOMING GARDEN: Spoken Word Poem from Quarantine by Andre Hirsch Todorovich
Videographer: Vaysha Hirsch Todorovich.
My words as music raises me in velvet notes
Climbing the stairs of vast space and time
Into the zenith of my meditating mind
I smile when the warm notion of my awakening
Seeps under my eye-lids and slides them open
Flowing in my blooming garden
Sets the air buzzing with youthful presence
When spring-time converses with my gladdened ear
I love myself for the nobility with which I bore
The necessary weight of truthful decisions
Before weight took to flight born aloft on a breeze
The world to me is not a spinning globe upon my mantle
But as forever is long, as the mind is vast
So then is the spinning universe within my revelations
Days are as nights inside years which grow my wise ways
Love renews on my windowsill where I planted it
And nurtured it, shooting green into my living rooms
When my pen touches paper, or inspiration taps the keys
I remember why it was that I ever wrote the words
Listen…what do you hear? What do you revere?
Give eyes the speech to paint, let taste suggest we see
May touch celebrate all traces of love
And let scent arrange the bouquet of our chosen flowers
Speak freely, sing, dance, laugh out loud
In all orders of importance, this is what being pure means:
Leaving the white noise behind, feeling the meaning of the words
Pulsing between the lines of your own essential living
FIND THE GIVEN: Spoken Word Poem from Quarantine by Andre Hirsch Todorovich
(Videographer: Vaysha Hirsch Todorovich)
Picture flipping Picture tilting, blurring Realization? Questions. (Freeze. Freeze it shut) Mind lurch droning in a muddled banter Covering over blanks which sigh ever after Smiling without poetry, life sentences without time Divine intervention never saved the sky. True… But improv a thought which hears the next question And answers that talk with comprehension Would it scare you to let concepts walk astray And if they flew?
Would it frighten you to map that terrifying landscape And would you go? The lifelong fences never mended inevitable questions You lie inside that mourning which dawns And dawns forever standing Only showing your cankerous fears to the backwards mirror Drifting, slumbering with intolerable interiors… But by reflecting those muted expressions That’s how they did it Interior giants who whisper in run-on sentences Always fought for this telling, never told before its holding Stemmed by the stronghold blocking the tide Trapped in the crevice of besieged pride The daunted, defeated words, lie… Inside this sleeping dream house, great spirits find the given… Believe, believe with ultimate conviction In that long awaited, but rarely expected, something that we all live for It’s yours as you childhood was yours As is your favourite song, your most treasured friend Or the smile on your face, which you can make reappear at will Believe there are many who don’t For they line the walls of limited vision But lift the veil of heavy clouds, upon the field of open laughter
You will speak in tongues once past your tip And fly the spears which line the pits The paranoia of uncertain days All the games adversaries will play To cross a threshold of altered thought Illuminated by higher talks And kindled beyond envy or spite Burnished in truth, dignity, and light And once upon that foremost height You will look back with awe Upon the bygone valleys which you ascended This is the filling of the blanks… Believe with ultimate conviction, and act upon it
The Things We Miss by Catharine McLean
We miss the things we used to love, the lively walks, the food so fondly shared, the concerts, plays, the games, and hugs, the family celebrations. We miss those things we used to love.
But now a solitary candle on a stump, a baby’s wave by window framed, the soft tide slipping up the beach, and flowers glowing extra bright, the wildlife welcomed as if new,
Now it seems, in this odd time, when we have time, we also love the things we used to miss.
Qualicum Sunset by John Beaton
This evening’s sunset, though ethereal rose, is not unique—I’ve seen its like before
emblazoning this shore;
others eclipse it, robed and grandiose, descending suns which, as they disappear,
draw a train
across the polar ice for half a year— long, silken night that lets in astral rain.
I see no Ellesmere, but islands smolder, anthracite to bank the sunset’s fire.
As twilight’s rays retire
the ebb-tide bares a sandbar like a shoulder and ingle-benches empty—seabird flocks
seek nooks of calm;
they search for marsh and carr with goodnight squawks and sea and sky close like a carmine clam.
In another life I’d clamber Brooks Range talus or run the Sagavanirktok by canoe,
my paddle breaking through
a dusky, red aurora borealis. But this is my life and this fair coast, my home,
and this setting sun
deserves to be viewed, not with an eye to roam, but as if it were the first and only one.
