Dust

Childhood dust has gone

with only the echo

and vague memory

of the warm smell

and summer sparkle

of roadside ditches.

The is no dust today.

It has all been

vacuumed 

sanitized

processed

and shunned.

In losing our dust

we have lost 

so much more.

Hiatus

 Hiatus

Evolution tsunami crashing

through every age.

Unfathomable speed

broken 

by cosmic ripples.

A vast endless symphony

of joy, 

disaster, 

love, 

hate,

and universal indifference.

The wave continues in all directions,

all times,

all branes.

It never reaches forever,

but continues always.

The brief spark throughout 

is that flicker

of love, of pain,

enhanced by each of us

by our knowledge that

this is all…

ever.

Dust Motes

Each alone,

needs only to be heard,

and not to listen.

Each is central

to the small,

and insignificant,

orbit it describes.

United

is a state untried,

as none are bothered

to see any view

not emblazoned

on the mausoleum

of shallow lives.

Fading

in a dying sun,

their lonely dance slows.

Do they contemplate

why and what,

if anything,

it all meant?

Bubbles

It doesn’t really matter

that we think first

of ourselves,

and not of others.

It doesn’t really change things

that life is egocentric,

and we alone

define what is real.

It doesn’t really cause pain,

or offence, or disdain,

if misery is  

a neighbour’s concern.

It doesn’t really matter,

when at last the bubbles burst

and nothing

redeemable remains.

Ethereal Reflections

Morning mist travelling,
tenuously,
up the valleys
of home.

Full moon on the bay,
illuminating
the Mackerel Islands

with silver.

Happy beagle, baying
at imagined squirrels,
and rabbits laughing
just out of sight.

The crispiness of maple leaves,
and the juicy tartness
of blackberries
awaiting frost.

The old man, 
lost in thought,
refuses to project
beyond next week.

Stationary Journeys

Not necessary,
those foreign climes
of which we often dream.

Not workable
our vain imagining
of whom we’d like to be.

Not logical
to say what if,
not facing what is real.

Our journey is progressive,
moving in serendipitous ways:
one can’t really know
if here and now
isn’t really there and then.

The secret,
gleaned from atop a mount
where the guru hid away,
is simply to continue
being you, each and every day.

And when tomorrow dawns,
as tomorrows always do,
just realise
that now is here,
and you are always you.
 

Fragments from a Fading Dream

Wispy, and tantalizing
glimpses of peace,
with an embraced
commonality:
sharing.

Floating, almost unseen,
at the edge of reality,
a fading symphony
of love,
of inclusion.

The solipsistic gale
from countless
societies of one,
shreds compassion,
with blades of hate.

There was a time
when hope, when optimism,
filled our dreams:
when people mattered,
not things.

These fragments
from a fading dream,
now simply
existential haze,
that obscures tomorrow.
 

The Fluttering of Other

The fluttering of different times
whispers softly in my ear,
and speaks of ancient sagas
in places far and near.

The muttering of ancient crimes
shame me for our past,
and sadden me to realize 
our species will not last.

The guttering of dying flames
that flicker as they go,
symbolise such sorrow
as we shall never know.

The puttering of undone tasks
batter around my head,
reminding me there is no time
as all will soon be dead.

The stuttering of unsaid words,
“I love you” said too late,
often transit rapidly
to spiteful thoughts of hate.

The shuttering of windows beckoning
when I’m so near to rest,
destroys my hope for successful
completion of my quest.

The fluttering of different times
has now become today,
and, for us, we can’t look back,
condemned to stumble on our way.

Fragmentation

       

Clouds, soft and fecund,
punctuate a sky relentless
in the pink promise of evening.
 
      Humidity hangs like a shroud,                 The past presents a poignant pain  

 giving shelter to myriad bugs,                     neither cured, nor improved, 

and encouraging fantasies of sun.                   by the medication of time. 

 

The dead road-kill crow
offered visual recompense
to the folly of life.

One sole loon laughed sardonically                 The spaces between jackpine
    at the thought of carefree fish                      and populist spruce guard access
           only metres below.                                    to a mossy living magic.

In a random and chaotic universe
expecting the unexpected
guarantees nothing.

There is a lesson to be learned 

perhaps a moral to be discerned

but interpretation is best left to Janus.

Skirting The Void

(umm)


(umm)


Heaviness assails senses.
Thought becomes static.
Alternatives do not exist.
Hiatus becomes eternal.


(umm)


Gravity envelopes.
Sensory acuity falters,
diminishing to infinity,
as concept redefines reality.


(umm)


A slow, heavy return,
girded by renewed intentions,
bolstered by the exhilaration
of skirting the void.


(Aum)


(Part of series: Cannabis and Creative Cognition: Bubba OG)