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Retired from 10 years in the Canadian Navy, and 28 years in the Canadian Diplomatic Service, with postings in Beijing, Mexico City, Sri Lanka, Romania, Abu Dhabi, Guyana, Ireland, Trinidad, and, last but not least, India.

Wednesday, 24 February 2021

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?

Saturday, 14 November 2020

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.

Tuesday, 22 September 2020

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.

Sunday, 20 September 2020

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.
 

Monday, 14 September 2020

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.
 

Thursday, 27 August 2020

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.

Sunday, 23 August 2020

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.


Saturday, 22 August 2020

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)

Tuesday, 23 June 2020

Digging a Hole





I’m digging a hole in this fragile earth,
and closing it up behind me.
My hope is that, when deep enough,
hate and stupidity cannot find me.

The air is thick, and cool, down here;
I’m surrounded by muffled silence.
No sound vibration reaches me;
no echoes of cruelty nor violence.

This self-internment will end one day,
and my wish is that I shall find
we've evolved into a better world,
one shared by all mankind.

Friday, 29 May 2020

This Volatile Core Of Rage



We have all sensed it,
simmering there,
just beneath the surface
of our new reality.

Our paths have been blocked,
our trajectories skewed,
and resentment seeps
through the shock.

The public mask
that we now must wear
does not quite muffle
the bubbling of potential violence.

The commonality of our plight
must now unify,
and inspire us to share
a better future for all.

The Ancient Hippie

The Ancient Hippie
Natraj dances with us all.

Welcome, and Namaste

Greetings fellow travellers,

For you American friends visiting, you will notice that this old Canadian uses Canadian English in this blog: kindly bear with me. As I blog primarily on subjects that are vitally interesting to me, I appreciate all feedback.

As I tend to be a bit of a language usage freak, I will, as required, edit obscenity and rude comments. That said, I welcome your opinions and discussion.

May your Dharma be clear

Peace

"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumb'red here,
While these visions did appear."


Puck’s epilogue to A Midsummer Night’s Dream