Snow in the Air

The nets now are mended,
the lobster pots dry:
fall has now ended,
there’s snow in the sky.

August berries are bottled,
November venison hung:
now clouds are grey-mottled.
Autumn’s song has been sung.

But though blizzards may come, and north winds scream,
children’s eyes are wide with the Christmas dream;
and beneath slate-grey skies, where storm clouds race,
young lovers speak low by a warm fireplace.
At the store, old men argue ‘round a pot-bellied stove,
and children now skate on the ice in the cove.
In the kitchen, the dog is curled up on the rug,
and the smell of home cooking makes people feel snug.

Old men sniff the air
(old men always know),
and say with a flair,
“Tomorrow she’ll snow.”

~James Douglas Fanning

On Temporary Absences

It isn’t so much
not being with you
     at times,
that makes me sad;
rather the thought of you,
     alone,
doing familiar things
that I’ve seen you do,
     but without me.

And
it isn’t really
not being with you
     at times,
that makes me blue;
rather the photographic image
     of us,
doing familiar things
that we have always done
     together.

And
it isn’t so much
that such a long time
     must pass
before our time begins;
rather the fear that then,
     beginning,
our years will pass so quickly
that much will be left
     unsaid,
     undone.

~James Douglas Fanning

Chiaroscuro

Flickering lines of light and shadow,
progressing ceaselessly 
from horizon to horizon:
a lemming march to obscurity.

Philosopher, fakir,
fool and friend;
sociopath, philanthropist,
parent and child;
tyrant, benefactor,
you and I:
we all move, blindly,
along the arrow
of Time.

If we take the time,
each and every day,
to examine
     the lines,
     the shadows,
to understand
     not the motion,
     not the flickering,
but the stunning reality
     of here,
     of Now,
meaning will emerge.

It is not the progression,
nor yet the origin
or destination:
it is here,
it is now,
that is all we ever have,
     or need.

The Leeward Shore

Just a lonely point on a rocky shore
where I can hear the ocean’s roar;
just a little grove of small jack-pines,
and a humble home that I’d call mine,
on a leeward shore.

A garden green where children play;
and friends and neighbours just down the way,
and a lovely country girl, my wife,
and we would lead a happy life
on a leeward shore.

Just a quiet room where I could brood,
and watch the reach’s changing mood.
With a few friends living down the beach,
contentment could be within my reach
on a leeward shore.

***

But I must roam the globe around:
I’m not content with what I’ve found.
There are countries that I’ve yet to see,
with blue lagoon and tall palm tree.
There are dark-eyed faces and tropic nights;
Norwegian fjords and northern lights;
Italian hills and Spanish plains;
Arctic blizzards and Brazilian rains;
and a strong west wind to fill my sail,
and when I’m gone I’ll leave no trail
but a home on the leeward shore.

Terry's view: Sulphur Mountain at Banff

Terrorists, Freedom Fighters, and the Future of the UN

The message that the "civilized" world should unite against "terrorism" has periodically been floated by various advocates of military action to dispel the terror chimera hovering on the edge of our thoughts since the World Trade Centre towers fell (I refuse to use the term 9/11, as I feel it cheapens and lessens the horror of the act and the fact). President Bush's call for a Coalition of the Willing was the first incarnation, followed rapidly by the imminent threat of Iraq's Ws of MD. Various ideologues still surface from time to time to reiterate how we must unite, respond, and "send the right message" to terrorists. 
So that we are able to decypher the "right message" we must understand two things: A)what is a terrorist? and, B)the nature of propaganda. 
In the 1950s, British SAS units parachuted into the jungles of Malaysia to win "the hearts and minds" of villagers to enlist in the fight against "insurgents." In 1956 the rebels of Hungary became known as "freedom fighters" as they pitted their Molotov Cocktails against Soviet armour. In the 1960s American forces in "the Nam" fought against growing numbers of Viet Cong "infiltrators" coming down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. At the same time Che Guevara led and inspired groups of "guerrillas" in various parts of Central and South America. When, in the 1970s, Arab groups started taking extreme action against either Israel, the USA, or established militarist governments in the Mideast, the word "terrorist," or "Arab terrorist" gained popular currency. Today "terrorist" is used, almost exclusively, to describe an individual Muslim, or small groups of Muslims, who use non-conventional tactics and weapons to demonstrate their opposition to cultural, religious, and/or economic change brought about by non-consultative and non-democratic means. 
Propaganda is the use by governments, corporations, groups, both religious and secular, or individuals, to ensure widespread acceptance of their messages as fact, without verification or peer review.  Protests against the seal cull, the WMD debacle, the “Domino Theory” of Communist expansion in SE Asia, the cult of personality of various dictators, the War on Drugs: all are examples of the efficacy of propaganda.
Governments are increasingly using mainstream media to disseminate propaganda.  Indeed, in a recent survey of the relative freedom of the global press, the USA tied for 43rd place, alongside Croatia and Tonga.  Canada fared a little better, but was still far from first place, thanks to the lack of diversity in press ownership, the political views of the owners, and the devolution of real and investigative reporting.  Editorials regularly reflect the instructions of the owners’ political comrades.  Reporters often compose articles using Google as a source.  Corporations and political parties regularly use spin doctors as propagandists to “operate” on unpleasant truths, and present a version of that truth that appears more palatable, even positive, to target audiences.

In short, we are told what to buy, what to think, how to live, and what to aspire to by various shareholders in the propaganda apparatus.  Few of us bother to research the veracity of the messages with which we are inundated.  We, and our neighbours, accept what is written or broadcast simply because we tacitly but incorrectly believe that the distribution methods lend truth to the word.

News freaks will be aware of the feeling in the USA that they are acting, in good faith, as policeman to the world.  This is not in response to a global consensus however, and is viewed by much of the world as military adventurism, petro-imperialism, or just good, old-fashioned aggression.  A growing group of Moslem clerics and politicians, as well as lay persons, view American foreign policy as enabling and furthering a Judeo-Christian jihad against Moslems.  The incursion into Moslem states by a Christian fundamentalist country is offered as proof of this jihad theory.
The world today does need a police/peace force, but it MUST be under the aegis of the UN.  To effectively create this force, the UN requires some fundamental changes.  One of those necessary changes must be the removal of the power of veto from the permanent members of the Security Council.  Global change and well-being can only be achieved through consensus at the UN.  Past efforts to respond to global crises by the UN have failed because of the Security Council veto or lack of consensus.  The UN, as a global organisation, must rise above regionalism, special interest voting, nepotism, and corporate economic interests, and resort to diplomacy, the desire for peace and understanding, with the realisation that global cooperation is a necessary step on the road to achieving a modern and just civilisation.  The UN must become a world body, not merely a forum in which one superpower tells the world what they plan to do.
We must attack the roots of terrorism, of marginalisation, of ignorance, and of inequality.  We must talk, listen, negotiate, and compromise.  We must pump aid into education, health, and economy building.  We must foster tolerance, cultural and religious cooperation, and the vital and basic understanding that the globe is a fragile vessel of diversity in which we are all dependent upon the well-being, happiness, and friendship of our fellow passengers.
We do need a police force, but it must be a cooperative force, operating under global agreement, that will ensure that tyrants and demagogues will not be tolerated and that continued crimes against humanity will be punished, and, in time, become only passages in history books.
We need religions to work together on their different paths to spiritual fulfillment, to make the present a peaceful and bucolic place to sojourn on the way to their respective eternities.
We have the resources.  We have the technology.  Sadly, we still lack the will, moral strength, and cultural maturity to embrace global differences and diversity, and to effect change through cooperation rather than military intervention.  

Call me a silly old hippie if you would, but it is time to “give peace a chance.”

A Lady of Guyana

A kaleidoscope of colour and sound:
here, a grove of bamboo poles
waving strips of bright cloth
call for the blessing of revered
and ancient Gods
on an East Indian wedding;
there, the explosion of Stabroek Market
scatters vendors’ stalls across
the old Dutch square.

Papaws and mangoes vie
with books, tee-shirts,
music tapes and CDs:
the sound of Bollywood
competes culturally with
urgent soca and hip-hop
as stall-owners musically mark
their ethnic roots.

Beyond the Clock Tower 
the Demerara flows in muddy splendour
patiently supporting 
motley bum-boats, freighters,
fishing boats, and
the occasional Amerindian dugout.
The ghosts of the Jonestown dead
wander here, betrayed
by their leader’s selfish view
of Heaven.

Miles away, up the brooding Berbice River,
several hours walk from the nearest village,
a little Afro-Guyanese woman,
now approaching eighty-two,
tends her neat garden
of borabean, squash,
bokchoy, mango, fiery bird pepper,
banana, papaw, and avocado.
Long ago, as a valued friend
and domestic,
she travelled with her “Mistuh” and “Mistress”
to live in Trinidad and Delhi,
and to visit the islands
of Tobago, and far-off Phuket.
In her sparse hut mementoes:-
fabrics, carvings, batiks,
knick-knacks haggled over,
and hard won by this frugal lady,
in the bright markets of Sarojini,
Dilihut, Khan, Yashwant,
and the packed streets of Patong.
Her photo album has pride of place,
and she smiles as she sees, once again,
her strange Northern children,
remembering diapers, laughter,
bruises, and fairy tales;
kisses, and
“Good night, Venus.
We love you.”

The distances are great,
but the memories
are as close
as our hearts.

Autumn Comes To Peggy's Cove

The lighthouse stands unchanged,
but its foundation rocks are now deserted
of day-trippers,
tourists in their season:
photograph snapping,
with pet dogs yapping.
Even the gulls have abandoned the rock
for more productive leavings
at Hubbards,
or Sambro Head.

Summer fogs too, are gone,
and the low pressure system
centred over Hatteras
may soon bring a nor’easter
to scrub the rock clean
with rejuvenating rain.

The cocktail party in Boston
occasions remarks:
“How quaint!  Isn’t it darling!”
“Such a find, you know.”
The painting (one of hundreds like it)
graces the room,
yet remains apart from it,
as does the lobster trap
on the flagstone patio.

The nor’easter arrives
and cleans.
And will again.

The Swarming

The Library was her refuge:
through her thick lenses
she travelled far beyond
these sordid streets.
She lunched
with Byron and Yeats;
held off dervishes
with Gordon.
She was a true Bene Gesserit,
a Reverend Mother
of some note.

In the litter planted park
the Ten cursed and fought,
discussing,
monosyllabic,
the direction the evening
should take.
Their oversized clothing,
with uniform drabness,
prompted visions
of children
playing dress-up
in the rainy-day attic of a kinder world.

They surrounded
and devoured her
with their contrived anger.
Broken glasses,
scattered books,
ripped pages, lay mute
in the mud.

Her broken body
was serene and regal:
somewhen
the Sisterhood
mourned the passing
of a respected colleague,
and, at the siege of Khartoum,
Gordon fought on,
alone.

Under The Bridge

Fog from the river 
gathers under the bridge, 
dampening cardboard, 
chilling marrow 
and shrouding soul.

Moans rise 
to a waning moon: 
nightmare screams 
shatter 
an uncaring stillness.

Bundles of rags, 
drawn to the dying fire, 
mutter 
querulous monologues 
in alien tongues.

Bent figure, 
urinating in icy water, 
stumbles, splashes, 
and is gone 
without a ripple.

Bridge Epiphany

The bridge tower
beckoned to him,
like some strange
and shining fortress
from the fantasy books
of his youth;
that distant time
before his parents
divorced,
and his world died.

The view,
from his perch
on the pylon,
seemed
to be of twinkling
faerie lights,
viewed through the shimmer
of Avalon’s mist.
He forgot, momentarily,
the sadness 
of running away,
and the cruel reality 
of the streets.

In a moment of
crystalline clarity,
he saw that
the meaning of his life,
of his pain,
of his very being,
was only a prelude
to the finality
of now,
as the wind
of his swift passage
parted the fog
to reveal a glad smile
that would see
no tomorrows.

Third World Stigmata

The depth of sadness
in the girl's eyes
held the attention
of all
on the air-conditioned
tourist bus.
No older
than eight or nine,
she wove her way deftly
through dense Delhi traffic,
propelling her steel-castered,
wooden platform
with sure strokes of her hands.

Last year
her impoverished parents had
sold her,
the youngest,
so that the family
could live.
Her new owner,
realising the value
of his investment,
ensured that the operation,
removing both legs,
was sterile:
she was on the street
within two months.

Pausing at the corner lights,
the bus disgorged
several tourists,
who pressed
rupee notes
upon the small amputee.
They had no way
of knowing
their gift 
perpetuated
slavery and mutilation.

Bus Station Encounter

The stench 
of excrement-stained clothing, 
of body long unwashed, 
almost obscured 
the rich vocabulary, 
the cultural cadence, 
of the derelict's voice.

The young woman 
did not hear 
his compliments; 
did not recognise 
his astute and 
favourable analysis 
of her fashion statement. 
She merely said, 
"Piss off, 
or I'll scream."

Going Shopping

Her eyes shone, 
bright with anticipation, 
fuelled by 
the wondrous thought 
of six perfect hours 
at the mall.

Proud and bouncing steps 
punctuated her chatter: 
makeup colours, 
heels and straps, 
trademark sensitive, 
and, "Did you see his hair? 
It's just, like, soooo academy." 
Or, "I'm so like, totally
not taking his Text.”

The thrill of belonging, 
with her own kind; 
the thought of being 
devastatingly witty; 
the certainty of being 
so understated, cool; 
the fact of “in”, so
absolutely now: 
foundation feelings 
for a fragile psyche.

She just totally detested 
the filth of the side street 
leading to the mall: 
she and her friends 
stepped carefully 
around the sidewalk urchins, 
and tiptoed gracefully, 
on fashionably shod feet, 
past the scattered detritus 
of a world she would not see. 

Summer Interlude

To view a mossy forest glade;
to linger in a jackpine’s shade;
to taste an icy mountain creek,
and wish with all your heart
that you were on that mountain peak,
and that you were a part 
            of the solitude.

To walk a dusty country road;
to know a bullfrog from a toad;
to watch the waves break on the beach,
and taste the wind-blown spray,
and stand beyond the breakers’ reach
until the end of day. 
           And the wind was warm.

To lie there in your upstairs room;
to smell the summer’s sweet perfume;
to ponder on your passing youth,
and hum a mournful song,
but still you just can’t face the truth
that the days aren’t quite so long, 
            for now it’s autumn.

Curbside Retrospective

His thin shoulders
hunched
against the chill
evening mist,
he surveyed
the oncoming cars
with a weary look
of superior 
disdain.

The weariness
within
belied
his sixteen years.
He longed
for the peace
of his shabby room,
the distracting noise
and diversion
of his Xbox.

The Audi slowed...
stopped.
Power window lowered,
terms and conditions
discussed.
The boy noted the tie,
the service club
lapel pin,
and hated the man
nearly as much
as the abusive father,
     now
          far
               away.

Expatriate Summer

Some of us stay,
to watch planes fly overhead,
and feel the surge of transfer season wanderlust
     once again.

Others leave,
and take one final look at people and places
in a location that they had briefly
called home.

Some friendships forged,
some personalities clashed:
and we were all part of each other’s lives
for this short time.

Years from now
Personnel will publish names:
transitional changes.  And we will all
remember today.

The Nature of the Beast

Underneath 
the glossy veneer 
     of attitude, 
the cracks, 
wrought 
by imposed 
self-doubt, 
g   r  o   w     w   i   d   e   r.

The anger, 
long hidden 
by sadness 
and confusion, 
g r o w s:
the cancer 
infests 
yet another 
young
s        
 o     
  u  
    l.

Shelter

She
sits quietly,
near the window,
eyes nervously
tracking
remembered pain.

She 
does not know
where
she will go
when 
frugal municipal funds
force closure
on her shelter.

She
still believes
if she had tried
harder,
if she were 
a better person,
he would never
have hurt her.

Demarara Flow

A kaleidoscope of colour and sound:
here, a grove of bamboo poles
waving strips of bright cloth
call for the blessing of revered
and ancient Gods
on an East Indian wedding;
there, the explosion of Stabroek Market
scatters vendors’ stalls across
the old Dutch square.

Papaws and mangoes vie
with books, tee-shirts,
music tapes and CDs:
the sound of Bollywood
competes culturally with
urgent soca and hip-hop
as stall-owners musically flaunt
their ethnic roots.

Beyond the Clock Tower 
the Demerara flows in muddy splendour
patiently supporting 
motley bum-boats, freighters,
fishing boats, and
the occasional Amerindian dugout.
The ghosts of the Jonestown dead
wander here, betrayed
by their leader’s selfish view
of Heaven.

The Seawall protects this small city,
where a system of dykes,
and drainage ditches
return high tide seepage,
the skill of the Dutch founders
still evident today.
With wooden buildings,
and gun-carrying diamond miners,
this frontier town offers temporary shelter
from the encroaching, and pervasive jungle,
that waits just miles away.


As custodians of this beautiful,
resource-rich country,
these descendants of African slaves,
of indentured East Indians,
have blended their collective experience
into unique forms of politics,
art, music, cuisine,
and a melodic language
that baffles and delights
the foreign ear.
Part Caribbean, part South American,
these capable people
take the best of both worlds,
and make it unmistakeably
their own.

Diamonds in the Gutter

Smiles flashing,
like memories 
of some distant sun,
they pursue
the soccer ball
with feral glee.

Their communication
is joyous,
a staccato burst,
an ethnic melange
born of the urgency
of the streets.

They are aware,
but do not see
the syringes, condoms,
empty bottles;
an alternate reality
from another world.

Dealers, junkies, 
pros, and winos:
all known and greeted equally
by these small,
energetic 
dreams of tomorrow.

“There’s someone in my head, but it’s not me”*

HMCS Bonaventure, 1966,
off Montevideo,
alone on a darkened flight deck
watching stars cascade
into a southern sea.

Bergen, 1963,
standing on Mount Fløyen,
amazed by the tiny city below,
gazing down the fjord,
protected by green hills.

Srinigar, 1986,
the shikara driver
poled his craft slowly
along the quiet water streets
beneath the bowing chinar trees.

Flying over the Alps, 1980,
proud, iconic Matterhorn
not far beneath our wings:
mountain sentinels fearlessly protecting
small verdant Switzerland.

Valetta, Malta, 1985,
old fortifications framing
the perfect harbour
rimmed with small boats,
talismanic eyes painted on their bows.

Rishikesh, upper Ganges, 1997,
with the scent of local charas
providing an olfactory mantra
for pilgrims off-loading bad karma
in the holy river.

Greyhavens, Jeddore Harbour,2016,
the old man and his beagle
listen to the birds in the pines,
sensing other horizons, shimmering,
just a reality away.

* Brain Damage, by Pink Floyd

Ruminations On The Planck Epoch

“In physical cosmology, the Planck epoch (or Planck era), named after Max Planck, is the earliest period of time in the history of the universe, from zero to approximately 10-43 seconds (Planck time), during which, it is believed, quantum effects of gravity were significant. One could also say that it is the earliest moment in time, as the Planck time is perhaps the shortest possible interval of time, and the Planck epoch lasted only this brief instant.” ~Wikipedia




We wander, confused, through our lives,
involved, concerned, and seeking.
We hope for clarity, and wisdom,
but struggle with depression,
and doubt.

So much is beyond our feeble understanding
that we feel inadequate, and lost.
We work for routine, to carry us forward,
and to provide a solid foundation
for dreams.

Our lives seem to stretch to forever,
but a chaotic and random universe
constantly surprises, and defies planning,
and often proves how brief, how flickering,
is our passage.

Considering all that happened 
in the brevity of the Planck epoch,
our lives seem eternal,
and our accomplishments
are mundane.

Given the vast timeline of our lives,
we must conquer chaotic expansion,
and focus, not on the Planck constant,
but on each fleeting moment
that remains.

The Mirror

Come my friends, and gather round, 
a hidden window I have found: 
we'll throw the curtains open wide, 
and we shall view the folk outside.

What people are these who mock and sneer, 
and hold their noses high; 
who laugh, and point, and gawk, and jeer, 
when a beggar passes by?

What creatures are these who act so sad, 
who shake their heads in wonder; 
who watch a friend in trouble, glad 
to see him trampled under?

Ah!  Surely they are strangers, 
not friends that we hold dear. 
The monsters that we view there, 
no kin to us...no fear!

If wrong, I stand corrected, 
are they not ourselves, reflected? 

Gourmet

In these brief lines, we shall explore

the habits of the carnivore.

The mighty lion, noble beast,

has oftentimes been known to feast

on animal with grace known well,

the fleet, the lovely, wild gazelle.

The black python, it is known,

if little pigs are left alone,

(oh damn his dark and greedy soul!)

will crush and swallow them quite whole.

The great deceiving crocodile,

will float quite quiet for a while,

and then, with one enormous crunch,

will have some swimmer for his lunch.

In parts of Asia isolate,

I do believe I’d hesitate,

before supping, with great zeal,

on a large green snake for my evening meal.

And yet we find we can forgive,

for all must eat if they’re to live:

but sympathy I cannot find

for devouring one of one’s own kind.

For I believe the greatest crime

and custom of the present time,

is the credo of man today

to devour anyone in his way.

To sum up my thoughts, most inner,

anyone could be someone’s dinner.