Sanctuary

The lone priest
fussed over his nightly chores:
fresh coffee made,
new styrofoam cups,
bulk cookies,
clean bathroom.
The month old magazines
lay scattered
like the broken promises
of yesterday.

He dreaded
the ritual that was about
to occur:
nightly flow
of addicts,
teenaged prostitutes
of both genders,
older hookers,
and many others
who accepted,
for a brief time,
sanctuary.

He hated
how his body,
kindled
by the presence
of his younger
visitors,
betrayed his faith,
as he fought
a lonely battle,
already lost.

Now and Then

There has never been a time
when I was more at peace 
than I am now.

There has never been a time 
when I realised that then
would lead to now.

There has never been a time 
when I understood more of me,
both then, and now.

There has never been a time
when accumulated regrets eclipsed
the joy of now.

There has never been a time
when my ignorance was greater,
but mattered less than now.

There has never been a time
when global stupidity endangered us 
more than now.

There has never been a time
when yesterday and tomorrow
mattered more than now.

There has never been a time
when we needed love and peace
more than Now.

Channel Surfing Between Realities

Morning sun on sparkling harbour
with cooling northwest breeze:
beagle, unaffected by view,
pursues scents that must be
hallucinogenic
for this small hound.

Monkeys cavorting
at Baker’s Falls
in Horton Plains National Park:
the southern ocean winks diamonds
in a blue distance,
beyond Yala.

The Pearl River flows,
thick and sluggish,
crowded with boats 
that represent three centuries
of water transport styles.
On the horizon,
the Hong Kong estuary awaits,
guarded by stern Victoria Peak.

On a quiet sand island,
kept stable by banyan roots,
clever crabs hide in the trees
to avoid the heat of the water.
In the distance, the bridge to Abu Dhabi
is laden with goods trucks,
and gold plated Mercedes and BMWs.

The dog spots a rabbit,
and the morning is shattered
by the baying of this fulfilled hound.
I ponder at the elaborate mechanism
by which our memories are stimulated
to replay random elements
from a full and contented life.

Coffee awaits on the southern verandah,
and the gentle wind 
whispers to the pines,
with birdsong filling a perfect day,
and sunlight on the harbour.

The Visitor (Just Passing Through)

Did I visit here then
as I visit there now?
Was I in search
of the same elusive truths?

Did I see you then
as I see you now?
Did we recognise
the strange scent of destiny?

Did I stop to reflect
upon the weirdness of the light,
or wonder at the feeling
that I did not belong?

Did I ever look at the past
as a regretful lesson for tomorrow,
or just walk forward into the darkness
looking for the beacon of your smile?

Lifeline

Relax.  
Nothing is under control.  
All is chaos.  
Random is  life, 
and life is random.  
There is no plan:  no manual. 

Think. 

Question.  

Grow intellectually.

Feed your body as you feed your head:
let healthy be a mantra:
a signpost to Moksha. 

Put the past in the past, 
make a better tomorrow
...Now. 

Season Sunsets: A Study in Haiku

               Spring

        Pregnant cumulus
Blush, as fading light promises
     Tomorrow's rainbows.

             Summer

     Golden symphony,
That heralds the end of day,
    Previews tomorrow.

            Autumn

  Sparse and mellow light
Reminds a few tardy leaves
  That snow soon will fall.

            Winter  

   Cold stark winter sun:  
Shards that echo summer joy
    Comfort dying day.

On The Indifference Of Windmills (with apologies to Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra)

We pick our battles as we go,
and win and lose in tandem:
truisms that we think we know
are right or wrong, at random.

Our faithful squire is an ingrown view,
much less help than hindrance,
for while we ponder what to do
he is in a drink-fueled trance.

Our books have all been turned to ash,
and Rocinante is acting randy:
when goatherds cause our beds to crash,
common sense would be quite handy.

To preserve our ancient view of life,
and enhance our exalted station,
we’ve embraced the philosophy of strife,
and intellectual masturbation.

We ride madly around in confusion,
seeking castles in the air,
and come to the sad conclusion
that windmills just don’t care.