Complaints

I once thought with musing mind,
what if one should suddenly find
(I chuckle when I think of it!)
oneself a snake, in a mongoose pit?
And would it not make people think,
and rant, and make a frightful stink,
and take stock of their senses while they squirm,
if transformed into a worm?
Perhaps they’d not be so bigot,
if changed into an ocelot.
Would they retain their hate and greed,
as a patch of motley brown seaweed?

If rocks and trees and dogs,
and elephants and hogs,
and even a rotting leaf,
complain not of their grief,
then why should mortal man, as such,
make of so little, so damned much?

The Teacher

Another when,
and he ruled his Eng Lit classes
from the comforts 
of tweeds well worn.

Today, though,
stumps of pencils, flags of paper,
were now secreted willy-nilly
deep in the rags
that called him home.

Teaching when and where he could,
urchin and ancient alike
found benefit
from his memory of a life
before his fall.
A name spelled here,
welfare application there,
laboured reading 
of gutter-trapped headlines;
the street seemed less ugly
for his students.

Shorn heads and hard booted,
the Furies fell upon him
one cold night
for possession of his half bottle
of fortified wine.

Surrounded by his small blank bits of paper,
and short, sharpened stubs of pencils,
he resembled nothing so much
as an incomplete jigsaw puzzle,
its meaning not quite clear.

Butterflies

Thinking of you 
this afternoon,
the vision of butterflies
came to mind.

Multitudes of colour:
a summer mosaic
enhancing the perfection
of the meadow.

Your love does the same
for the uniformity of my days.
An ever-varied blend of emotions:
Laughter, love, tears, sharing.
Together.

Play It Again, Sam *A Metaphysical Fugue*

Transit Lounge

The youthful twinkle,
     through rheumy eyes,
belies the worn body
transporting vibrant spirit
     through dwindling days
          of      
                      this       
                                     long       
                                                   journey.

This same spirit broke hearts,
and caused her young men
     hot and fevered dreams.
She had walked with pride,
and the secure knowledge
     of who she was,
          and of the power within her.

Memories of birth, death,
tragedy and joy,
     were behind her now,
and her eyes reflected
the person she once was, and,
               to her,
                        would 
                                   always 
                                              be.

Transformation

The time of frolic now has flown,
and old with wisdom they have grown.
Their carefree laughter now is gone;
is gone, but not forgotten.

Decisions, worry, want and pain,
have bent their shoulders deep,
and hate and greed have dulled their eyes,
and fear, and lack of sleep.

Responsibility, that Master mean,
has piled too high his load:
many, the weight too great to bear,
have fallen by the road.

Deep sorrow, heavy and profound,
erases youth’s glad dimples;
yet they plod forward with their load:
a load that kills and cripples.

And still they trudge up Life’s steep hill,
and ponder Life’s great plan:
and behold! from that chaos,
from that chaos steps a man.

Reuse-Return-Recycle

The rusted wreck
of the broken shopping cart
serendipitously proceeded
from one green plastic
motherlode
to the next.

Its guide,
hidden beneath layers
that could have inspired
Escher’s genius at morphing,
was, however,  more evocative
of Hieronymus Bosch.

He mined
each green trove assiduously,
adding nuggets of  refundable treasure
carefully
to his creaking, wobbling chariot.
His acute accountant’s mind
kept a running total
in crisp, clean ledgers that,
alone, survived
the culture shock,
the corporate downsizing,
of the Nineteen Eighties.

Sometimes The Time...

Sometimes the time
     seems right
for me to explain
     my feelings.
Then you laugh, or say something inane,
     or touch me, and the moment’s gone.

Sometimes the time
     seems right,
but I become involved
     in you.
Then I giggle, or quote Zarathustra,
     or an ancient Celtic poem.

Sometimes the time
     seems right
for me to divulge
     the secrets of my heart:
you are almost asleep, but you convey,
     monosyllabic, your prior knowledge.

Horizons

In a younger day the horizon was near,
just over the next summer hill.
Then, with age to propel, it drifted away
as both dreams and horizons oft’ will.

Ideals, direction,
romance at times;
all these created the haze
that obscured the horizon,
creating the fog
behind which it hid from our gaze.

Now the day is much older, crisp and clear:-
for a moment  you wonder whether
the horizon is near, as it once truly was:-
then you both walk towards it, together.

Abu Dhabi Mosaic

The Corniche skirts
the bath-warm waters of the Gulf,
jewelled with elegant,
pristine office towers
that caress
a sere and scorching sky.

Mercedes and Lexus,
adorned with gold-plate trim,
sedately chauffeur
the descendants of the Bani Yas
through what, only a few decades past,
was a collection of tents
and mud huts
sprinkled across
the unforgiving sand.

At the Gold Souk
black-garbed women seek
golden adornment
that will remain hidden
beneath voluminous abbaya,
while their dark and canny eyes
flash through gold-threaded
full facial masks.

At the Sheridan,
a doorman folds back massive doors
that permit access
to yet another gold-plated Merc.
The occupant joins colleague
on an arrangement of embroidered cushions
on the marble floor
of the air-conditioned lobby.
A brazier of coals heats coffee
offered in traditional and ancient
desert hospitality.

Sparkling new pickup trucks
transport contemptuous dromedaries
whose racing skills will be tested
at the evening camel races.
To the south the hypnotic dunes
march relentlessly towards
the Rub al-Khali, the Empty Quarter,
where hides Uban,
the fabled lost city of Arabia,
beneath its timeless sands.

Beijing Morning

The dragon awakes.  Stretching, 
with a rattle of scales, he yawns. 
The sun, rising 
in the east, is red.*

At seven in the morning 
the Imperial City is alive 
beneath the lifting night shroud 
of coal smoke 
Japanese cars have replaced 
ten million bicycles.

The stone lions keep watch 
over Tien-an-min; 
in their snarls, surprise 
at Chang’An traffic. 
The masses sport Gucci, 
Dior, where once blue ruled. 
Hot breads, tea, and tai chi 
still prevail.

In the Western Hills 
the Buddhas watch, bells tinkling, 
a delayed Industrial Revolution 
struggling, growing.

In the compounds and factories 
where once loudspeakers preached 
Party lines, headlines in low fidelity, 
CD stereos play. 
MTV replaces the Red Book.
Children march in day care centres:
sailing the educational seas 
no longer depends on the Helmsman.*

The dragon, 
eyes weak with sleep, 
cannot yet see beyond his lair. 
Hunger rumbles in his vitals, 
and soon he must roam 
beyond his hills. 


* In the 1960s and early 70s, two of the songs heard most frequently over public loudspeakers throughout China were The East Is Red, and, Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman (a reference, of course, to Chairman Mao).  jdf

On First Seeing Bermuda

Southeast breeze carries
scent of jacaranda,
eucalyptus,
oleander, and bougainvillea.

Houses of pastels
that breathe in gentle sunlight:
perfection set in
manicured lawns.

Accents attenuated
from the harsher Caribbean,
friendly voices 
greet, and smile.

From Gibb’s Hill,
a visual smorgasbord
tasting subtly, and sadly,
of Eden lost.

A Walk Through Chandni Chowk

A cornucopia of scents assail:
puris frying in hot oil,
rotting garbage,
incense and flowers,
exhaust fumes and hot metal,
beedi smoke,
and the unmistakable presence
of a public convenience.

From the Jama Masjid, the mullah
reiterates, for the third time,
his summons to the faithful.
A legless beggar wheels by:
did the treasure he stole from angry gods
warrant this Promethean reward?
Temple bells ring,
and the crowds surge unceasingly.

Psychedelic visions appear:
Toby jugs that live;
saffron headware crowns,
shading eyes that view
far different horizons.
Ancient gods walk the land,
indifferent to the caste
of their weary avatars.

Pondering, in the shadow
of the Red Fort,
the hubris of those who sought
to civilize the land
where the Bo-shaded Gautama
attained Nirvana long ago:
where a lover's tribute became
a wonder of the world.

Exhortation to Chronos

If there were ever a time
in the chaotic multiverse
in which we all exist,
a time to abandon
the joy and safety
of narcissistic introversion,
that time is now.

If we had ever been closer
to self-wrought extinction,
that time is lost
to the short-term memory
of history.
The village meeting-house
is locked in the garret
of each point of view.

If there were ever a time
when the final tenant 
of Pandora’s box
must be released,
that time is now.
Chaotic negativity, tribalism,
manipulation, greed, and power,
lead us in a crazed final dance,
before the orchestra goes home.

Winter: A Transitional Canadian Lament

Endless winter,
and the scudding grey clouds,
colour my thoughts.
Northwest winds blow
intermittent snow,
distorting my sight,
dulling the light.

Pale grey luminescence
infuses my days with drab,
and dampen creative spark.
Slowly stretching days
drag into winter night.
Hibernation envy,
and wishes of warm.

A change in the quality of light:
no longer a cold brassy glow,
a sparkle, a twinkle begins germination,
crocuses poke, as we perch,
in joyous expectation,
on the breaking crest,
the welcome verdant tide of spring.

The Light of Different Days

My wrinkled visage greets me
mirrored in the morning haze,
but this is not the face I see
by the light of different days.

My pines sing  benediction,
as I salute blackbirds and jays,
but my mind has now gone travelling
to the light of different days.

When Hegel just offends me,
and Kierkegaard makes me crazed,
I visit Bertrand Russell
in the light of different days.

And when my journey’s ended,
and I’ve finally solved life’s maze,
you can bet I’ll be off wandering
by the light of different days.

The Echo in the Storm

The tempest continued to grow
in unabridged intensity.
At some other points in time
it had seemed almost as catastrophic,
but not quite.

Years ago, perhaps yesterday,
breaks had appeared
in a cloud cover that threatened to erase
all memory of a sun
dimly remembered.

Several times, before today,
sunbeams fell on streets
and on meadows, illuminating
life with fond remembrance
of better days.

Did we, by not pausing
to appreciate this fleeting splendour,
signal to unknown gods our proclivity
for eclipsing light and order
with self-imposed Chaos?

Squeegee Kids

Some commuters
drive for
     m     i     l     e     s
out of their way,
wasting
time and money,
to avoid
Squeegee corners:
the penalty of guilt.

Others pay,
avoiding eye contact,
looking.......straight.......ahead,
afraid
the gunge
of the Squeegee’s rag
may damage Audi shine.
They reinforce
the efficacy of intimidation
as a social grace.

The global village
has come of age,
as this phenomena,
indigenous once
solely to third world cities,
has come to
Main Street,
and urban crowding
makes
the sale of fear
a career of necessity
to those
we continue to
                                                  ignore.

Jim's Guide to Enlightenment: The Complete Sutras

The Title says it all.
This is a twenty minute read
that answers.

A new aid to meditation.

A Time to Say Goodbye

                                                     

To each of us

there comes a time

when an action

becomes right:

a time of birth,

a time of death,

of sadness, or delight.

The clarion call

to fall in love,

the urge

to change direction:

a time for each choice

to be made

as we strive for perfection.

For me

the hardest time

of all,

no matter how I try,

is when the clock is still,

and it

is time to say goodbye.

Transformer

It became
inescapably obvious
as I grew older: reality is layered,
and, if you focus less intently on what you are doing,
and give yourself permission
to just Be,
  you can see several layers simultaneously.

It is a transcending awareness
in which all is connected,
and our world reveals her true colours,
and our senses thrill.
You know what is truly important,
and life is full.

For me, the choice was clear,
so
if I seem not to be fully engaged with what I am doing,
I may be really busy
on a Different level.

Tutors

Once was a time, not so long ago,
We knew that the future was ours.
We knew who we were, and where we would go:
Our minds were aflame with our powers.

We set off proud and tall:
destination was all.
The world was ours for the taking;
But so soon, on our way,
We got trapped in life’s fray:
A nightmare from which there’s no waking.

Regrouping, we thought
That, though dreams came to nought,
We could still succeed in our mission:
To our children we’d teach
All we could not reach,
And imprint their young minds with our vision.
***
Just yesterday (now so long ago),
We passed on our wisdom and sorrow.
Now our children, as they grow,
Must carry our hopes to tomorrow.