Nothing.
Darkness.
A blue shimmering
that morphs into
light.
It begins.
Storms of love,
of hate,
of the sour taste
of anger.
Siren songs
of promises,
of lies,
of truths now false.
Rocks and reefs
gut tender vessel,
but the voyage
continues
in grief,
in exultation,
and, finally,
in relief.
The mighty gift
of direction,
arriving too late
as the horizon looms.
A harbour of home,
of completion,
of wonder,
and of fear.
It ends.
Light
that morphs into
a blue shimmering.
Darkness.
Nothing.
I can understand an epitaph
befitting of heroes and knaves,
but there is no respect in
plastic flowers on our graves.
“IHS,” “RIP,” those I understand,
but it would take an oracle
to comprehend, how faded plastic flowers
say something allegorical.
Perhaps a quiet moment would suffice,
memories of friends and family,
but what strange story does reside
within this plastic homily?
No headstones, please,
to mark my transition.
No comments about heaven,
or death, or perdition.
No quiet glade, with bench,
and leafy green bowers,
but most of all do not give me
those curséd plastic flowers!
There was a roaring in the woods today,
as a cranky nor’east gale
trimmed the scrub spruce,
and imparted secrets of renewal.
It wasn’t karmic vibration
that gave words to the wind’s lament;
rather a bittersweet keening
that mourned lost verdant youth.
Future deadfalls in the spruce creaked,
and planned their transition
to enriching a soil depleted
by human growth and greed.
We deny the change we have wrought:
we reject a logic that speaks of decimation.
We accept the global plundering
our masters call their right.
(refrain)
Resources are meant to be used,
and nature completely abused.
Corporate trickle-down helps us all,
and greater consumption is the call.
A little fracking here, more plastic there,
with more pollutants for our air.
No healthcare, no retirement plan,
there’s no free ride for the working man.
And when our world is bleak and sere,
there will be no record that we were here.
Our cosmic gravestone has been graven:
you can’t eat cash, nor breathe tax haven.
The shards lay
scattered:
cohesion gone,
they carry
no pre-catastrophic memory.
They are broken.
The whole has gone,
disassembled
into a broken past.
Searching the sharp bits,
the jagged edges,
the flaked chips,
you see no clues
of what was,
previously,
complete.
You never discerned
the fault lines,
the weak spots
in a pattern
that was,
ultimately,
flawed.
Set aside
thoughts of repair,
ideas of restoration;
rebuilding
something better.
Sweep the pieces
into the dustpan
of a misunderstood history:
forget instead
the broken mess
that shattered,
and scattered,
but in the end
mattered little
to the reality
of what will be
your tomorrow.
He stares
outward,
without blinking:
to blink
is to die.
No matter
which direction,
the perspective
remains centred
in the middle
of his forehead.
A turn of the head
brings a new world:
to close the eyelid
destroys
the only reality
he possesses.
Relentlessly,
his solitary vision
draws him ever forward
into the dulling
sameness
of his days.
It seems that it has always been thus:
tribes and interest-groups battling
to impose points-of-view
not shared by others.
And, yes; it may well be that social media
makes the horror seem more immediate,
more in-your-face,
than yesteryear’s faded newspapers
read weeks after events.
There seems, however,
a logarithmic scale
that pegs the degree of insanity
to population growth,
to religious intensity,
to corporate and political greed.
Pause for a moment: reflect...
if our wishes were granted
without revising our wish parameters,
would the paradigm shift at all?
Now is the time to educate,
not indoctrinate;
to negotiate,
not obfuscate;
to prioritise,
not demonise;
to change our direction
to social perfection.
More of yesterday’s same,
for today and tomorrow,
will, of course, lead
to more death, more sorrow.
We must set aside
narrow tribal banalities,
and accept, and enhance
our global commonalities:
else one day tomorrow may appear,
and, suddenly, we will not be here.
Aging is
intimately related
to the acceleration
of time.
There is a point,
however,
where,
if you focus,
the vehicle in which you travel
can be made to slow.
With one’s mind
free of speed blur
details of the side of the road
start to emerge.
It is a magical place:
no pressure,
no pain,
simply review,
and the beginning
of understanding.
I stepped out of the vehicle
some time back,
watching it disappear
into a future
that would merge
with past.
I am content here,
serene, at the side of life’s road,
and understand
that this place
will continue
long after I have gone,
and that it doesn’t
really
matter.
(Part of series, "Cannabis, and Creative Cognition." Ref: Leafly.com "Gorilla Glue #2"
Lost in an idealism,
bound
for relentless punishment;
aways looking
for a light
behind the light,
we all strive
for the majestic,
the transcendent,
the awe.
In each dark outcome
we keep seeking stars,
and hope,
and see beauty,
when clouds block
the sun.
And when our candle
flickers out,
when we have had
our day,
our epic will continue
though our part
has been played.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cFKeV-slkHU
(Part of the series, "Cannabis, and Creative Cognition". Ref: Leafly.com "Super Silver Haze"
Unobtrusive,
the garden gate
hovered
at the edge
of awareness:
entering was more of
a merge
than an opening.
The corners were indistinct,
shimmering
with the promise
of something...
something more,
beyond.
Blossoms suggested themselves,
through vibration,
not colour and scent.
The tree leaves
stirred softly,
as though driven
by gentle laughter.
Overhead,
should one dare look,
the cosmos
spoke of forever,
and replaced belief
with endless truth.
(Part of series, "Cannabis, and Creative Cognition". Ref: leafly.com "Gorilla Glue 2")
...and everything
that happened,
and is happening,
and will happen,
is receding...
...and the realization
of inevitable,
and eternal,
g r a d u a l l y
blossoms,
and becomes
what is:
forever
receding...
What place is this
where people hate
with such a profound malice;
and demonise their fellows
with words untrue, and callous?
What tribe is this
devoid of love,
with no joy, or compassion;
who are programmed by their masters
to embrace the chains they’ve fashioned?
What people are these,
who repeat dogma and lies
as if it were some cosmic verity,
while disdaining those who struggle
with no hope, without charity?
We’ve become lost and confused
on our stumbling path,
making obstacles to hide the way.
We’ve made an art-form of exclusion,
and our anger darkens each day.
What place is this
where such promise
morphed into something unclean;
where dreams of creating a heaven on earth
became simply cruel, and obscene?
What sadness is this
when a poet must pen
lines so dismal and black
rather than words of peace and love;
lost concepts that we now lack?
What place is this?
Can we change it?
Can we wake to a brighter dawn?
Can we break from those who bind us,
or has our humanity gone?
I’ve found a nice allegorical cave
high on a lone mountaintop.
Now I sit seeking meaning
in the campfire’s flames,
while I wait for the madness to stop.
Looking down, all I see
are thunderheads dark,
roiling over the carnage below,
where ignorance rules while constructing
a loveless world bleak and stark.
The flames dance before me
with memories strong and bright,
that can't lessen my inner chill:
I long in vain for a bright new dawn,
to dispel this endless night.
I’ve found a nice allegorical cave,
and others are finding it, too.
Our numbers are growing,
and with truth as our sword,
we shall make our vision come true.
Willful stupidity rules the day,
but ignorance’s days are numbered.
A global dystopia was imposed
through conditioned hate and greed,
while love, and intelligence slumbered.
I’ve found a nice allegorical cave,
and it is bright, and warm, and vast.
It is filled with people of great resolve,
with social plans of inclusion and love:
an Enlightenment we shall make last.
We’ve found a nice allegorical cave,
and you are welcome to join us here:
with libraries, wifi, web access for all.
We need all the help you can give
as we rebuild a world without fear.
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
