Into The Mooning Glow

When life overwhelms me,
and my spirit is low,
I seek shelter and solace
in the mooning glow.

Security and comfort
are in the silver light,
as Selene sails serene
through the magic night.

This nocturnal haven
commands that Chaos cease:
a mantra of reflection
ensures continued peace.

The splendour of the night
points where I must go:
into the shining temple
that is the mooning glow.

Venerating the Past, and Seasonal Affective Disorder

At this time of year, many of us are affected by memories of the past, of the way things were, of how great it was in the good old days.  It is past time to examine those memories, and, rather than long for those days, appreciate them for the contribution that they made to whom you are today.

Get over it!  We live and we die.  In between we do the best we can with what we have, but to dwell on a past that we have built up to be the epitome of what things should be, is fallacious, and subtracts greatly from the here and now.

Enjoy your memories, but live in the present!

The Textures of Autumn

The cedar rocking chair
on the south verandah
is cooler to the old man’s touch,
but the effortless rocking
is unchanged.

The jackpines reach
for a layered sky,
where the blue,
though darkened
by the westering sun,
has a solidity that allows
passage to legions
of graying cumulus clouds.

The orangeness of the late-season light
provides impressionist contrast
to the silhouette of the leafless maples,
the last leaves crumpled
in a root-blanket beneath
the dark, slim, naked branches.
A lone bluejay laments,
from the torii,
the passing of the light.

The beagle finds a warm place
by the brick chimney,
safely clear of the man’s
rocking meditation.

Down the harbour
the palette knife
of the November breeze
plays Marc Chagall
to merge a vibrant sea and sky.

There is an anthem in the wind:
a triumphant paean
to change, to death, to renewal.
The man acknowledges
the lessons of the scene,
sighs,
and takes the dog inside.

Through the Portal

The anticipation,
followed by the excitement,
precedes, and enhances
the joy.

Fraught with beauty and intensity
of the mystic,
the revelation of another reality
overwhelms.

The madness recedes,
and the stench of populist bigotry,
of retrogressive tribalism,
slowly fades.

Colours vibrate,
and the spirit, too long fallow,
vibrates with a harmonic intensity
that heals.

The rhythm of breathing
becomes a mantra
to the eternal mandala
that is Now.

Points of View

Thus must it always be:
all points of view converge in me.

My view holds currency:
it is correct.
In other views
veracity is suspect.
You prattle about vision,
while shaming the truth;
but your message is crude,
with crafting uncouth.

With the strength of right
I ignore what you say.
Your ideas are wrong:
now just go away.
Facts you state
are known to be lies,
while my point of view
is all-knowing and wise.

Just think, and you will surely see,
the mantle of truth is worn by me.

Sun Dapples On Maple Leaves

The October sun paints
with a stained glass brush
upon majestic orange maples.
The trees themselves
are preparing,
through divesting foliage,
for winter meditation.

The gentle tapestry
reminds of the innocence,
the joy, the love,
embraced by many,
oh so long ago,
in the Sixties.
The dapples bring to mind
the visual pleasure
of paisley,
of day-glo,
of sandals,
and tranquillity.

The westering sun
ushers evening’s chill,
as the old man remembers
a world that was not quite ready
to give peace a chance.

(Poetic Series:  Cannabis and Creative Cognition:  strain Durban Poison)

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)

A Contemplation of the Wind

Consider for a moment:
a primordial sludge,
undisturbed by the evolution
of life.
Imagine, if you would,
the movement of air
across the lifeless planet.

Nitrogen reigns supreme,
and moving air
contains that same nitrogen
that was wafting
over a young,
but fecund,
planet.

Part of that wind
shook the banners
of Alexander the Great,
ruffled the robes of Gautama
beneath his leafy Bo,
and gave K'ung fu-tzu
pause for thought.

The winds that refresh
our every breath
have been shared
by others
who have fallen
to history’s march:
but the breeze continues.

Let us learn from the wind,
moving endlessly
through the lives of others.
Like a gentle soothing breeze,
let us offer succour,
relief and comfort,
and move, quietly, on our way.

Note:  Part of series, Cannabis and Creative Cognition, Strain:  Flowerbomb Kush

Thunderhead

The heavy stillness
is tempered only
by an errant breeze,
confused by its direction.

The birds are unnaturally quiet,
except for one radical crow,
whose warning goes unheeded,
unanswered.

The trees are solemn,
paying witness to another day,
in days filled with green
and the message of renewal.

The man and his dog
contemplate a society
in which hate and bigotry
seem a global canker.

Corporations rule,
and educate populists
incapable of learning,
but longing for the yoke.

Politicians don their jackboots
to march to the corporate anthem
their masters play:
“Of the people, for the people” is a joke.

The man knows lightning will strike:
it will be random;
it will be unexpected.
On his hill, however, tranquillity protects.

On the horizon,
every day now,
or so it seems,
darkness builds, and threatens.

Note:  Part of series, Cannabis and Creative Cognition.  Inspired by Bubba Kush

The Panic Room

When the dulling din of populism
assails me with the hate;
when the plastic politicians’ words
affect my mental state;
I lock myself in my panic room
before it is too late.

Each day we’re assailed
with broadsides of dumb,
and volleys of drooling stupidity:
I’d better run before brain is numb.
The locks are strong and they should hold
before the assault that must come.

What ever happened to peace and love,
altruism, and high ideals?
The fierce anthems of tribalism
resemble lemmings’ squeals.
In my soundproof room I shall be safe
while the bell of bigotry peals.

I’ve been here for some time,
and supplies are low,
so, thinking here in the quiet,
I decide that tomorrow out I shall go.
With kindred spirits we’ll shape a world
where empathy and reason can grow.

Illusory Correlation

Our senses state this must be so:
has it not always been this way?
Media confirms that fable is fact,
it is happening every day.

When misperception is encouraged
through repeated misrepresentation,
the lines are blurred between
the truth, and complete fabrication.

We live in a world where hate abounds,
peopled by believers in superstition.
Why doesn’t love and peace become
the default human condition?

So nothing is truly as it appears,
and facts may present as illusions.
Our species isn’t evolving:
we just can’t draw sound conclusions.

Catacombs

Cool and dark,
smelling of age,
and death.
Ossuaries stacked
with the remnants
     of dreams,
     of pain,
     of potential
          unattained.

We are all
keepers of our crypts;
and attend faithfully
to the remains
of that which
     has gone,
     has passed,
     has disappeared
          into time.

We must take time,
make the effort,
and rise to the light,
leaving dust and death
to entomb themselves:
     we would shine;
     we could triumph;
     we would wonder
          in the bright new morning.

Living on the Edge of the World

There is no view forward
from the edge of the world;
it is obscured, with shimmering grey.
It is only through looking
behind us
we can make the end go away.

Behind are plastic politicians
polluting our heads
with ideals of destruction and hate.
Receptive masses do not understand:
comprehension will arrive
much too late.

The scene behind us is directed
by those who serve only themselves:
their manipulations are vast.
The puppets respond with violence,
intolerance, and brutish pride:
time for reconciliation has passed.

It is comfortable here,
at the edge of the world,
but we continue to look behind.
We seem unable to learn
from our bloodstained tale:
we must now accept what we find.

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
                                                  or perhaps a moral to be discerned,
                                                    but interpretation is left to Janus.




NOTE:  This poem is part of a series, Cannabis and Creative Cognition.
The inspiration came from Cookie Puss.
See link for strain and genetics.
https://cannasos.com/strains/hybrid/cookie-puss

Falling Down Stairs-A Metaphor

Nothing exists
          before the top step:
                    all is simply a void.

A small disturbance
          in this present reality, and then,
                    suddenly, unexpected flight.

The knowledge of what is occurring
envelopes as a meditation,
a mantra that will liberate:
a benediction that will change.
Forever.

The peace of the passage
is interrupted, not by pain,
but the short, sharp snap
of breaking bones.
Awareness grows.

The peaceful flight long past,
the rolling tumble terrifies,
while pain is like lightning,
flashing at random
in a storm.

Body position
          is strangely angular,
                   and the fall complete.

Hiatus

Hiatus

(Poetic Series: Cannabis and Creative Cognition)
(Strain: Girl Scout Cookies)

I’m just stepping away
from fake news, and hate;
from the greedy machinations
of the populist far right.

The sun on the jackpines
dapples the grass,
while the Torii proclaims
          Harmony and Tranquillity
to the maple tree.
The gentle southwest breeze
poses a koan to dandelions
in the verdant abundance
         brought by a wet spring:
“is your colour in honour of the sun?”
The flowers respond,
“What is the colour of honour?”

The multitudinous sounds
of the layers of suburban activities,
vie with patches of cleansing silence,
until the mating cries of a male pheasant
defines a cosmic cycle:
a paean to continuance and change.
The harbour beckons
with sparkling insouciance:
a sun-path to the waiting sea.
Marshmallow clouds spread animal shapes
across an azure sky.

I’m just stepping away
from religion, and war,
to rest here in the sun,
and muster strength to go on.

Stasis

Stasis

(Poetic series: Cannabis and Creative Cognition)
(Strain:  Afghan Cow)

Why is it we are always here
while wanting to be there?
While we’re living in the now
we longingly wish for where.

Stop striving for the elusive other:
cease thoughts of what could be.
Movement disrupts the cosmic flow.
Breathe.  Live. Stasis is free.

In the mountains, we long
for a bright palmed beach.
We wish for hunger, replete.
Satisfaction is beyond our reach.

When the journey is over,
and we’ve had our final bow,
let us then welcome stasis,
and see what happens now!

A Dialogue for Everyman

The gift of discussion
was lost on the way
          (perhaps blame climate change),
and position statements
rule the day.

We speak,
hearing veracity
     only in our voices,
recognizing the nonsense
     that dominates
your worldview choices.

You say words
that, to you,
     mean truth and honesty:
simply fake news
and dogma
     to me.

And I only voice
universal truth
     (it should be apparent to all),
while you demonize
with each name
     you call.

And we stand apart,
secure we are right
          (it could just be contrails!):
we can’t progress together
if we just stay and fight.

Several Storeys

Selene rules her winter sky,
clouds bask
in the reflected light
of other days.

Time is given meaning
solely by
our dwindling lives:
change is irrevocable,
tragic and eternal.
A profound thought
interrupted,
a warm caress
restrained,
a supportive smile
ungiven,
a word of love
unsaid.
Each moment
is a crossroad
as we stumble
through the days,
and lay awake
and wonder
at the randomness
of all.

Serendipitous
is our path,
and chaos
our signpost:
there is nowhere to go
as we are
already there.

This Perfect Day

(New to the series, Cannabis and Creative Cognition.  Ref: Leafly West Coast Sour Diesel)

Just contemplate
each perfect day:
     accepting
          all it gives.
Let your thought
roll thoroughly over
bumps, or slights,
     hatefulness,
          and stupidity.

Hear the singing
in the air:
     looking through
          the lens of love,
colours seem much brighter.
Let the splash of joy
cleanse your heart
     making sorrow
          a dimming memory.

Throb with the vibration
of unknown realms,
     the mystery
          that is beauty.
Let your senses blossom,
and your spirit soar,
as horizons expand
     neverending;
          Mandelbrot rules supreme.

Just contemplate
each perfect day:
     embrace the here and now,
          alert to all
within our sphere,
as well as all beyond.
No gods dancing
     across an angry sky:
          only peace, and you, and I.

Aurora

Stygian darkness cloaks the land,
without relief of light.
Enlightenment had made its stand,
then fell this mortal night.

We watched humanness bleed away,
intrigued, too slow to act,
as ignorance and greed held sway:
fictional fantasy made dystopian fact.

Now we cluster
in obscurity:
you in your tribe,
I in mine.
Now we speak
of might have been;
we weep
for our lost time.

Hate, greed, and bigotry
killed kindness,
love, and inclusion,
as the jackboots of history
trampled hearts,
destroying minds.
We were the enablers!
Political control no mystery.

But wait!  What is that glimmer
pulsing in the tenebrous night?
Like Pandora’s box, the shimmer
coaxes hope into tremulous flight.

Our horizon is brightened,
gloomy shadows disappear:
we are no longer frightened.
Love watches darkness clear.

The Reality of Stars

Snow-clad jackpine boughs
frame a winter night sky
in which the stars
seem simply holes
punched randomly
in a darkness
that symbolizes,
chromatically,
the level of empathy,
the depth of enlightenment,
achieved by our species.

The tiny spots of starlight
seem to offer hope,
a light-filled glimpse
of a softer,
a kinder
reality.

A breeze stirs the pines,
and the boughs offer
the gift of snow
to the patient
fallow ground:
scudding clouds
extinguish
stellar promise,
and metaphorically shatter
dreams of spring,
and thoughts of peace.

Pollution

Tiny droplets of confusion
hang, 
suspended
in a miasma
     of spin,
          of mis-information,
               of control,
of hate.

Vision sleepishly clears,
and shards of truth
reflect portions
of a vivid,
much larger,
picture.

Our species' focus,
to our chagrin,
is no deeper
than our skin.
We have the facility
for intelligent thought,
but spend our times speaking
of what we have bought.

Are we disappointed,
surprised,
at our Darwinian reversal?
If our perception would lift,
only a little,
say, just beyond our nose,
we would see,
much closer now,
          the extinction 
                    down the road.

Stepping-stones

When time’s relentless progress
dispels the hazey myopia of youth,
the path becomes visible.

We had been taught
the road was linear,
was smooth,
was without hazard:
but here!  Look!
Slippery, infrequent,
unbalanced footholds
across a raging torrent.

No matter the direction
our travels dictate,
arbitration rests
on the random placement
of treacherous stones,
rapid washed, coated with moss,
controlling our momentum
through life.

The riverbank seems distant,
and the constant focus
tires body, and exhausts spirit.
The flowers in the meadow,
the snow on distant mountains,
the warming glow of homefire,
all held in chronological prison
by the next slippery, undependable, stone.

When time’s relentless progress
slows with age and understanding,
we simply rest, and appreciate the view.

On The Establishment, Care, And Maintenance

Of Personal Social Parameters

A Poetic Series

by

James Douglas Fanning

Realms of Gold

Realms of Gold

A Poetic Series

by

James Douglas Fanning

"Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,

and many goodly states and kingdoms seen..."

John Keats
On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer

Deus Ex Machina: Welcome To The Machine

Deus Ex Machina:

Welcome To The Machine

A poetic series on theism

by

James Douglas Fanning

Quantum Shift

Quantum Shift

a poetic series

by

James Douglas Fanning

Putting The Decorations Away

The festive season has passed,
and, although echoes
of the love,
the togetherness,
have fallen victim to time,
warm memories remain.

January shivers through my soul,
but sparks vivid cameos
of Christmases past,
and of the people
who once decorated
other trees,
unwrapped other presents,
and bestowed
heart-felt hugs
on my awestruck youth.

In the bleak mid-winter freeze,
the memory-box is unpacked,
and each of the contents examined
through the lens of love.
Relatives, both near and far,
living and dead,
are remembered fully,
in glorious colour,
with their wondrous idiosyncracies
in full and loving view.

The mind-rush continues,
through poignant thoughts
of growing children,
finding their way,
and sharing their laughter
and their light
as, inexorably,
they march towards
who they are today, fortified
by the sense of together.

The decorations have gone
for yet another year,
but the memories
of seasons shared
will never
be forgotten.

Anger In The Street
a poetic series
by
James Douglas Fanning