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