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.