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.