Jim's Retro Village Coffeehouse: One

The Older Bald Guy was enjoying a blend of Kenyan AA and Viennese Roast beans, with cream and brown sugar. He was reflecting on the song the Folksinger had just finished-a cover of Frank Sinatra’s "It Was A Very Good Year." Although the OBG was comfortable with old age, there were several aspects of becoming a "senior" that bothered him. The lifetime of knowledge and wisdom that seniors accumulate over their lifetimes is largely ignored as a resource by busier, younger people. Society in general seems to marginalise seniors, and place them out of the way, perhaps in an unconscious effort to ignore the relentless inevitability of aging. In return, it seemed to the OBG that seniors reinforced the marginalisation by being self-effacing, and by seeming to become almost invisible in their manner and actions.

An older couple had come into the Coffeehouse a few minutes ago, and were sitting quietly and unobtrusively at a corner table, their conversation, clothes, and body language doing nothing to attract attention. They were unnoticed by the Resident Radical, who was in the middle of a rant about how Medicare was not free to the people, and how the government made everyone think that it was a federal gift, when, in fact it was a capitalist tax grab. Neither were they in the thoughts of the Poet with the Beret, who was deep into a creative surge that the PwtB thought worthy of Kerouac.

The OBG looked down at the steno pad upon which he had been scribbling. This is what he had written:

Fog People

You often
almost see them
from the corner
of your eye.

You sense
a wisp of grey,
a floating,
e t h e r e a l
movement
that suddenly
d i s s o l v e s.

They drift
quietly,
gently,
on the edge
of our consciousness:
these pale,
these grey,
these haunting
people,
whom all,
but Time,
have forgotten.

If we chance
to pause,
to peer beyond
the d r i f t i n g veil,
we see,
within the shroud,
a preview of ourselves
tomorrow.

Samhain Dance

Beneath the moon of fair Samhain
there dances wild the Faerie Queen.
In rings conjured on sweet Beltane
they dance sacred, dance profane.

And magic lights around the knoll
swirl, and dip, and thrill the soul:
and banshee music wild and sweet
gives rhythm to small dancing feet.

Shades of the children of Danu wail
as they hover here, beyond the Pale.
I left them there, ‘neath ancient star,
travelling home from Paddy Murphy’s Bar.

Ancient Magick

There is a timeless Magick here.
Its vibrations cause
the wind to moan
through my pines,
and keen in my maples,
lamenting the loss
of ancient innocence.

It filters the autumn light,
drenching changing leaves
with an orange aura
that pulses
with a mystical life.
The wild grasses flow
before the wind:
waves of a cyclical tide
of constant change.

It infuses bleak winter days
with shifting variations
on white and grey.
Northwest winds howl
arcane incantations,
awakening a harmonic kaleidoscope:
tumbling memories of hope,
of joy, of love.

The spirit of the Land speaks
in its high crystalline Voice,
and, listening, I understand
that from this Magick I was forged,
nurtured and cherished,
and to this sacred Temple
I shall return.

Saying Goodbye to Erin

One develops strange and mixed emotions when one’s child goes to a job half way around the world. First, you think how wonderful that her positive thinking and diligence landed her a dream job in her dream country. Almost everything that she wished for has come true. You are elated for her, but suddenly the flash comes that the realisation of her dreams has a personal price tag for you: an irretrievable sense of loss.

So you resort to contemplation and meditation, and slowly, through the pain of her absence you come to an understanding: she is doing what you did, all those years ago, by flying off into the unknown to pursue dreams, ambitions, and life. She has become a capable avatar through which you can enjoy, again, the strangeness, the wonder, the frustration, the joy of life and all the surprises, pain, and passion that living it brings.

Here at Greyhavens I will continue to do what I have done since retirement: create a peaceful and loving environment, conducive to the Cosmic Vibration, and sensitive and responsive to our fragile human condition, that my children can always feel is their home.

You watch the departure of your child who seems so small, confused, fragile, and alone, but in reality you are watching the departure of a capable, beautiful, smart, and confident adult, striding purposefully along the road to her future. And you experience pride through your pain, and get on with your life, and wait for the next visit, because that is what you do.

Enjoy, darling girl, and listen carefully to the Soundtrack of YOUR Life. Be safe, careful and smart. Look forward to seeing you again next year.

The Phoenix in The Fireplace

Imagine how pleased and surprised I was this morning when I discovered a Phoenix in my fireplace!

Terry accuses me of getting everything that I want. I must say that, with the arrival of the Phoenix, I am starting to believe it.

The God Particle, Lister, Alamogordo, and Lots of Other Stuff

Some time ago, a friend of mine, a fervent Christian, expressed confusion at trying to reconcile his religion with certain scientific truths. He expressed confusion in several areas which I have formed, following, into sub-headings, in an attempt to clarify his questions through my anti-theistic filter.

The speed of light and time standing still.

We are, of course, dealing with theory, not established fact, but, thinking as a layman and not a scientist, I would think that causing a particle to reach the speed of light would result in simply that… the particle reaching the speed of light. Remember that light is travelling around us constantly, and, although it would sometimes be useful to have time stand still, that is not happening, at least not quantifiably. Quantum physics is largely a theoretical discipline, and one must be careful not to mistake words for probity.

Nations with destruction on their minds, and scientific advance.

Bellicose nations have, throughout recorded history, taken advantage of technological change. Aggression in nations often fosters and accelerates scientific advancement which ultimately, after the aggressor has passed into recent history, ends up in everyday usage which, sometimes and arguably, makes for a better life for the general populace. You may mention Hitler, and, yes, he was a great believer in his scientists, who did a lot of the seminal work in rocketry, ballistics, and nuclear reaction. When, however, one considers the abominable mockery of science his human experiments created, any legitimate scientific advance by scientists of the Third Reich has the rotting smell of a Doctor Frankenstein experiment. The results of his scientific support did not change his ultimate failure to institute his intrinsically wrong socio-economic plan for his Reich.

The End of Times and Allegories from the Book of Revelation

I realize the importance that some Christian sects place upon the end of times and the Book of Revelation, and am, of course, unable to comment. You will be familiar with my belief that sacred texts are only words written by men, and are interpreted by other men, with both the writers and the interpreters adding their own spin to whatever the message might be. The Book of Revelation is (in)famous for this, with its visions, predictions, and prophecies that permit logarithmic interpretations of what is actually meant. Speculation, in both science and religion, remains simply that…speculation. Theory is all well and good, but solid proof should be the ultimate goal for both Christian theorists and quantum physicists. Ad interim, to paraphrase Mao Zedong, let a thousand discussions bloom.

In our discussion here today, I am reminded of the profound difference between Christian belief and Buddhist belief: the one embraces the future (the Rapture, the Second Coming, the end of days), while the other embraces the present. We can readily see, utilising information available, that the profound difference in focus between these two major religions is primarily brought about by socio-economic differences. Early Christianity was very Old Testament in imagery, being based upon an angry and jealous god of wrath and punishment. Later church establishment found that a peasant populace could be controlled by fear and bullying far more easily than a populace who embraced the new Testament philosophies of peace, tolerance, and social justice. Buddhism was born in an area of the world where day to day subsistence living made focus on improving one’s lot here and today much easier than believing in eventual spiritual rewards through a life of austerity, fear, and obedience. Christianity and science, as well, differ in concept, in that the one indeed gives God the glory, postulating that some things are unknowable and in the realm of (using an “intelligent design” example) not knowing the contents God's tool box. The other abandons the Faith approach and utilises what developed intelligence we may have to further our collective knowledge. If I were Christian, I would be of the school of thought that argues on using our talents rather than (as in the parable) burying them in the dirt.

Los Alamos, Lister, and the Working Tools of God

If the scientific experience of Los Alamos was/is considered as touching on the working tools of God, could not one have said the same about the radical work of Pasteur and Lister in advocating sterilization of medical instruments and the washing of hands when the popular belief was that "miasma" caused the putrification of wounds. Again, were I Christian, it seems to me that I would believe that the ultimate "working tool of God" was the mind of Man, and that to use this Tool as much as possible would indeed be to God's glory. More destruction is being wrought globally today through the use of the inventions of Henry Ford and James Watts than has, as yet, been
visited upon us by the misuse of the results from the plains of Alamogordo.

None of the foregoing is meant, as you well know, to disparage the multitudinous schools of Christian thought. My words are merely attempting to show that intellectual exploration in any forum can bring about good as well as evil, and that I feel such exploration is mankind's highest purpose.

What will be, will be, but for me the concept of "what is" ranks much higher on the scale of personal, spiritual, and intellectual fulfilment.

Peace.

Haiku for Autumn

Haiku for Autumn

*
The falling leaf drifts
gently to the ground before
the storms of autumn.
*
Brightly twinkling star,
must you reflect so well that
cold truth of winter?
*
Trees hunch, shoulders bare,
in remembrance of their lost
golden cloaks of leaves.
*
Clouds, grey-cloaked, huddle close,
hoarding warmth the earth yields only
in grudging measure.
*
Late, the bird, puzzled,
walks the frozen pond confused.
Softly falls his shroud.
*

The Final Autumn

Like some monolith to a youthful Endymion
the slate-grey sky did not permit
the epitaph etched by strato-cirrus
to be read.

Stark trees, wind-shorn of frivolous foliage,
did cold penitence for their summer follies:
a circadian confession to ensure
vernal resurrection.

Restless, colourless waves of November
marched mindlessly to assault the strand,
implacably expunging the bare and carefree footprints
of Summer.

* * *
His perusal was fond; a lover's caress
fraught with the echoes of past joy.
His eyes drank deeply of autumn's tumultuous brew;
but his heart savoured past vintages.

The echoes swirled in aural and visual
kaleidoscopic patterns:
chimerical memories vying for recognition.

A child, he saw, wading through sun-warmed tidal pools,
spying drifts of mermaids hair,
entranced by magical shells
exploding in profusion about his joyous toes.

Before his eyes the child became a man,
guiding another child
through the mysteries of summer,
through the wonder of the seasons.

A young man, he saw, puzzled and confused,
searching barren streets
devoid of the companionship
of light and laughter.

* * *
The young man, changing, now more assured;
older, but certain in his steps,
sure of his direction
towards some unknown goal.

The old man watched himself, fearful,
loath to follow the path
that led inexorably
beyond his ken.

* * *
His return was slow, a painful trudge.
His wife, younger, bore his Celtic melancholia
with the ease of loving practice.
Bringing his Bushmills', she told him,
now warmed by the fire, that the children
would be home for Christmas.

* * *

On First Seeing Bermuda

Southeast breeze carries
scent of jacaranda,
eucalyptus,
oleander, and bougainvillea.

Houses of pastels
that breathe in gentle sunlight:
perfection set in
manicured lawns.

Accents attenuated
from the harsher Caribbean,
friendly voices
greet, and smile.

From Gibb’s Hill,
a visual smorgasbord
tasting subtly, and sadly,
of Eden lost.