Indiscretions

I do not believe 
your acid tears 
puddling the floor 
around my feet.
Yet they dissolve me 
completely, 
leaving only 
an emotional husk 
that will, 
eventually, 
blow away 
in the slipstream 
of your indiscretions.

Sapper

I didn’t realise,
at first,
what was happening:
a slight tremor here,
a crack in the wall there.

You chipped away
at me,
working, I would assume,
to change me into an image
of something you needed.
Insecurities were fed
by incessant, and targetted,
whispered wounding words,
that shook the foundation
of who I was.

I didn’t realise,
at first,
what you had planned:
a quake here,
an explosion there.

When the charges were set,
and the plunger pressed,
something died
in the collapsing edifice,
but that something
was not me.

Scream of Consciousness

Always there,
it forces you to listen.
Leaping from topic to topic,
the incessant babble
can be
tiring,
amusing,
maddening,
demanding.

In search of sleep,
counting backwards
from one hundred,
you are interrupted 
at ninety-six,
and try,
fry,
fly,
cry,
to quiet the fiend.

Like a multilayered hard drive
with a read head
for each layer,
it assails,
regales,
derails,
wails,
commanding your complete attention.

Meditating to achieve silence,
the sound of the universe,
song of the stars,
background static
from the big bang,
crazed atoms
bombarding the inner ear,
prevents you
from being who you think you are,
by forcing you 
to be a part of the frenzied clamour
from which there is no escape,
only tired acceptance.

A Meditation on Birthdays

                          Seventy-five.
It sucks you into the magic of
              “three-quarters of a century”.
This is “wise-man-on-mountain” territory.
But no...
it is just me,
being me daily
to the exclusion of all else.

I like birthdays.
They are ours: individually and collectively
developed to include
us all.
They celebrate!
(not a god, not a prophet, not a sage,
not a sports icon, not a vapid celebrity)
They celebrate each of us,
with our warts and our weird;
our strengths and our deficits;
our loves, and our losses;
who we are,
and who we would 
like to be.

I am happy that,
somewhere along time’s arrow,
I have become a repository of history.
I remember WWII blackouts;
a home without electricity;
outdoor toilets;
seeing Princess Elizabeth
before she was a queen;
living in Mao’s Beijing,
with Lin Piao dead on the border;
Georgetown, with the memory of
James Jones,
and his call to madness;
the election of Junius Jayawardena
as President of Sri Lanka;
and the Killing Fields 
as they were happening;
and Santiago
weeks before the murder of 
Salvadore Allende;
just some of the highlights,
with much more forgotten
than most experience.

So yeah.  Seventy-five, eh?

Seems to be working for me...
                                            so far.

Sanctuary

The lone priest
fussed over his nightly chores:
fresh coffee made,
new styrofoam cups,
bulk cookies,
clean bathroom.
The month old magazines
lay scattered
like the broken promises
of yesterday.

He dreaded
the ritual that was about
to occur:
nightly flow
of addicts,
teenaged prostitutes
of both genders,
older hookers,
and many others
who accepted,
for a brief time,
sanctuary.

He hated
how his body,
kindled
by the presence
of his younger
visitors,
betrayed his faith,
as he fought
a lonely battle,
already lost.

Now and Then

There has never been a time
when I was more at peace 
than I am now.

There has never been a time 
when I realised that then
would lead to now.

There has never been a time 
when I understood more of me,
both then, and now.

There has never been a time
when accumulated regrets eclipsed
the joy of now.

There has never been a time
when my ignorance was greater,
but mattered less than now.

There has never been a time
when global stupidity endangered us 
more than now.

There has never been a time
when yesterday and tomorrow
mattered more than now.

There has never been a time
when we needed love and peace
more than Now.

Channel Surfing Between Realities

Morning sun on sparkling harbour
with cooling northwest breeze:
beagle, unaffected by view,
pursues scents that must be
hallucinogenic
for this small hound.

Monkeys cavorting
at Baker’s Falls
in Horton Plains National Park:
the southern ocean winks diamonds
in a blue distance,
beyond Yala.

The Pearl River flows,
thick and sluggish,
crowded with boats 
that represent three centuries
of water transport styles.
On the horizon,
the Hong Kong estuary awaits,
guarded by stern Victoria Peak.

On a quiet sand island,
kept stable by banyan roots,
clever crabs hide in the trees
to avoid the heat of the water.
In the distance, the bridge to Abu Dhabi
is laden with goods trucks,
and gold plated Mercedes and BMWs.

The dog spots a rabbit,
and the morning is shattered
by the baying of this fulfilled hound.
I ponder at the elaborate mechanism
by which our memories are stimulated
to replay random elements
from a full and contented life.

Coffee awaits on the southern verandah,
and the gentle wind 
whispers to the pines,
with birdsong filling a perfect day,
and sunlight on the harbour.

The Visitor (Just Passing Through)

Did I visit here then
as I visit there now?
Was I in search
of the same elusive truths?

Did I see you then
as I see you now?
Did we recognise
the strange scent of destiny?

Did I stop to reflect
upon the weirdness of the light,
or wonder at the feeling
that I did not belong?

Did I ever look at the past
as a regretful lesson for tomorrow,
or just walk forward into the darkness
looking for the beacon of your smile?

Lifeline

Relax.  
Nothing is under control.  
All is chaos.  
Random is  life, 
and life is random.  
There is no plan:  no manual. 

Think. 

Question.  

Grow intellectually.

Feed your body as you feed your head:
let healthy be a mantra:
a signpost to Moksha. 

Put the past in the past, 
make a better tomorrow
...Now. 

Season Sunsets: A Study in Haiku

               Spring

        Pregnant cumulus
Blush, as fading light promises
     Tomorrow's rainbows.

             Summer

     Golden symphony,
That heralds the end of day,
    Previews tomorrow.

            Autumn

  Sparse and mellow light
Reminds a few tardy leaves
  That snow soon will fall.

            Winter  

   Cold stark winter sun:  
Shards that echo summer joy
    Comfort dying day.