Unwelcome Guests

The oscillations of kinship
attracted the vulture flies
to the decaying cadaver
of my intellect.
The escaping of putrescent gases
intoxicated them to the hysteria
of temporary sanity.
But I did not linger
too long in the stifling shade
of Eden’s tree.
I departed in haste,
anxious to reach
the point of my departure,
only to find to my false and careless dismay
that it had metamorphosed
into the antique past
of my mind,
that subtle and sublimated guest-list
for Society’s Party.

Standing in midnight sojourn
on the balcony of my solitary summit,
I viewed the myriad paths of approach,
each one simple in its complexity.
I feel secure.

Stars

The laughter of children,
the suddenness of Spring,
fond memory in an old man’s eye,
a well-worn wedding ring.

The dancing of the Northern Lights,
the wind upon the sea,
comfort of an oft’ read book,
a cup of Ceylon tea.

The lights upon a Christmas tree,
the scent of new-mown hay,
remembrance of an absent friend,
the moon-path on the bay.
*     *     *
These stars I’ve used to mark my way
home, through soul-dark night:
these memories that ensure I shall
always walk in light.

Being in Transition

My children will always dwell
     in Transition.
They will be occupied with moving
through themselves
into a changing Present.

That emergent child 
will ever look back, 
to whom they once were,
before embracing, 
and being in,
     Transition.

Your life is not a barrier,
nor a wall to hide behind:
your life is not a handicap,
nor a burden to be carried...

Let your passage be a gentle glow
that focusses your sight,
removes distraction,
doubt and fear,
and illuminates your night:
step through the shimmering doorway,
and be where you belong
     in Transition.

And later
in some other When,
or in some future Now,
all you have been
will shine as light,
a gentle guiding beacon,
in some other person’s night:
the torch that will light them through
     Transition.

Snow in the Air

The nets now are mended,
the lobster pots dry:
fall has now ended,
there’s snow in the sky.

August berries are bottled,
November venison hung:
now clouds are grey-mottled.
Autumn’s song has been sung.

But though blizzards may come, and north winds scream,
children’s eyes are wide with the Christmas dream;
and beneath slate-grey skies, where storm clouds race,
young lovers speak low by a warm fireplace.
At the store, old men argue ‘round a pot-bellied stove,
and children now skate on the ice in the cove.
In the kitchen, the dog is curled up on the rug,
and the smell of home cooking makes people feel snug.

Old men sniff the air
(old men always know),
and say with a flair,
“Tomorrow she’ll snow.”

~James Douglas Fanning

On Temporary Absences

It isn’t so much
not being with you
     at times,
that makes me sad;
rather the thought of you,
     alone,
doing familiar things
that I’ve seen you do,
     but without me.

And
it isn’t really
not being with you
     at times,
that makes me blue;
rather the photographic image
     of us,
doing familiar things
that we have always done
     together.

And
it isn’t so much
that such a long time
     must pass
before our time begins;
rather the fear that then,
     beginning,
our years will pass so quickly
that much will be left
     unsaid,
     undone.

~James Douglas Fanning

Chiaroscuro

Flickering lines of light and shadow,
progressing ceaselessly 
from horizon to horizon:
a lemming march to obscurity.

Philosopher, fakir,
fool and friend;
sociopath, philanthropist,
parent and child;
tyrant, benefactor,
you and I:
we all move, blindly,
along the arrow
of Time.

If we take the time,
each and every day,
to examine
     the lines,
     the shadows,
to understand
     not the motion,
     not the flickering,
but the stunning reality
     of here,
     of Now,
meaning will emerge.

It is not the progression,
nor yet the origin
or destination:
it is here,
it is now,
that is all we ever have,
     or need.

The Leeward Shore

Just a lonely point on a rocky shore
where I can hear the ocean’s roar;
just a little grove of small jack-pines,
and a humble home that I’d call mine,
on a leeward shore.

A garden green where children play;
and friends and neighbours just down the way,
and a lovely country girl, my wife,
and we would lead a happy life
on a leeward shore.

Just a quiet room where I could brood,
and watch the reach’s changing mood.
With a few friends living down the beach,
contentment could be within my reach
on a leeward shore.

***

But I must roam the globe around:
I’m not content with what I’ve found.
There are countries that I’ve yet to see,
with blue lagoon and tall palm tree.
There are dark-eyed faces and tropic nights;
Norwegian fjords and northern lights;
Italian hills and Spanish plains;
Arctic blizzards and Brazilian rains;
and a strong west wind to fill my sail,
and when I’m gone I’ll leave no trail
but a home on the leeward shore.

Terry's view: Sulphur Mountain at Banff

Terrorists, Freedom Fighters, and the Future of the UN

The message that the "civilized" world should unite against "terrorism" has periodically been floated by various advocates of military action to dispel the terror chimera hovering on the edge of our thoughts since the World Trade Centre towers fell (I refuse to use the term 9/11, as I feel it cheapens and lessens the horror of the act and the fact). President Bush's call for a Coalition of the Willing was the first incarnation, followed rapidly by the imminent threat of Iraq's Ws of MD. Various ideologues still surface from time to time to reiterate how we must unite, respond, and "send the right message" to terrorists. 
So that we are able to decypher the "right message" we must understand two things: A)what is a terrorist? and, B)the nature of propaganda. 
In the 1950s, British SAS units parachuted into the jungles of Malaysia to win "the hearts and minds" of villagers to enlist in the fight against "insurgents." In 1956 the rebels of Hungary became known as "freedom fighters" as they pitted their Molotov Cocktails against Soviet armour. In the 1960s American forces in "the Nam" fought against growing numbers of Viet Cong "infiltrators" coming down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. At the same time Che Guevara led and inspired groups of "guerrillas" in various parts of Central and South America. When, in the 1970s, Arab groups started taking extreme action against either Israel, the USA, or established militarist governments in the Mideast, the word "terrorist," or "Arab terrorist" gained popular currency. Today "terrorist" is used, almost exclusively, to describe an individual Muslim, or small groups of Muslims, who use non-conventional tactics and weapons to demonstrate their opposition to cultural, religious, and/or economic change brought about by non-consultative and non-democratic means. 
Propaganda is the use by governments, corporations, groups, both religious and secular, or individuals, to ensure widespread acceptance of their messages as fact, without verification or peer review.  Protests against the seal cull, the WMD debacle, the “Domino Theory” of Communist expansion in SE Asia, the cult of personality of various dictators, the War on Drugs: all are examples of the efficacy of propaganda.
Governments are increasingly using mainstream media to disseminate propaganda.  Indeed, in a recent survey of the relative freedom of the global press, the USA tied for 43rd place, alongside Croatia and Tonga.  Canada fared a little better, but was still far from first place, thanks to the lack of diversity in press ownership, the political views of the owners, and the devolution of real and investigative reporting.  Editorials regularly reflect the instructions of the owners’ political comrades.  Reporters often compose articles using Google as a source.  Corporations and political parties regularly use spin doctors as propagandists to “operate” on unpleasant truths, and present a version of that truth that appears more palatable, even positive, to target audiences.

In short, we are told what to buy, what to think, how to live, and what to aspire to by various shareholders in the propaganda apparatus.  Few of us bother to research the veracity of the messages with which we are inundated.  We, and our neighbours, accept what is written or broadcast simply because we tacitly but incorrectly believe that the distribution methods lend truth to the word.

News freaks will be aware of the feeling in the USA that they are acting, in good faith, as policeman to the world.  This is not in response to a global consensus however, and is viewed by much of the world as military adventurism, petro-imperialism, or just good, old-fashioned aggression.  A growing group of Moslem clerics and politicians, as well as lay persons, view American foreign policy as enabling and furthering a Judeo-Christian jihad against Moslems.  The incursion into Moslem states by a Christian fundamentalist country is offered as proof of this jihad theory.
The world today does need a police/peace force, but it MUST be under the aegis of the UN.  To effectively create this force, the UN requires some fundamental changes.  One of those necessary changes must be the removal of the power of veto from the permanent members of the Security Council.  Global change and well-being can only be achieved through consensus at the UN.  Past efforts to respond to global crises by the UN have failed because of the Security Council veto or lack of consensus.  The UN, as a global organisation, must rise above regionalism, special interest voting, nepotism, and corporate economic interests, and resort to diplomacy, the desire for peace and understanding, with the realisation that global cooperation is a necessary step on the road to achieving a modern and just civilisation.  The UN must become a world body, not merely a forum in which one superpower tells the world what they plan to do.
We must attack the roots of terrorism, of marginalisation, of ignorance, and of inequality.  We must talk, listen, negotiate, and compromise.  We must pump aid into education, health, and economy building.  We must foster tolerance, cultural and religious cooperation, and the vital and basic understanding that the globe is a fragile vessel of diversity in which we are all dependent upon the well-being, happiness, and friendship of our fellow passengers.
We do need a police force, but it must be a cooperative force, operating under global agreement, that will ensure that tyrants and demagogues will not be tolerated and that continued crimes against humanity will be punished, and, in time, become only passages in history books.
We need religions to work together on their different paths to spiritual fulfillment, to make the present a peaceful and bucolic place to sojourn on the way to their respective eternities.
We have the resources.  We have the technology.  Sadly, we still lack the will, moral strength, and cultural maturity to embrace global differences and diversity, and to effect change through cooperation rather than military intervention.  

Call me a silly old hippie if you would, but it is time to “give peace a chance.”

A Lady of Guyana

A kaleidoscope of colour and sound:
here, a grove of bamboo poles
waving strips of bright cloth
call for the blessing of revered
and ancient Gods
on an East Indian wedding;
there, the explosion of Stabroek Market
scatters vendors’ stalls across
the old Dutch square.

Papaws and mangoes vie
with books, tee-shirts,
music tapes and CDs:
the sound of Bollywood
competes culturally with
urgent soca and hip-hop
as stall-owners musically mark
their ethnic roots.

Beyond the Clock Tower 
the Demerara flows in muddy splendour
patiently supporting 
motley bum-boats, freighters,
fishing boats, and
the occasional Amerindian dugout.
The ghosts of the Jonestown dead
wander here, betrayed
by their leader’s selfish view
of Heaven.

Miles away, up the brooding Berbice River,
several hours walk from the nearest village,
a little Afro-Guyanese woman,
now approaching eighty-two,
tends her neat garden
of borabean, squash,
bokchoy, mango, fiery bird pepper,
banana, papaw, and avocado.
Long ago, as a valued friend
and domestic,
she travelled with her “Mistuh” and “Mistress”
to live in Trinidad and Delhi,
and to visit the islands
of Tobago, and far-off Phuket.
In her sparse hut mementoes:-
fabrics, carvings, batiks,
knick-knacks haggled over,
and hard won by this frugal lady,
in the bright markets of Sarojini,
Dilihut, Khan, Yashwant,
and the packed streets of Patong.
Her photo album has pride of place,
and she smiles as she sees, once again,
her strange Northern children,
remembering diapers, laughter,
bruises, and fairy tales;
kisses, and
“Good night, Venus.
We love you.”

The distances are great,
but the memories
are as close
as our hearts.