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.

A Walk Through Chandni Chowk

A cornucopia of scents assail:
puris frying in hot oil,
rotting garbage,
incense and flowers,
exhaust fumes and hot metal,
beedi smoke,
and the unmistakable presence
of a public convenience.

From the Jama Masjid, the mullah
reiterates, for the third time,
his summons to the faithful.
A legless beggar wheels by:
did the treasure he stole from angry gods
warrant this Promethean reward?
Temple bells ring,
and the crowds surge unceasingly.

Psychedelic visions appear:
Toby jugs that live;
saffron headware crowns,
shading eyes that view
far different horizons.
Ancient gods walk the land,
indifferent to the caste
of their weary avatars.

Pondering, in the shadow
of the Red Fort,
the hubris of those who sought
to civilize the land
where the Bo-shaded Gautama
attained Nirvana long ago:
where a lover's tribute became
a wonder of the world.

Exhortation to Chronos

If there were ever a time
in the chaotic multiverse
in which we all exist,
a time to abandon
the joy and safety
of narcissistic introversion,
that time is now.

If we had ever been closer
to self-wrought extinction,
that time is lost
to the short-term memory
of history.
The village meeting-house
is locked in the garret
of each point of view.

If there were ever a time
when the final tenant 
of Pandora’s box
must be released,
that time is now.
Chaotic negativity, tribalism,
manipulation, greed, and power,
lead us in a crazed final dance,
before the orchestra goes home.

Winter: A Transitional Canadian Lament

Endless winter,
and the scudding grey clouds,
colour my thoughts.
Northwest winds blow
intermittent snow,
distorting my sight,
dulling the light.

Pale grey luminescence
infuses my days with drab,
and dampen creative spark.
Slowly stretching days
drag into winter night.
Hibernation envy,
and wishes of warm.

A change in the quality of light:
no longer a cold brassy glow,
a sparkle, a twinkle begins germination,
crocuses poke, as we perch,
in joyous expectation,
on the breaking crest,
the welcome verdant tide of spring.

The Light of Different Days

My wrinkled visage greets me
mirrored in the morning haze,
but this is not the face I see
by the light of different days.

My pines sing  benediction,
as I salute blackbirds and jays,
but my mind has now gone travelling
to the light of different days.

When Hegel just offends me,
and Kierkegaard makes me crazed,
I visit Bertrand Russell
in the light of different days.

And when my journey’s ended,
and I’ve finally solved life’s maze,
you can bet I’ll be off wandering
by the light of different days.

The Echo in the Storm

The tempest continued to grow
in unabridged intensity.
At some other points in time
it had seemed almost as catastrophic,
but not quite.

Years ago, perhaps yesterday,
breaks had appeared
in a cloud cover that threatened to erase
all memory of a sun
dimly remembered.

Several times, before today,
sunbeams fell on streets
and on meadows, illuminating
life with fond remembrance
of better days.

Did we, by not pausing
to appreciate this fleeting splendour,
signal to unknown gods our proclivity
for eclipsing light and order
with self-imposed Chaos?

Squeegee Kids

Some commuters
drive for
     m     i     l     e     s
out of their way,
wasting
time and money,
to avoid
Squeegee corners:
the penalty of guilt.

Others pay,
avoiding eye contact,
looking.......straight.......ahead,
afraid
the gunge
of the Squeegee’s rag
may damage Audi shine.
They reinforce
the efficacy of intimidation
as a social grace.

The global village
has come of age,
as this phenomena,
indigenous once
solely to third world cities,
has come to
Main Street,
and urban crowding
makes
the sale of fear
a career of necessity
to those
we continue to
                                                  ignore.

Jim's Guide to Enlightenment: The Complete Sutras

The Title says it all.
This is a twenty minute read
that answers.

A new aid to meditation.

A Time to Say Goodbye

                                                     

To each of us

there comes a time

when an action

becomes right:

a time of birth,

a time of death,

of sadness, or delight.

The clarion call

to fall in love,

the urge

to change direction:

a time for each choice

to be made

as we strive for perfection.

For me

the hardest time

of all,

no matter how I try,

is when the clock is still,

and it

is time to say goodbye.

Transformer

It became
inescapably obvious
as I grew older: reality is layered,
and, if you focus less intently on what you are doing,
and give yourself permission
to just Be,
  you can see several layers simultaneously.

It is a transcending awareness
in which all is connected,
and our world reveals her true colours,
and our senses thrill.
You know what is truly important,
and life is full.

For me, the choice was clear,
so
if I seem not to be fully engaged with what I am doing,
I may be really busy
on a Different level.